Page 8

Chapter eight

Pike

T he aluminum bench beneath me had long since leached the warmth from my thighs, but I didn't have the energy to move. Around me, the visitor's locker room in Springfield breathed defeat—a low hum of muffled sighs, equipment packed with too much force, and the occasional curse whispered into towels.

Forty-seven minutes since the final buzzer. Two goals to our one. It was not a blowout or a major disaster, but somehow worse for how winnable it had been.

I unlaced my skates methodically. My mind replayed the third-period power play where I'd fumbled the pass from TJ. It should have been routine, something I'd converted in practice a thousand times before. Instead, the puck skittered off my blade like a living thing trying to escape.

"You still with us, Pike?" Mercier's voice cut through my spiral.

I glanced up, realizing I'd been staring at my half-untied skate for an uncomfortably long time. "Yeah. Just... processing."

"Process faster. Bus leaves in fifteen."

The outcome of the game had disrupted Mercier's usual calm demeanor. The goal that had slipped past him in the final four minutes was perfectly placed—a shot nobody could reasonably blame him for—but goalies processed losses differently. They quantified them and wore them like a second skin.

Across the room, Carver hadn't spoken a word since we'd left the ice. No outbursts or cutting remarks about defensive lapses. He didn't even share his usual sardonic observations about the referee's questionable eyesight.

He was silent as he packed his gear.

TJ waited by the locker room door, bag slung over his shoulder. "You don't want to miss the bus. Everyone's sulking like we lost the cup in game seven instead of a regular season match in fucking November."

I nodded, too drained to muster a more substantial response. TJ hesitated, then shook his head and disappeared down the corridor.

On the bus, I stared out the window as Springfield's streets slid past—convenience stores, closed restaurants, and a park shrouded in late-night darkness. TJ made valiant attempts to resurrect the team's spirit from the back of the bus.

"Anybody want to hear about the time I accidentally messaged Coach's daughter instead of this girl I was seeing?"

A few half-hearted laughs bubbled up. Someone told him to shut up. The conversation sputtered, caught briefly, and then died again.

I watched my breath create expanding circles of fog on the window that shrank and vanished with each exhale. Carver's voice was missing. The seat beside me, where he usually sprawled, knee jutting into the aisle, remained conspicuously empty.

I turned, scanning the bus—once, then again more carefully.

"He's not here," Monroe said from across the aisle, noticing my search. "Carver didn't get on. Saw him talking to Coach as we were loading."

Something about that information raised goosebumps on my forearms. Carver always rode with the team, regardless of his mood. Even after his worst game last season—a match where he'd collected three separate penalties and broken his stick against the boards in frustration—he'd slouched in the back, radiating annoyance but still present.

Back at our home arena, I showered again—a habit my mother called obsessive and I called necessary. Most of the team scattered quickly, eager to put distance between themselves and the loss. I took longer, moving slowly and dwelling on Carver's absence.

What had kept him behind? Why hadn't he rejoined us?

Without thinking about it, I walked back toward the arena proper instead of the exit. The building was different without the press of bodies and the roar of fans—larger somehow, and impossibly old. My footsteps echoed against concrete floors worn smooth by decades of skateguards.

I had no plan, only some inexplicable force that pulled me forward.

The home bench gate stood propped half-open. Through it, I saw a section of the ice, glossy under the solitary spotlight that always remained on overnight.

And there, in the first row of the stands directly across from the penalty box, sat Carver. Alone, unmoving, his silhouette was familiar even in deep shadows. He hunched forward with elbows on his knees, still wearing his team-issued hoodie with the hood pulled up and his gear bag abandoned at his feet.

I hesitated at the mouth of the tunnel, suddenly uncertain. I wasn't sure what to do next.

Carver didn't move, though he must have heard me approach. His attention remained fixed on the empty ice as if deciphering messages on its scarred surface.

I spoke softly. "Hey," and my voice echoed in the emptiness.

Carver didn't flinch. I wondered whether he'd heard me at all.

His voice was gravelly when he responded minutes later. "You lost too, you know. Don't expect a pep talk."

I climbed the three steps from the rink and settled near him, leaving exactly one seat between us. Not too close and not too far.

Above us, the rafters disappeared into the darkness where championship banners hung like sleeping bats, years of history suspended over our heads. Below, the ice gleamed under the solitary spotlight, a perfect circle of white surrounded by deepening shadow—like us, I thought suddenly, illuminated at this moment while everything else receded.

Pulling words out of thin air, I spoke about memories. "I used to do this as a kid. Sit in empty rinks. Sometimes for hours."

"Because you're weird?"

