Page 45 of Pucked Up

"I didn't answer. There was no right answer. They weren't looking for one anyway."

From the corner of my eye, I watched Noah. His right hand drifted upward and touched his collarbone where I'd broken it. Survivor recognizing survivor.

"They took turns. Nothing creative—only fists and boots. They hit me in the ribs, face, and kidneys. Basic damage. I fought backat first. Landed a few solid hits, but it was three against one. They had sixty pounds on me combined."

The fire subsided to embers, casting the room in a dim orange light that made shadows leap and recede across the walls.

"When I couldn't stand anymore, Mills crouched down. He had blood on his knuckles—my blood. He whispered something in my ear." I swallowed hard. "'Wolves don't apologize.'"

I almost stopped there, but something pushed me forward.

"When they were done, they left me there. Curled up, naked, bleeding on cold concrete. No one came looking. No coach pulled me aside. At practice the next day, Logan wouldn't even meet my eyes."

I looked up finally, meeting Noah's gaze for the first time since I'd started speaking.

"I learned real fast how to bleed without making a sound."

Silence descended on us. The soft crackling of the embers was the only sound in the room.

I'd hollowed myself out, pulling vital information from my chest and laying it bare in the space between us. My pulse hammered in my throat as I waited for Noah's reaction.

I'd expected pity or discomfort. Maybe he'd shift awkwardly like someone who'd heard more than they bargained for. I'd seen it before—that subtle recoil when someone caught a glimpse of the darkness I carried inside.

Noah sat perfectly still. His expression wasn't horror or pity. It was something harder to define—a controlled fury mingled with understanding that cut to the bone.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, edged with emotion he didn't try to hide.

"I wish I could go back there. Not because I'd want to stop it. I'd want to find you after."

I stared at him, caught off guard by the unexpected response. It was a wish to have been what I'd needed most—someone who saw the aftermath and didn't look away.

I had spent fifteen years haunted not by the blows themselves but by the silence that followed. It was the profound loneliness of breathing through pain without witnesses.

I saw Noah fully for the first time. He wasn't the rookie I'd injured or the man who'd shown up at my door seeking answers. He was the man whose scars mirrored my own in ways I'd never contemplated.

Words fled from my throat. I managed a single nod, sharp and tight.

The space between us hummed with unspoken understanding. We didn't touch. We didn't need to.

Noah leaned forward, reaching past me to the coffee table. His sleeve brushed my arm, a whisper of contact that left heat in its wake. He picked up the second whiskey glass I'd poured earlier and hadn't touched. Without a word, he placed it closer to me, a silent offering.

"Drink it," he said softly. "Or don't."

There was no pressure in his voice, no expectation. Just acknowledgment that some wounds required anesthetic and others needed to breathe.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window frames. Tree branches scratched against the cabin's exterior like fingernails seeking entrance. Inside, the temperature had dropped as the fire died down, but neither of us moved to rebuild it.

I looked at the amber liquid, watching how it caught what little light remained. My reflection distorted on its surface—fragmented, but not shattered. I ran my thumb along the glass rim but didn't lift it.

Noah stood, stretching slightly. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight—a familiar sound that was the clearest evidence of his presence.

"I'm going to turn in." He wasn't fleeing. It was a mere statement of fact without expectation.

I nodded again, still not trusting my voice.

He paused and rested his hand briefly on my shoulder—a touch so light I could have imagined it. "When did you start fighting back?"

"The next day."

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