Page 11 of Pucked Up

The sun glinted off untouched snow, which was so bright it hurt to look directly at it. It was beautiful and unforgiving, like Micah himself.

Something moved in my peripheral vision. It was Micah yanking on his boots by the door. His flannel stretched across his broad shoulders, red and black checks that pulsed with each breath. He didn't look at me as he grabbed the axe propped by the door.

A slam echoed through the cabin, leaving behind a vacuum I couldn't stand. Three sips of coffee later, I pulled on my boots, borrowed a heavy coat hanging on a peg by the door—too large, smelling of pine and someone else's life—and followed.

The cold hit like a slap to the face. My lungs seized, breath crystallizing in front of me. Twenty feet from the cabin, Micah positioned a log on a stump and swung. The crack of splitting wood punctured the quiet, sharp and violent.

I stopped at the edge of the porch, the borrowed coat too big in the shoulders, with the hem whipping around my thighs in the wind. My fingers ached from the cold, even inside the coat pockets, but I didn't move.

His breath steamed in the air with each exhale, a dragon without fire. His swings were relentless as if splitting wood might silence something inside him. I counted the chops without meaning to. Eight. Nine. Ten.

I wondered what he saw when he closed his eyes. The moment of contact? My body hitting the boards? The aftermath?

I leaned against the porch railing, not hiding my presence but not announcing it either.

Swing. Split. Reset. Micah's rhythm was hypnotic. Each motion was fluid and practiced. His body knew the choreography by heart.

I watched the flex of muscle beneath his shirt—how his shoulders bunched, released, and bunched again. His thighs tensed with each downward arc. Sweat beaded at his temples despite the cold, turning his dark hair nearly black at the edges.

I'd seen him hit opponents with the same controlled power. I experienced it firsthand. Something twisted low in my stomach—fear, desire, memory.

It wasn't only the strength. It was the focus. That singular, terrifying concentration. Like he could break me apart piece by piece and somehow know where to leave the bruise so it would never fade.

As an enforcer, he'd built his career on violence, yet there was something strangely tender in how thoroughly he committed to each strike. No hesitation. No apology. Only pure intent.

What would it feel like, I wondered, to be touched with that same certainty? To be the focus of such undivided attention off the ice? The thought burned through me, inappropriate and insistent.

I'd been hit before by others. Hockey wasn't ballet. Micah's hit had been different—purposeful, like he'd seen through my jersey, pads, and carefully constructed persona, straight to something raw and unguarded.

No one had ever demanded anything of me before. They'd taken, expected, and assumed. They never looked me dead in the eye and said:I see you.

The axe stopped mid-swing.

Micah's head snapped up, eyes finding mine with unerring precision as if he'd known where I stood all along. His chest heaved with exertion, sweat trickling down his throat despite the bite of the freezing air.

His eyes narrowed. In that split second, I recognized the look—the same one he'd given me on the ice moments before impact. Assessment. Recognition. Decision.

The axe fell from his grip, embedding itself in packed snow with a muted thunk. His hands curled into fists at his sides, and he stalked toward me with predatory focus. Each footstep crushed virgin snow, leaving a trail of perfect imprints—evidence of his advance.

I considered stepping back and establishing a boundary between us. My body refused to obey, transfixed by his approach. My heart hammered against my ribs.

It wasn't fear. It was anticipation.

Ten feet away. Five. Two.

He stopped close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his body and smell the sharp tang of his sweat. His breath was warm and intimate as it passed over my face.

"What are you looking at?" Micah's words were low, carrying hints of danger. It was a warning growl more than a question.

I didn't answer. Couldn't. My throat had closed, and my lungs refused to cooperate. Still, I didn't drop my gaze either. Defiance was all I had to offer, and I gave it fully, tipping my chin up to meet his stare.

"You've been watching me since you got here." His voice was a mix of gravel and ice. "Like you're waiting for something. What is it? What do you want from me, Langley?"

I swallowed hard, searching for words that wouldn't come. How could I explain what I barely understood myself? That I'd driven through a blizzard to find him because his violence was so breathtakingly honest? That the bruises he'd left had healed, butthe moment of connection—that flash of seeing and being seen—hadn't?

"Answer me." Not a request. A command.

His hand shot out without warning, fingers curling around the nape of my neck. Not quite a choke but a claim. Possessive. Deliberate. His palm radiated heat against my skin, his thumb pressing against my pulse point hard enough to feel my heart's desperate rhythm.

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