Page 2 of Pucked Up

His coat was too fine for this place—navy wool, probably Italian—and it clung to his frame like a tailored dare. His jaw was sharper, leaner. The bruises were gone, but something haunted clung to his eyes like he hadn't slept right in weeks.

He looked like a shadow of the boy I hit. Or maybe the man I made.

The last time I'd seen him, his skin had been split open along the cheekbone, blood pooling in the hollow beneath his eye. They'd had to stretcher him off the ice.

And now, he was standing in my driveway like a fucking ghost.

I tried to speak, but my vocal cords forgot how to work. My fingers went slack. The axe slipped from my grip, embedding itself in the frozen ground between us with a dull thud.

For several heartbeats, we stared at each other. The flurries intensified, catching in his dark hair and melting on his shoulders. He didn't blink. Didn't shiver.

Finally, he broke the silence.

I need to know what happened." His eyes briefly darted away. "The actual truth."

His voice was lower than I remembered, steady and deliberate. Not angry. Not trembling with emotion or hatred.

My brain scrambled to make sense of it. How had he found me? Why was he here? What truth could he want that wasn't already splashed across every sports network in the country?

Noah took a step forward. Snow crunched beneath expensive boots designed for city sidewalks. He moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent his life on the ice, but there was something else in his posture. He'd come looking for something… or someone.

I felt it in my chest—that animal instinct that recognizes when it's being hunted.

"You shouldn't be here," I managed, my voice a rusty growl.

"And yet." He gestured to the space between us, the corners of his mouth lifting in what was almost a smile.

I blinked and saw it again—the moment on the ice. His eyes met mine through the cage of his helmet. There was a split-second of recognition before I'd driven him into the boards with everything I had. Like I'd seen something in him that needed breaking.

"How did you find me?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice level.

He shrugged one shoulder casually like we were teammates catching up after practice. "Your agent drinks too much at hotel bars."

I made a mental note to fire Davis the moment I had cell reception again.

"You drove eight hours through fucking nowhere Michigan for what, exactly?" I bent to retrieve the axe, needing something solid to hold onto. "A fucking apology?"

"I told you. The truth."

I scoffed. It was a harsh sound that scraped my throat raw.

Noah said nothing. He merely watched me with those steel-gray eyes that seemed to peel back layers I didn't want exposed. His silence expanded between us, taking up all the air and nearly suffocating me.

I turned away, stalking back toward the woodpile like the conversation was over. I did my best to dismiss him the way I'd dismissed rookies in the locker room, but my hands shook as I positioned another log, and I knew he saw it.

"You don't get to look at me like that." My voice was harsh, threatening. "Not after what I did. Not after the way youlet me believeyou could take it."

The words slipped out before I could stop them—half accusation, half confession. I hadn't meant to say that much.

I froze mid-swing, axe raised, the admission hanging between us in the cold air.

He didn't answer. Just stood there, steady, watching me with those too-calm eyes like heknew.

"You owe me."

I grabbed another log and positioned it. "I gave you a broken collarbone and took a suspension that would carry over into the next season. That's the end of the transaction."

"None of that is what I came for."

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