Page 4 of Pucked Up

"We both know I'm not leaving until I know." It wasn't a threat. It was a fact, delivered with the same calm certainty as everything else he'd said. "Not until we dig up what we buried."

He disappeared inside, leaving the door ajar. An invitation. A challenge.

I stood in the falling snow, staring at the axe in my hand. The blade caught what little light remained, flashing like a warning.

It didn't feel like a tool anymore. It felt like a promise. Or a threat.

I didn't know whether I was holding on to it to protect myself—or to keep myself from letting go.

Inside, Noah moved through my cabin like he already belonged. It was the next chapter in something he'd been writing alone. He'd already told me he wasn't leaving until I helped with his excavation.

And some part of me—dark and quiet and already too tired to resist—believed him.

I followed him in and closed the door behind me. Outside, the storm arrived.

Chapter two

Noah

The ceiling had exactly forty-seven tiles. I'd counted them eleven times in the past three days. I had to keep counting because my mind refused to accept its conclusion, rejecting unnecessary information.

Beige squares with tiny perforations. It was the hospital's idea of decoration.

My throat burned, scraped raw, though I hadn't spoken in hours. The pain meds were starting to wear off, barely taking a bite out of the pain. I needed the nurse to return so I could report a level of 4 or maybe 5. I wanted to remember.

Every breath reminded me of what had happened—cracked ribs that shifted beneath my torso's muscles, threatening to splinter if I laughed or coughed too hard.

I turned my head, wincing at the protest from my neck. A stack of cards sat untouched on the side table, their cheerful envelopes garish against the sterile white of everything hospital-owned. Fan mail, probably.

I spotted my mother's looping handwriting on one. My agent's secretary sent another. I hadn't opened them. Words wouldn't fix what I'd been through.

My phone didn't light up with texts from teammates. No visits. Carter played on my line for half the season and couldn't be bothered to check whether I was still among the living. The team's social media posted some hollow "Get well soon, Langley!" bullshit with prayer hands emoji.

Professional hockey. Where they break you on Tuesday and forget your name by Friday.

The nurse finally returned, clipboard tucked against her hip. An industrial antiseptic odor followed her.

"Scale of one to ten?" she asked, fiddling with the IV.

"Four," I lied. The truth was more like an eight.

She pressed fresh tape against my skin to secure the line, and the small sting sparked a memory. It was crystal clear, despite the concussion the doctors whispered about.

I was back on the ice.

The memory wasn't fuzzy like everyone always claimed. It came to me in high definition, frame by frame, a highlight reel with the pain activating it by remote control.

Third period. Score tied. My lungs burned from a double shift. I'd just sent a shot wide, cursing as I chased it behind the net. The puck skittered along the boards. My gloves scraped against the glass as I fought for possession.

I never saw him coming.

The warning was a sudden displacement of air like a giant vacuum switched on. An ominous silence filled the moment before impact.

A mountain of muscle slammed into me at full speed. My body crumpled against the boards, which gave way like they were made of paper, not plexiglass. The cracking reached my ears asplit second after the sensation rattled my bones. My helmet snapped sideways, wrenched by a force my neck couldn't resist.

Before darkness claimed me, I had one moment of clarity. It was one frozen frame filled with his face.

Micah Keller. Six-foot-four. Two hundred twenty pounds of raw fury.

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