"Probably." I smiled. "My dad coached youth teams. We'd get to the rink at five in the morning, and I'd sit. I listened to the building waking up—the compressors humming and the first scrape of the Zamboni."

"Poetic."

Another stretch of silence filled the space between us.

I finally spoke up. "You weren't on the bus."

"Observant, too. Talented and perceptive—what can't Matsson Pike do?"

I didn't rise to the bait. "Did Coach keep you behind?"

"No. Just didn't feel like being trapped in a metal tube with twenty guys trying to convince themselves they don't care about losing."

"But you care."

Carver's shoulders tensed. "Everyone cares. Some hide it better."

"Is that what you're doing? Hiding?"

He turned, and the hood fell back slightly, enough that I could see his eyes catch the distant glow from the ice. "That what you think this is?"

"I think..." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "I think there's more eating at you than tonight's game."

"Got your psychology degree while I wasn't looking?" His words were suddenly harder, more defensive.

"No. But I've been watching you. All season."

"Pike, you should go."

"Probably."

Neither of us moved.

He spoke so softly I could barely understand the words. "It wasn't supposed to end like this."

"The game?"

"My career." He continued to whisper. "Six seasons grinding it out in this town. Never made it further. Now it's almost over, and what the hell do I have to show for it?"

The raw honesty stunned me. I'd suspected his early-morning meeting with Coach had been about retirement, but hearing the confirmation—and the wounded pride beneath it—raised a lump in the back of my throat.

"You have plenty to show. You've been the backbone of this team longer than—"

"Spare me the greeting card version." He cut me off, but he didn't display any anger. "Save it for the retirement video they'll play on the scoreboard during my last home game. Three minutes of grainy highlights over sad music, and then everyone moves on."

I turned toward him, our knees almost touching. "That's not fair."

"Life's not fair, Pike. I thought hockey would've taught you that already."

"It's taught me plenty." Something in his dismissive language ignited a rare spark of frustration. "It taught me that everyone thinks they know who you are before you step on the ice. It taught me that one good season means nothing if you can't repeat it. It taught me—" I stopped, realizing my voice had risen more than I intended.

Carver looked at me, narrowing his eyes. "Taught you what?"

I exhaled slowly, suddenly feeling exposed. "It taught me that nobody sees what's inside. They only see what you show them."

Carver leaned back, focusing on some distant point beyond the ice.

I broke the silence. "The first time I lost a game that mattered, I was nine. It was regional championships in Minnesota. My line was up when the other team scored in overtime."

"Let me guess—you cried in the locker room."

"Right in front of everyone." I smiled faintly at the memory. "Couldn't stop. My dad was coaching, and all these other kids watched me fall apart. I kept thinking I'd let everyone down."

Carver glanced sideways. "And?"

"And my dad pulled me aside. He didn't yell, and he didn't tell me to toughen up. His only comment was, 'You've got to grow into the pain, Matsson.' Like it was a sweater that was too big."

I paused, remembering the weight of his hand on my shoulder. "Took me years to understand what he meant."

"Which was?"

"That the loss was supposed to hurt. I needed to let it hurt instead of trying to outrun it." I traced an invisible pattern on the armrest between us. "But I think I misunderstood because I spent the next decade trying to be perfect so I'd never feel that way again."

Carver nodded slowly. The arena creaked around us like bones settling after a long day.

"My first coach in juniors—a guy named Winslow—had a system." Carver's voice sounded far away, like he was excavating a long-buried memory. "Every week, he'd pick two players who'd exceeded expectations. They'd get the good stalls, extra ice time, and his personal attention."

He leaned forward, shadows deepening the lines around his mouth. "Week after week, I pushed myself into the ground. Hardest hits, extra drills, first on, last off. Nothing. Not once in two seasons."

"He never picked you?"

"Came close once. Scored a hat trick against our biggest rivals. Thought for sure..." He shook his head. "Found out later, he told the assistant coach I already had enough natural confidence and needed to learn humility."

"That's messed up."

"That's hockey." Carver laughed a mirthless laugh. "I was fifteen when I realized no one was coming to fight for me. If I wanted recognition, I'd have to force them to see me—be louder, hit harder, and make myself impossible to ignore."

"And now?"

"Now I've spent so long being that guy, I don't know how to be anyone else." He rubbed a hand across his jaw. "You know the worst part? I don't think anyone's ever really seen me. Not without the gear, the mouth, and the role I play."

I studied his profile—the sharp angle of his jaw and the furrowed concentration between his brows. He was allowing me a peek beyond the facade he presented to the team.

"I see you, Carver, even when you're doing your best to stay hidden."

