Page 35 of Pucked Up

The wolf wasn't beautiful by any conventional standard, but it came alive with a feral energy that satisfied something in me. Its haunches tensed as if ready to spring, and its raised ears were alert to dangers within hearing range. I carved wary, deep-set eyes that neither trusted nor retreated.

My thumb brushed across its back, feeling the ridges I'd left deliberately unsmoothed. They reminded me of scars—evidence of survival rather than flaws to be corrected.

I didn't know why I'd chosen a wolf, perhaps because they lived in the space between wildness and order. Or maybe because they endured northern winters without complaint, adapting to conditions that would kill lesser creatures.

The carving wasn't meant as art or even as a gift. It was more like leaving a mark that said, "I was here," and "I saw you."

When I finished the carving, I held it in my palm, letting its weight settle. It wasn't perfect, but it was truthful.

Without overthinking, I crossed to the window and placed the wolf on the sill, its snout pointed toward the forest as if scenting prey. The wooden surface was cold beneath my fingertips, frost melting slightly at the contact.

He'll find it. That doesn't mean I have to explain it.

I swept the shavings into my palm and dropped them into the trash, then wiped the table clean, erasing the evidenceof creation. My knife folded shut with a satisfying click, disappearing back into my pocket.

The coffee had gone cold in my mug. I poured it down the sink and started a fresh pot, the familiar routine anchoring me back in the practical world after the intimacy of creation.

By mid-morning, I'd escaped to the woodpile, seeking refuge in physical labor. The sun had broken through the cloud cover, turning the snow-covered clearing into a blinding field of diamonds. I'd been at it for nearly an hour, the steady rhythm of the axe a counterpoint to the jumble of thoughts in my head.

I didn't see Noah wake up. Didn't watch him discover the carving. That had been the point—leaving something of myself without having to stand beside it, explaining intentions I barely understood.

The wood split cleanly beneath my axe, releasing the sharp scent of pine. With every swing, I felt the slight hesitation in my shoulder, the warning twinge that preceded full-blown pain. I adjusted accordingly, altering my stance to protect the weakened joint.

In the distance, a woodpecker's staccato drilling echoed through the trees. The sound wasn't entirely unlike pucks hitting the boards during practice—a memory from another life that seemed increasingly distant.

The cabin door opened with a familiar creak. Noah stood at the threshold for a moment, framed by the doorway, before descending the steps.

I continued working, loading split wood onto the growing stack. Sweat dampened my back despite the cold.

When I finally turned, wiping my forehead with the back of my gloved hand, Noah was already halfway back to the cabin. Through the window, I watched him move through the kitchen like he'd been there for years instead of days. He paused at the sink, mug in hand, gaze drifting to the windowsill.

His back was to me, but I saw how he paused. How his hand lifted, hesitated, then reached for the carving. His fingers traced the outline of the wolf's back. He didn't pick it up, only touched it with a reverence I'd never seen directed at anything I'd created.

Then, he rotated the wolf slightly, adjusting its position so it faced more toward the center of the room—toward the place where I slept—rather than out toward the forest. The change was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I saw it. I understood it.

It said, "I see you, too."

Noah continued making his coffee, moving with quiet efficiency. I drove the axe into the chopping block and headed back inside, brushing snow from my boots before crossing the threshold. The cabin's warmth enveloped me, drawing attention to how cold I'd actually been. Noah stood at the counter, his back still turned to me.

He spoke in a casual tone. "Made a fresh pot."

"Thanks."

He turned, mug cradled between his palms. His gaze met mine, direct and unwavering. There was no mention of the wolf, no question about where it had come from or what it meant.

He sipped his coffee, eyes never leaving mine. I crossed to the counter and poured myself a cup, hyperaware of his presence just inches away.

"Good morning," he finally said, a simple greeting.

"Morning." I gestured toward the window with my mug. "Clear day."

"Good for working outside."

I nodded, grateful for the mundane exchange that masked the deeper currents flowing beneath. "More wood to split."

"I'll help," he offered, and I recognized it for what it was—not only assistance with labor but a willingness to stand beside me in the work of existing.

Noah emerged from the cabin, bundled in one of my spare coats that hung too large across his shoulders but somehow looked right on him. He surveyed the woodpile—an impressive stack that would see us through weeks of winter yet to come. "You've been busy."

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