Page 47 of Pucked Up

Neither of us mentioned how he'd shared his darkest memory or how I'd slipped into his bed afterward, our spines pressed together like twin support beams. Micah drained his mug and set it in the sink with a soft clink.

He disappeared down the short hallway without explanation, returning minutes later with an old mesh equipment bag slung over his shoulder. The fabric was faded blue, worn transparent in spots, with frayed straps that had been repaired multiple times.

He paused in the doorway, backlit by pale sunlight filtering through the cabin's windows. "Come with me."

No explanation. No destination. Just a direct request.

I studied his face. Trust me, it said.

I set my mug down. "Let me grab a coat."

He nodded once. Whatever it was, it mattered to him. And that was enough.

I walked at his side as Micah led the way down a narrow trail that wound between towering pines, their branches heavy with fresh powder. Our boots crunched through virgin snow, leaving parallel tracks.

The trail sloped gently downward, and the forest thinned perhaps 1/4 of a mile from the cabin. Micah paused at the edge of a small clearing, waiting for me to catch up. As I reached his side, the view opened before us—his perfectly round and pristine private lake surrounded by an amphitheater of pines.

"Careful here," he warned as we navigated the descent to the shoreline. He steadied my elbow when I slipped on an icy patch.

At the lake's edge, Micah dropped the equipment bag onto a flat rock and unzipped it with care. He pulled out two pairs of hockey skates, worn but meticulously maintained.

"These haven't seen action in a while." He handed a pair to me.

Next came two vintage wooden sticks with curved blades. Finally, he extracted a bright orange street puck, scuffed and dented from countless impacts.

"Hope you didn't forget how to lace up. I think these are likely to come close enough to fit you."

I turned the skates over in my hands. They were artifacts from Micah's history. I noted the careful patches and resoled sections.

"I could lace up in my sleep." I sat on the rock beside the bag.

Micah nodded, sitting a few feet away to pull on his skates. The ritual was familiar to us both. I watched from the corner of my eye as his fingers worked the laces with practiced efficiency, tightening and securing in a pattern unique to each skater's preference.

A grimace flashed across his face when he flexed his right shoulder after finishing. He caught me looking.

"Lake's solid." He tapped his stick against the ice. "I checked it yesterday while you were sleeping in."

I finished lacing my skates and stood carefully, testing my balance on the narrow blades. "You come here often?"

"Not as much as I should."

I accepted the wooden stick he offered. It was different from my professional composite—heavier, with character etched into every dent and scratch. The tape grip had molded to someone else's hand, and I resisted the urge to ask who had held it before me.

Anticipation rushed through my veins while I stood at the edge of the ice. Micah felt it, too, hesitating briefly before stepping onto the frozen surface.

The moment was sacred somehow. Intimate. Whatever brought him to this hidden lake with these worn skates was personal, and he chose to share it.

My first step onto the ice was like reconnecting with an old friend. My right skate slipped slightly, and I windmilled my arms, a startled laugh escaping. My balance returned just in time to prevent an embarrassing fall.

"Graceful," Micah commented. He'd stepped onto the ice more confidently, though a subtle wobble in his knees was evident as he adjusted to the return to skates.

"Look at you, holding onto your stick like it's a walker," I shot back.

He didn't quite use it for balance, but his knuckles had whitened around the shaft. A half-smile spread across his face.

We pushed off, beginning slow circuits around the lake. It was a little disorienting, like rediscovering how to walk after a long illness. My ankles protested the unfamiliar strain.

The ice beneath us wasn't the manicured perfection of an NHL rink. It was nature's imperfect canvas—patches of glassy smoothness interrupted by ripples and snow-dusted sections.

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