Page 7

Chapter seven

Carver

C oach MacPherson's office smelled of coffee grounds and dry-erase markers. Not the worst combination at five forty-five in the morning, but not exactly what I'd hoped to inhale before sunrise. He'd called me in early—earlier than our usual pre-practice meetings.

I knocked twice on the scarred wooden door.

"Enter."

He hunched over his desk beside a mountain of paperwork threatening an avalanche. The cramped space barely accommodated his weathered desk and two chairs, let alone his broad shoulders and the ghosts of all the players he'd counseled over the years.

"Sit." Coach gestured without looking up.

I folded myself into the chair opposite him, my knees practically hitting the desk. "If this is about that hit on number twenty-two from Worcester—"

"It's not." He closed the folder he'd been examining and finally met my gaze. It was the look he reserved for conversations nobody wanted to have.

My stomach knotted.

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Situation's like this, Carver." Three clipped words, then a pause—classic MacPherson.

"We're in the rebuilding phase. Still filling those holes, Whitaker and Campbell left. Need to develop leadership in the younger players." He delivered each sentence as a separate mission objective without unnecessary words—military efficiency in everything, including bad news.

Younger players—that didn't mean me.

"This is my final season, isn't it?" The words erupted without consideration. My filters weren't awake yet.

Coach didn't flinch. He looked at me and nodded in a way that answered louder than words could have.

My lungs seized. It was like someone had packed ice against my ribs from the inside.

I'd known—of course, I'd known. I was in my sixth season with the Forge. Thirty-one years old. My body took longer to recover after each game. Still, knowing and hearing occupied entirely different territories in my brain.

"The front office hasn't made final decisions yet." Coach exhaled. "But I thought you deserved to know which way the wind's blowing."

I nodded mechanically, fingers digging into my thighs under the desk.

"You're not being pushed out, but the league's getting younger, faster. The salary cap isn't changing. And your contract—"

"I get it." I cut him off, not trusting myself to hear the rest.

Coach leaned back, and the ancient chair protested beneath him. In the half-light of his office, the lines around his eyes deepened.

"Carver, you've been the spine of this team longer than most realize."

The unexpected warmth in his voice threatened to crack something inside me. I couldn't respond. Couldn't even nod. I only stood, my body moving before my brain caught up.

As I turned to leave, he spoke again. "Your mentorship with Pike. Critical mission now. More than ever."

I paused with my hand on the doorknob, not turning back. "Yeah."

When I pulled the door shut behind me, the click echoed down the empty corridor like a full stop at the end of the last sentence in a novel.

I didn't realize I'd left the arena until the cold slapped me awake. No jacket. No gear bag. Only me in a worn Forge hoodie and training pants, walking without direction through streets still bathed in the pre-dawn darkness.

My feet carried me toward the river—the Androscoggin. It was always present in Lewiston, like a pulse beneath the town's skin.

The footpath along the riverbank stretched empty before me—no joggers or dog walkers—only the occasional yellow lamp casting pools of light on frost-stiffened grass. Above, clouds hung low and heavy, threatening snow by afternoon.

The roar grew louder as I approached the falls. In spring, they thundered; in winter, they grumbled, parts of them frozen in mid-plunge. Today, they sounded like white noise, heavy static drowning out the thoughts battering against my skull.

I stopped at the guardrail overlooking the churning water below. The metal bit cold through my palms, but I barely registered it. Six seasons. Soon, I'd approach two thousand days spent in Lewiston—all wearing Forge black and silver.

What would happen when they took that away?

Memories of specific players slid through my mind like photographs scattered across a table. Marcus Deveraux, defenseman, invited me for beers when I first arrived. He was gone after his contract expired and disappeared back to Quebec.

Ray Alvarez had his shoulder give out in his fourth season. Last I heard, he was installing HVAC systems outside of Bangor. Cooper Jennings, our backup goalie for two seasons, now coached JV hockey at his old high school.

I was on the verge of joining them. No jersey. No cheers. Only a fade to grey.

My fingers tightened around the railing. The cold metal burned against my skin, but the pain was distant, separate from me.

A truck rumbled over the bridge, vibrating the boards beneath my feet. The world kept moving, indifferent to my private earthquake. That's what terrified me most—not the ending, but the ease with which everything would continue without me.

What happens when they stop needing me?

The falls offered no answers.

I stood there until my fingers numbed and the eastern sky lightened from black to slate. Then, I turned back toward the arena, toward the only certainty I had left—today, at least, they still expected me on the ice.

The locker room buzzed with pre-practice energy when I returned. I slipped through the chaos, heading straight for my stall.

"Well, well, well!" TJ's voice boomed across the room, three syllables stretched into nine. "Look what the hangover dragged in. Seriously though, bro—thought you might be taking a personal day. Old. Man."

The barb hung in the air, waiting for my return volley. Instead, I grunted and dropped onto the bench, reaching for my skates.

The absence of my response created a small pocket of silence that rippled outward. A few heads turned.

TJ tried again. "Earth to Carver. Is your comeback generator broken this morning?"

I focused on my laces, pulling them tight enough to hurt. "Save your breath for practice, Jameson."

From the corner of my eye, I caught Mercier watching me, his goalie's observant gaze missing nothing. He offered a slight nod—acknowledgment without intrusion—before returning to his meticulous pre-practice routine.

When I finally looked up, Pike stood frozen by the equipment rack, a roll of tape dangling forgotten from his fingers. His forehead creased, eyes narrowed with unmistakable concern.

Coach's whistle pierced the locker room chatter ten minutes later. "Ice in five, gentlemen."

The familiar rhythm of practice should have been comforting—the scrape of blades on fresh ice, the percussive snap of pucks against boards, and the controlled chaos of drills. Instead, each movement was mechanical, emphasizing the disconnection between my body and brain.

