Page 3 of Pucked Up

I glanced at him over my shoulder. He stood with his hands in his coat pockets, relaxed, like we were having a normal conversation.

"What, then?" I demanded. "Money? The league already has my ass in a financial sling."

"I didn't file a civil suit."

I hadn't known that.

"Then what do you want from me?" I swung the axe again, missing my mark. The blade glanced off the log and buried itself in the stump beneath. I swore, yanking at it.

"I want to know why you looked at me that way before you did it."

I froze. The wind picked up, howling between the trees, finding the gaps in my thermal shirt and raising goosebumps along my sweat-damp skin.

"Most guys," he continued, "they hit without seeing. It's a reflex, an instinct. But you—" He inserted a dramatic pause. "You saw me first. You made a choice."

My hands curled into fists. He was playing some kind of game, and nobody gave me the set of rules.

"You've said your piece." I straightened, turning to face him. "Now go."

Noah didn't move. Snowflakes caught in his eyelashes and on the sharp edges of his cheekbones. His gaze never wavered.

"Not until you tell me why you did it."

Something like a dark, black serpent uncoiled inside my chest. I closed the distance between us in two strides, using my height to tower over him.

"You want the truth?" I almost snarled it. "I really don't think you do."

He didn't flinch. Didn't step back. He tilted his head to maintain eye contact, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat.

"Try me."

For a heartbeat, I thought about grabbing him. Shaking him. Making him understand the magnitude of his mistake in coming here. There were miles of forest where he'd never be found, but that's what had gotten me into this mess in the first place—pure violence.

I probably should have told him to go before the storm made it impossible to get away. Tell him that I didn't want him at my place, but I couldn't make myself lie.

Instead, I watched, stunned, as he walked past me toward the cabin. Like he belonged. Like he'd been invited.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I called after him.

He climbed the three weathered steps to my porch, boots heavy on the wood. He'd grabbed a duffel bag from the passenger side of his car and slung it over his shoulder. My blood ran cold.

"You can't stay here," I said, moving after him, anger sparking in my veins. "This isn't a fucking Airbnb."

Noah set his bag down beside the door. "Storm's coming. Checked the radar before I lost service." His tone was reasonable, almost conversational. "Driving back in it would be stupid."

I grabbed his arm as he reached for the door handle. "You don't get to—"

He turned, slow and deliberate, invading my space. He was so close that the heat of him escaped his coat and tickled my skin.

"Tell me the truth, Micah. Or hit me again, but cut the bullshit about not wanting anything. No way you got it all out of your system last time."

The words slid between my ribs like a blade, finding soft tissue. I let go of him like I'd touched a live wire, stepping back, my pulse hammering in my throat.

He held my gaze a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then he turned, pushed open the unlocked door, and stepped into my sanctuary.

"There's a guest room down the hall," I said, my voice hollow. "Don't touch anything else."

Noah paused in the doorway, silhouetted against the warm light inside. For a moment, he appeared almost ghostly—a specter from my past come to collect a debt.

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