Page 12 of Pucked Up

Something fractured inside me at his touch—a wall, a restraint, something I didn't know I'd built. The sensation traveled like lightning from his fingertips through my body, igniting nerves that had been numb for years. I couldn't breathe. Didn't want to.

For a disorienting moment, I was fourteen again, pinned against the locker room wall by Coach Harmon, his thumb on my neck and his face inches from mine. "You feel that, Langley? That's fear. Use it."

His grip had been clinical, instructional. At home that night, I'd pressed my fingers to the same spot, trying to understand why the memory of his hold made me feel both diminished and seen. Why part of me had wanted him to squeeze harder and steal my breath, just to prove I could withstand it.

Micah's touch was different—electric, whereas Coach's had been mechanical. It wasn't instruction. It was barely leashed hunger, and it called to something primitive in me.

His grip tightened, and my eyes fluttered closed for half a second. When I opened them, his expression had shifted. I thought I saw hunger in dilated pupils.

I leaned forward, drawn by forces beyond conscious thought. I didn't think. I pressed my palms against his broad chest, fingers curling into the damp flannel. His heartbeat thundered against my hands, rapid and strong.

The distance between us narrowed to inches, then centimeters. Our breath mingled as visible puffs of white in the frigid air. I could taste him already—salt and coffee and winter. My body ached with want.

His free hand shot up, pressing against my chest. He wasn't pushing me away. He was holding me in place. Suspended. Waiting.

His eyes searched mine. Whatever he sought, he found something else—a hunger that matched his own, desperation that mirrored the tension in his jaw.

For one breathless moment, I thought he might close the distance between us. His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering there.

Then, as suddenly as he'd grabbed me, he released me. Stepped back. His hands fell to his sides, fingers flexing like they'd been burned. The cold rushed into the space between us, a shock after the heat of his proximity.

His voice, when it came, was ragged. Stripped of its careful control. "Don't do that again."

His voice cracked on the last word, just barely. I caught it. I don't think he meant to let me hear.

Three steps backward. Four. He turned, retrieving the axe with mechanical precision, refusing to look at me again. The dismissal was absolute.

I didn't follow. Couldn't.

I rubbed the spot behind my ear where his thumb had pressed. The heat was already fading, but the impression remained—like a mark I couldn't wash off.

He could've kissed me. I'd seen, felt, and tasted it in the space between us.

But instead, he left me with breathless silence and snowflakes melting on my lashes.

I didn't know if I'd pushed too far or not far enough.

I stood there, heart still racing, skin still buzzing where he'd touched me. Marked me. I watched him walk away, his shoulders rigid with restraint.

And despite the rejection and warning, something dangerous unfurled in my chest. It was desire burning hot.

He wanted this, too. Wanted me. And was terrified of it.

When I finally moved, my fingers were numb, and my cheeks were raw from the wind. The heat he'd left behind on my skin had vanished, replaced by the kind of cold that settles deep into your marrow.

I flexed my fingers, feeling blood return painfully. On the ice, we played through worse discomfort every day. But this ache was different—it wasn't about endurance. It was about patience.

I was waiting for the right opening. Every good winger knows: you don't take the shot if the angle's wrong. You circle back and find another approach.

Inside the cabin, the coffee scent had dissipated, leaving the sharp tang of pine.

In the bathroom, I gripped the edge of the sink hard enough to whiten my knuckles. My reflection stared back, someone I barely recognized—flushed, intent, alive in a way I hadn't been in years.

My pupils remained dilated, and my lips still parted. I touched the back of my neck where his fingers had pressed. The skin was cool now, but my pulse hammered beneath it, an echo of his grip.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I whispered to the glass.

My reflection didn't pretend not to know. There was no room for lies between us.

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