Page 15 of Pucked Up

Practice had run late. Most guys had gone home already. I was still in the shower when I heard them come in—Dougie, Ratner, and Mills. Seniors. Third-line bruisers with mediocre stats and something to prove.

"Keller." Dougie's voice echoed against the tiles. "We need to talk."

I knew that they'd found out. The thought lodged in my mind before I turned around and saw the look on their faces.

Logan must have told someone. Or they'd seen us. It didn't matter how they knew, only that they did.

I reached for my towel, but Mills snatched it away. "Faggots don't get towels."

I still remember how the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead and how the water dripped from my skin onto the concrete floor. One drop. Two. Three. While I waited for what came next.

Ratner shoved me first, his palm flat against my chest. I stumbled backward, feet slipping on the wet tile. My back hit the wall.

"You like boys, Keller?" Dougie asked, stepping closer. His breath smelled like the spearmint gum he always chewed. "You looking at us in the showers?"

I said nothing. Anything I said would make it worse.

Ratner pinned my arms. Mills spat—a glob of saliva landing on my bare chest. I watched it slide down my ribs. I couldn't look away.

The first punch caught me in the stomach. I doubled over, gasping. The second split my lip. The third—

The details I could remember were like the frame of a jigsaw puzzle with many pieces still missing. The squeak of their shoes on the wet floor and the taste of blood in my mouth stuck in my mind. I could still see how Dougie flexed his fingers after each blow as if he were testing to see if he'd hurt himself.

I still don't remember which one cracked my rib. Or maybe I've never wanted to know.

When they'd finished, they left me curled on the floor, naked and bleeding. Nobody came looking. No coach asked questions about my bruises at the next practice. Logan wouldn't meet my eyes.

I learned two lessons that day: that my body was something to be ashamed of and that it could be turned into a weapon before anyone else made it a victim.

I never kissed another boy until college. I never let anyone pin my arms again. And I started lifting weights the next week, adding muscle that would eventually become my armor.

Standing in the snow outside my cabin sixteen years later, I realized I was shivering. Not from the cold. From the memory of being that exposed. That vulnerable.

And now Noah was here, looking at me like he could see that boy still hiding inside me.

I spent hours outside, splitting more wood than we'd need for days until my palms were raw and my shoulders screamed. Physical exhaustion was the only antidote I knew for toxic memories.

By the time I returned to the cabin, Noah had built a fire. The smell of something cooking greeted me—pasta, maybe. My stomach clenched, reminding me I hadn't eaten since a pile of dry Cheerios in the morning.

He didn't look up when I entered, only gestured toward the bathroom. "You should wash up."

I looked down at my hands—dirt crusted under my nails and a splinter in my thumb I hadn't noticed. I stood there, dripping melted snow onto the floorboards, unable to process the simplicity of his suggestion.

"I made dinner," he added.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Figured we both have to eat."

In the bathroom, I scrubbed my hands until they stung, watching pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. My reflection in the clouded mirror looked haunted—dark circles under my eyes and stubble too heavy to reflect anything but neglect.

When I emerged, Noah had set two bowls on the small table. It was nothing fancy. He'd prepared spaghetti with jarred sauce and some dried herbs he must have found in the cupboard, but it was the first meal I hadn't prepared for myself in months.

We ate in silence, the fire crackling in the living room. The pasta was slightly overcooked, and the sauce was too salty. It was the best thing I'd tasted since I'd left the city.

"Thanks," I said when I'd finished.

Noah nodded, collecting the bowls. As he moved toward the sink, I noticed a faint limp—barely perceptible, but there. Because of me. Because I'd lost control for ten crucial seconds on the ice.

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