Page 14 of Pucked Up

Suddenly, the words were wrong—this conversation was about nothing. We might as well have been playing pond hockey on thin ice. We were making jerky brands matter while ignoringthat our worlds had cracked open and rearranged themselves when he showed up.

I turned away, draining my mug. Whatever game he was playing, I could refuse to join in.

Later that afternoon, I retreated to the small workbench in the corner of the cabin's main room. I'd set up a makeshift maintenance station when I first arrived—somewhere to keep my hands busy when the voices in my head refused to shut up. I pulled out an old hockey stick, the blade worn from too many shots against the makeshift net I'd set up outside.

The rhythmic scrape of sandpaper against composite filled the silence. Noah had wandered outside an hour ago. I'd watched through the window as he circled the perimeter of the property.

I worked slower than necessary, methodical in my strokes: sand, oil, polish. My fingers remembered the motion even as my thoughts scattered. I did my best to concentrate on the grain of the wood beneath my thumb and the faint chemical smell of the oil.

"That's an old Bauer, isn't it?"

I flinched. Noah stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold. I hadn't heard him come back inside.

"Yeah." I didn't look up. "Supreme. From before they changed the flex point."

He moved closer, not quite beside me but near enough that I smelled the cold air clinging to his clothes. "Mind if I watch?"

I did mind. I minded everything about his presence—how he took up space, observed every movement, and grated against my thoughts like sandpaper against a raw nerve. When I shrugged, he took it as permission.

My hands turned clumsy under his gaze. The familiar motions were suddenly foreign as if my body belonged to someone else.

I stared at the stick in my hands, the curve of the blade. How often had I used equipment like this to clear opponents from thecrease? How many bodies had I driven into the boards? How many stitches had I caused?

"What are you looking for?" I finally asked, the words cutting through the quiet.

Noah's expression didn't change. "I told you. The truth."

"About the hit? About why I—"

"About all of it."

The silence that followed was like the moment after a bad check before you knew if someone would get up or stay down.

I set the stick aside, unable to maintain a pretense of normality. Noah stepped closer, reaching for the stick. Our fingers brushed, and I pulled back like I'd touched a live wire.

"Do I make you nervous, Micah?"

"No," I lied.

Did I bring the punishment on myself, or did he carry it in with him, wrapped in silence and bruises? I couldn't shake the feeling he saw right through me—every scar, violent impulse, and dark thought was laid bare under his gaze.

"I think I do," he said softly. Not taunting. Only confident.

I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floorboards. "I need air."

I didn't wait for his response; I grabbed my coat and fled outside. The bite of the cold was familiar—a welcome pain, something tangible. Something that made sense.

A memory ambushed me as I trudged through the snow—triggered by nothing more than the taste of fear at the back of my throat.

I was fifteen. Gangly and awkward, all height and no mass yet. Our team had just won regionals, and the locker room hummed with the chaotic energy of teenage boys intoxicated by victory.

Logan smiled at me from across the room while the others packed up their gear—Logan, with his quick hands and quicker laugh. We'd been circling each other for weeks by then—longglances, shoulders brushing in the hallway, and blushes in the middle of teasing conversations.

When the others filtered out, he stayed behind. I stayed, too.

It was only a kiss—clumsy, terrified, electric. My first. His, too, I think. It was a stolen moment in the steam of an empty locker room. We didn't talk about it afterward. Didn't acknowledge what it meant.

Three days later, I learned.

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