Page 13 of Pucked Up

I hadn't come here for closure, forgiveness, or answers. I'd come because when Micah Keller had slammed me into the boards, breaking my body, he'd shattered something else too—the careful facade I'd spent years constructing.

For one blinding moment on the ice, he'd seen past the practiced moves and the perfect stride straight through to the thirst underneath. The need to be truly seen.

And after more than a decade of performing, being the promising rookie and the dutiful son—being recognized felt like coming home.

I didn't want him to apologize. I wanted him to finish what he'd started.

I splashed cold water on my face, but it did nothing to douse the heat spreading through me. Outside, I heard the rhythmic thunk of the axe resuming. The sound vibrated through the cabin walls, deep into my bones.

Patience, I reminded myself. I'd spent years perfecting my timing on the ice.

I could wait him out.

Chapter five

Micah

Iwoke to the sound of cabinets opening and closing. My body felt like concrete had dried in my joints overnight—rigid, aching with the cold that seeped through the cabin's aging windows. For a moment, I forgot he was still in my with me.

Then, memory unfolded its sharp edges inside me, a switchblade clicking open between my ribs.

Noah. The rookie. The man I'd injured.

I rolled out of bed, shoulders tight with tension, and shuffled to the kitchen. He was already there, seated at the scarred pine table, eating dry Cheerios straight from the box like some feral child. His hair stuck up at odd angles, but his eyes—steel gray in the sunlight streaming through the windows—were alert.

"Morning." It was so casual. He said it the way someone who lived here would. Or perhaps like we were teammates at training camp.

I grunted, pouring coffee into a chipped mug.

"You know what this reminds me of?" Noah gestured at the cereal box. "Those predawn gas station stops on minor league road trips. You were in the minors before the big dance, right?It's like those stops when you're half-awake, and everything tastes like the inside of the bus."

"You ate dry cereal on road trips?"

"Sometimes. It depended on what was available. Whitey—our goalie—he'd only eat beef jerky and those packaged Danishes. Said it was his good luck ritual."

"The Danish that could survive a nuclear winter?"

Noah laughed, a sound that scraped against something raw inside me. "Yeah. Orange-glazed abominations."

I leaned against the counter, maintaining distance between us—no danger in joining in on this inane conversation. "Anderson used to mix Mountain Dew with those vitamin waters. He called it his performance enhancer."

"That's disgusting."

"Yeah, well, so was his plus-minus."

Noah smiled, and for a brief, disorienting moment, we might have been any two players shooting the shit before morning practice.

"What's the worst roadside food you've ever had?" he asked, reaching for more cereal.

"Iowa, middle of nowhere. Some truck stop advertised homemade pie. It wasn't pie—more like soup in a crust." I sipped my coffee. "You?"

"Pickled eggs and Funyuns."

I stared at him. "Together?"

"Markowitz dared Simons. Hundred bucks. He threw up on the equipment manager's shoes."

I couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up out of my chest. "Amateur."

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