Page 30 of Pucked Up

The scrape of blades grew louder—first behind me and then to my left. Next, it was everywhere at once. The arena lights flickered, shadows lengthening across the ice.

Micah appeared at the edge of my vision, emerging from the darkness. His movement wasn't the efficient power I'd studied in-game footage; this version of him flowed like water over stone, something primal in his approach. His face twisted into an expression I couldn't define—a mix of hunger and apology.His eyes burned like blue flames, pupils wide, fixed on me like I was the only thing in the universe.

He barreled forward, each stride eating the distance between us. I counted my panicked heartbeats: one-two-three-four. My body tensed, muscles locking in anticipation. The hit should've come—right at that moment—but it never did.

Or maybe it already had? Perhaps I was already broken, down, and bleeding onto the ice while some demented loop in my brain reset the clock, forcing me to experience the anticipation again and again.

Cold air filled my lungs. My throat constricted, and my collarbone began to throb, not with the dull ache of an old injury but with nerves firing warnings about damage yet to come. The pain radiated outward, following a spiderweb of fractures that hadn't yet occurred.

I tried to raise a hand. I didn't know whether it was to defend myself or beckon him closer. I failed anyway. My fingers merely twitched against the ice, useless as broken twigs.

"Please," I tried to say, but no sound emerged, only puffy ghosts of breath in the air.

What was I trying to say? Please stop? Please continue? Come closer?

Micah was suddenly above me, no longer approaching but looming. He stood over me, breathing hard. His chest heaved beneath his jersey—no, the jersey was gone, leaving bare skin slick with sweat despite the cold.

I was on my back, the ice burning cold against my spine. Micah's stick clattered beside me, abandoned. He knelt, one knee pressed against my hip, and reached down with bare fingers. They hovered over my chest, not quite touching.

"I saw you," he said, but the voice wasn't right—deeper, rougher than it should be. "You wanted this."

His hand descended, fingertips grazing the hollow of my throat, trailing down to where my collarbone jutted out of my skin. The touch wasn't violent. It was reverent, and somehow that was worse. My body arched into it.

He lowered himself, body covering mine, his weight crushing and anchoring. He held his mouth near my ear, breath warm where everything else was cold.

"Noah."

Wrong voice. Wrong tone. Too gentle for the monster in my mind.

My lungs seized. I gasped awake, throat raw as if I'd been screaming for hours. The cabin's guest room materialized around me in fragments—wooden beams overhead, a scratchy blanket tangled around my legs, and darkness pressing against the windows.

Sweat popped out on my skin despite the chill. My chest heaved with each shallow breath, ribs squeezing like they might crack inward and pierce my lungs.

I curled into myself, knees drawing up, spine curved, protecting what was already broken. The position was familiar—a reflex honed through years of hiding pain. My body always remembered what my mind tried to forget. I pressed my face into the pillow to muffle the ragged sound of my breathing.

The pain wasn't real, but my body hadn't gotten the message. Phantom aches pulsed through my collarbone, an echo of what had healed weeks ago. I pressed my palm against the spot, fingers digging into the ridge of bone as if I could convince my nerves they were lying.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears, drowning out the night sounds of the cabin. Too fast. Too loud. I couldn't catch my breath. Couldn't stop shaking.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

My body tensed further, muscles coiling as tight as steel cables. The footsteps outside my door weren't cautious or hesitant—they moved with purpose, heavy enough to sound through the cabin's thick walls.

It was Micah. I recognized his tread, the distinct rhythm of his weight shifting from heel to toe.

Somehow, he'd heard me. My panic closed the space between us, bleeding through the walls.

The door opened without a knock. A wedge of pale blue darkness spilled across the floor. Micah stood silhouetted in the doorframe, broader than seemed possible, breathing almost inaudible.

He didn't speak or rush forward. He merely stood there, a sentinel watching from the threshold. I sensed rather than saw his assessment—taking in my curled posture, the tangled bedding, and my chest's shallow rise and fall.

"Go away." The words rasped out of me, hoarse and unconvincing.

"No."

He uttered the one syllable without heat or judgment. Next, he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The room darkened again.

I couldn't see his face, only the bulk of him moving through the shadows. The mattress dipped as he sat on its edge, careful to maintain space between us.

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