Coach barked from the bench. "Carver! Set the screen on the power play!"

I planted myself, bracing as the defenseman attempted to move me. My body performed its assigned task while my mind drifted above the ice, observing rather than participating.

"Talk to your wings!"

I called out positions automatically, my voice echoing in the cavernous arena. The words were empty.

During a water break, TJ skated past, bumping my shoulder. "You planning on joining us today, or are you just renting ice space?"

I squirted water into my mouth, not bothering to answer.

Pike kept his distance during drills, but I couldn't escape his attention. It was like a spotlight trained on me. His concern was unmistakable.

By the end of practice, the team had adjusted to my silence, flowing around it like a stream's water moving around a stone. I wasn't the only one who had bad days. They'd forget by tomorrow, and I'd find the energy to be the Carver they expected—loud, biting, present.

The locker room emptied in stages—first the rookies with their eagerness to please, then the veterans with girlfriends and families waiting. I moved slowly and deliberately, stretching each task.

I'd nearly convinced myself I was alone when a shadow fell across my stall.

"You planning to spend the night here?" Pike's voice was quieter than usual.

I glanced up. He stood with one shoulder pressed against the row of lockers, already showered and changed into jeans and a faded blue henley. His damp hair curled at his temples.

"Organizing," I said, gesturing vaguely at my gear.

"Right. Did you sit through a lesson from Marie Kondo?"

Despite everything, his question amused me.

"Did you need something?"

Pike pushed off from the lockers and dropped onto the bench beside me, close enough for me to smell the clean scent of his soap. "You're not okay. That's obvious."

"Christ, Pike. Not now." The edge in my voice was reflexive, a cornered animal's warning.

Pike didn't flinch. He sat there, patient, watching.

The silence stretched between us until it snapped something in my chest.

"What do you want me to say? That I'm having a shitty day? That I'd like five minutes without someone needing something from me?"

"I don't need anything," Pike's voice was so gentle that it started sneaking past my defenses. "I only thought... maybe you shouldn't be alone with whatever this is."

The simple truth hollowed me out. I stared at my hands—callused, scarred, the knuckles still red from gripping the railing by the falls.

I had to be honest with the kid. "Coach confirmed it. This is my last year. After this, I'm done."

I didn't look at him; I couldn't bear to see pity or, worse, relief cross his features.

"You scared?"

The question was so direct that it crumbled all my remaining walls. I swallowed against the sudden tightness in my throat.

"Yeah, not of being done. Of being forgotten."

Pike angled his body toward mine. "You've still got so much to give. On the ice. Off the ice. This season. Whatever comes after."

I forced myself to look at him. Raw sincerity filled his eyes. No calculation there. No platitudes. Only sunshiny Pike, who somehow still believed the best about everything—even me.

"You're too damn earnest." The words lacked any sort of bite.

Pike's mouth curved into a half-smile. "Maybe, but I mean it."

He hitched his bag over his shoulder. "Some of us are grabbing food at Perk & Pine. If you want to join."

"I'll think about it." I knew I wouldn't go.

Pike nodded, understanding. He paused at the door, looking back. "See you tomorrow, Carv."

He'd created a nickname for me, and it hung in the air long after he disappeared down the hallway.

Silence settled over the locker room after Pike left. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across empty stalls and abandoned equipment. The smell of sweat and rubber and athletic tape permeated everything. It was the most familiar scent of my entire adult life.

I remained seated, suddenly unable to summon the energy to move. I was in the sixth season in this exact spot. The worn wooden bench beneath me had absorbed fragments of every version of Holt Carver that had existed during those years.

And soon, none of them would matter.

I spotted the small table by Coach's office where the mentorship materials lived—binders, clipboards, and the other assorted detritus of his latest team-building experiment. Without quite deciding to, I crossed the room toward it.

Pike's clipboard sat on top of the stack, his name printed in Coach's blocky capitals across the label. I picked it up, weighing it in my hands before flipping it open.

The first pages contained the standard stuff—practice logs, skill assessments, and development goals. Coach's handwriting appeared occasionally with brief notations beside specific drills or performance metrics.

As I turned the pages, I found notes in a different hand—Pike's looser, more rounded script.

Footwork drill—C. demonstrated pivot that creates extra half-second. Huge difference on breakaways.

Work on protecting puck along boards. Watch Carver's shoulder position.

I continued reading. Each entry methodically documented something I'd shown him. The final page contained a single line, written only yesterday:

Mentor: Carver. Still learning from him every day.

Something hot and uncomfortable pressed behind my eyes. My vision blurred momentarily, the words swimming on the page. I blinked hard, the burn of unshed tears unfamiliar and unwelcome.

"Damn, kid," I muttered out loud.

I closed the clipboard and replaced it precisely where I'd found it, my fingers lingering on the worn plastic cover momentarily before pulling away.

Back at my stall, I gathered my things with mechanical efficiency. As I shouldered my bag, I stared at the row of framed team photos lining the corridor—years of Forge players, some faces recurring, and others appearing only once before disappearing into the oblivion of forgotten careers.

I'd be just another face in those photographs soon. Another name slipping from memory as new players claimed the ice. But maybe...

Pike's words echoed back to me. You've still got so much to give.

If this was the end—and it was—maybe it didn't have to mean disappearing. Maybe what I left behind could be more than statistics and fading recollections of broken Forge penalty minutes records.

Maybe it could be Pike, carrying something of me forward toward a career peak I could never reach.

I hit the lights as I left, plunging the locker room into darkness. Tomorrow, I'd find my voice again. Tomorrow, I'd be the mentor the kid deserved for whatever time I had left.

After all, someone had to ensure that golden boy didn't burn himself out before getting his shot at something bigger than Lewiston.