"Do you?"

"I see how you stay late to work with Monroe on his wrist shots when you think no one's watching. I see how you memorize everyone's coffee orders for early practices and how you carry the weight of losses for the whole team, even when everyone else has moved on."

His expression changed, defensiveness giving way to something that looked almost like relief. As if he'd been carrying something heavy for miles and finally had permission to set it down.

"You've been paying attention."

"More than I probably should have."

We were both silent again for almost five minutes.

"Why are you here, Pike? Really?"

I gave him an honest answer. "I don't know. Somehow, I knew you would be. And I couldn't leave you alone with it."

"With what?"

"Whatever's been weighing on you since that meeting with Coach. I guess it's everything that goes with retirement."

He nodded slowly. "It feels like drowning. The thing that's defined me is ending, and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

"It's not ending tonight."

"No, but soon enough."

"Then what happens next?"

Carver exhaled. "Coach mentioned coaching, staying with the organization, working with rookies, and developing new talent. Not sure I have the temperament for all of that."

"I think you'd be amazing." The certainty in my voice surprised me. "You see things others miss and know how to push without breaking people."

"That what I've done with you? Pushed without breaking?"

I gave him a simple answer. "You've made me better, on the ice and off it, too, maybe."

Carver studied me. The light from the ice reflected off his eyes, turning them from their usual dark brown to something more complex—amber flecks in burnt umber.

"You shine too bright to waste, Pike."

He wasn't speaking as my mentor or teammate but as someone watching me with the same careful attention I'd given him. My breath caught in my throat. The sensation wasn't like missing a pass or taking a hit—it was closer to the suspended moment before a puck drop.

"I'm not—" I started, unsure how to continue.

He interrupted me. "You are. You've got this light that doesn't dim, even when it should. Even after losses. Even with that knee. It's fucking annoying sometimes."

There was the Carver I knew, wrapping sincerity in a protective layer of gruffness. "Thanks," I said. "I think."

"Not a compliment. An observation."

I became acutely aware of how close we'd drifted—our shoulders nearly touching, knees angled toward each other. Something shifted in his expression—a subtle change I might have missed if I hadn't watched so intently. His gaze dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes.

My heart hammered against my ribs. The dream from a few nights ago resurfaced with vivid clarity—his mouth on mine, the texture of his stubble, and the weight of his body. This wasn't a dream. It was Carver, real and solid before me, watching me with an expression I couldn't fully decipher.

I leaned forward—barely—testing the boundary of this new, uncharted space between us. I wasn't bold enough to rush into anything, but intentional enough that he would notice if he were paying attention.

He was paying attention.

Time seemed to stretch and slow, each heartbeat an eternity. I found myself staring at his mouth—the pronounced curve of his upper lip and how it parted slightly as if preparing to speak or—

A tremendous clatter echoed from the service corridor—metal against concrete, followed by muffled cursing. We jerked apart instinctively, our moment shattering like thin ice under unexpected weight.

"What the—" Carver stood.

A maintenance worker appeared at the tunnel entrance, wrestling with an overturned cart of cleaning supplies. She glanced up, startled to find the arena occupied.

"Sorry 'bout that. Didn't know anyone was still here."

I answered reflexively. "It's fine. We were just leaving."

Carver shouldered his gear bag with mechanical efficiency. "We should go."

We descended the steps in unison. Neither of us spoke. What was there to say?

As we approached the separate hallways that would lead to our respective parking areas, Carver hesitated.

"Pike—" he started, then stopped, the thought hanging incomplete.

I waited.

"Thanks," he finished finally. "For finding me."

It wasn't what he'd started to say—it wasn't even close. The substitution hung between us, a lesser thing replacing what neither of us was ready to name. I nodded anyway, accepting it for what it was: a beginning.

"Anytime." It might have sounded flippant, but I didn't intend it that way.

He adjusted the strap of his bag. "See you tomorrow. Early practice."

"Yeah. Tomorrow."

He turned then, disappearing down the east corridor without looking back. I stood frozen for several seconds before heading in the opposite direction toward the player lot where my car waited.

The night air hit me when I pushed through the exit door—crisp, clarifying, and painfully real after the charged atmosphere inside. My breath clouded in front of me.

I hadn't meant to lean in. I hadn't meant to want it, but I did. More than I knew. More than I was ready for.

And the worst part? I didn't regret it. Not one bit.

Tomorrow we'd be teammates again, mentor and mentee, maintaining the careful distance of professional obligation. But tonight, for seventeen seconds in an empty arena, we'd almost been something else entirely.

And I couldn't un-know that truth now if I tried.