Page 49 of Pucked Up

The mood shifted when we settled back into a more aggressive rhythm. Micah's passes gained velocity, and the space between us narrowed. We began challenging each other—circling, feinting, each trying to outmaneuver the other without explicitly saying so.

I sent the puck skittering toward the center of the lake, forcing Micah to chase it. He responded with powerful strides and unexpected speed. Watching him move mesmerized me. It was raw power channeled through years of training discipline.

The orange disc bounced erratically over a rough patch of ice. Micah lunged for it, extending his reach as his body committed fully to the interception.

Too fully.

His skate clipped mine when our paths intersected. The contact was minimal—a glancing blow that wouldn't have registered during a professional game. In the wild, on the uneven surface, it was enough.

My balance evaporated. One moment, I was upright; the next, I was airborne, limbs pinwheeling in a desperate attempt to negotiate a soft landing. The world tilted sideways, and I hit the ice with spectacular inelegance—arms splayed, stick flying from my grasp, legs akimbo.

The impact knocked the wind from my lungs. For one disorienting moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, and could only register the cold seeping through my clothes while I stared at the vast blue sky spinning above me.

Then, absurdly, laughter bubbled up from inside my chest—uncontrollable and bordering on hysterical. Pure, childlike joy at the ridiculousness of my fall.

Micah was beside me instantly, dropping to his knees with a heavy thud. His eyes opened wide, his breathing rapid.

"Shit. Noah—are you—?"

I couldn't answer immediately, too consumed by breathless laughter. "I… forgot how fun… it is to fall," I finally managed, gasping between words.

Micah hovered over me, hands hesitating inches from my shoulders as if afraid to touch and cause further harm.

"I didn't mean to—" I heard barely contained panic in his voice.

I interrupted. "You did, and I loved it."

Micah's expression shifted from concern to bewilderment and then a hint of a smile. "You're insane."

I propped myself on my elbows, snow clinging to my hair and coat. "Probably, but so is anyone who willingly straps knives to their feet and chases a rubber disc for fun."

"Fair point."

I made no move to get up, content to lie sprawled on the ice with cold seeping into my bones and Micah kneeling beside me. There was something profoundly satisfying about the moment—taking a fall and laughing instead of breaking.

Micah had been avoiding any contact resembling our infamous collision. He'd stepped carefully around me, hyper-aware of his size and strength. Now, he'd knocked me down, and instead of shattering, I'd laughed.

I brushed snow from my sleeve. "You know, most of my best memories involve falling: My first time on skates. Learning to check. A spectacular wipeout during the championship game in high school."

Micah settled comfortably beside me, one knee drawn up to his chest. "You wrecked during a championship?"

"I wish I could excuse it as a wreck. I tripped over my own stick in overtime. Slid face-first into the boards while the winning goal sailed over my head." I grinned at the memory. "Coach called it 'the most beautiful disaster he'd ever seen.'"

Micah chuckled softly. "Bet that made the highlight reel."

"Three different angles. My sister has it saved on a DVD."

The panic was gone from his eyes. We stayed on the ice for a few minutes longer—Micah kneeling, me sprawled. Neither of us rushed to stand and continue the game or retreat to the safety of the cabin.

Snow began to fall again, not the heavy flakes of a serious storm but delicate crystalline specks that drifted lazily from a brightening sky. They landed on Micah's dark hair and shoulders, lingering briefly before dissolving. One caught on his eyelashes, and he blinked it away, his gaze never leaving mine.

He stuck his tongue out to catch a snowflake. "When I was a kid, my dad would lose his mind if I fell during practice. He said it showed weakness." He traced a pattern in the snow beside my leg, fingertip leaving a thin line. "After games, he'd count the times I lost my footing. One push-up for each fall."

I listened, not interrupting. The voluntary confessions from Micah filled holes in my understanding of him.

"Hockey was the one place I felt..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Free. Until it wasn't."

A snowflake landed on my cheek, its brief, cold kiss melting immediately. "And now?"

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