Page 48 of Pucked Up

Micah found his rhythm, his robust frame settling into familiar motions. His technique was rougher than mine—built for power rather than speed.

"Keeping up okay, Grandpa?" I called, executing a tight turn that sent ice shavings spraying.

He raised an eyebrow. "Careful, rookie. That puck's got your name on it."

He tossed the bright orange disc onto the ice between us. It skittered across the uneven surface, bobbing and weaving unpredictably. I trapped it with my stick, the familiar vibration traveling up the wooden shaft into my hands.

The sound of our skates cutting through ice filled the clearing—a rhythmic scrape punctuated by the hollow clack of the puck against our sticks. It was nothing like the chaotic noise of a professional game.

No crowds, whistles, or teammates shouting. Only blades cutting through ice and sticks colliding with the puck.

My lungs burned pleasantly as I inhaled the crisp air, sharper and cleaner than anything I'd breathed in months. Each exhale emerged as a plume of white that dissipated into nothing. After weeks of stale hospital air and the woody confines of the cabin, the open space was exhilarating.

Micah sent the puck sliding toward me. I caught it, cradling it briefly before returning it. Our passes gradually lengthened, forcing us to chase and retrieve.

"Not bad for someone who's been lounging in my cabin for days." Micah received a pass from me with a subtle flick of his wrist.

"Was only waiting for the right invitation."

Micah's skating grew more confident with each passing minute, his strides lengthening as muscle memory overrode caution. A different man emerged on the ice—less guarded and more fluid. When he executed a tight pivot to retrieve a wide pass, I glimpsed something I'd only seen in game footage: the natural athlete beneath the enforcer's reputation.

We gradually rediscovered versions of ourselves that existed before our collision. For the first time since arriving at his cabin, I wasn't overthinking. I was playing.

I barely trapped a particularly aggressive pass, laughing as the impact vibrated up my forearms. "Getting serious, are we?" I called, returning it with equal vigor.

Micah didn't respond verbally, but his eyes narrowed with concentration. We began circling wider, skating faster. Micah's powerful strides ate up the distance between us. When he sent the puck whistling toward me, I had to pivot quickly, the blades of my skates sending up a spray of ice crystals that caught the morning light.

Each exchange became a challenge—testing reflexes. Competitive energy charged the air between us.

We breathed harder, forming clouds that lingered in the cold air before dissipating. Sweat beaded at my temples despite the outdoor temperature.

"You're not half bad for someone hiding in the woods," I said, skating backward while maintaining eye contact.

"And you're not half bad for someone who got his ass handed to him."

The comment might have stung days earlier, but now it landed like a recognition of my resilience rather than a reminder of weakness.

As our pace intensified, I became increasingly aware of the subtle compensations in Micah's movements. His left arm worked harder, taking on responsibilities his right shoulder should have shared.

My collarbone—the one he'd broken—throbbed with a phantom ache as if reminding me that our bodies carried memories our minds might prefer to forget. We were both damaged in different ways, both pretending we weren't.

When he lunged for a pass I'd sent wide, his body didn't respond with the fluidity it should have. His right arm extended reluctantly, the motion stiff and abbreviated. He still managed to trap the puck, but the effort cost him.

He's hurting again, but he won't stop. Not if it means showing weakness.

I considered mentioning it and suggesting we take a break. The words formed in my throat but remained unspoken.

Being on the ice mattered to him. He moved purposefully, sharing something he loved without the weight of professional expectations. Drawing attention to his pain would only remind him of its permanence and what the game had taken from him.

I kept playing, adjusting my passes to accommodate his limitations without making it obvious.

"Getting tired, rookie?" he called, noticing my altered approach.

"Just trying not to embarrass an old-timer," I shot back, executing a tight turn.

His laugh surprised us both—sharp and genuine. The sound echoed across the frozen lake, bouncing off the surrounding pines.

For a moment, we were only two hockey players on a pristine sheet of ice, unburdened by history or consequence. It was like a gift I never expected to receive.

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