Page 60 of Pucked Up

"But you didn't." Noah delivered his observation in a calm tone. "That's the only difference that matters."

I stared ahead, eyes on the long stretch of black road. "That difference feels… thin, like it might not hold next time."

He was quiet for a beat. "It held this time."

The heater clicked. A gust of lukewarm air spilled onto my boots and smelled like rust and dust from a thousand years ago.

Noah shifted enough to close the space between us. His hand dropped onto my thigh, palm down.

We drove on like that—no music and no more words. We only had the road curling in front of us, and the breath we hadn't realized we'd been holding started to ease up and let go.

We didn't say much when we got back either.

The truck door slammed shut behind me like punctuation on a sentence I hadn't finished. Noah grabbed the groceries and the gas canisters without a word.

I got the door and didn't bother kicking the snow off my boots. We unpacked in parallel. Peanut butter on the shelf. Extra bread loaves in the freezer. Gas jugs back in the corner by the stove.

Every movement was deliberate. I wanted to say something—Thanks, maybe. OrI'm sorry I made a scene, but that didn't seem to fit.

Noah disappeared down the hall, and I stood alone in the kitchen for a long minute, staring at the faded label on a can of beans. Finally, I headed down the narrow hallway to the bathroom.

The light flickered once when I flipped the switch, then held. I looked into the mirror. At first, all I saw was what I always did—jaw set too hard and a few days' beard growth, making me look older than I was. Then, I looked closer.

The veins stood out in my neck. My fingers still trembled. There was a line of tension running from my temple to my collarbone.

I braced my hands on the edge of the sink. I wasn't scared of hurting someone. I was afraid of who I'd be if I didn't.

Violence was a language I understood—one-two, hit-react, break-repair. It was a pattern as predictable as a puck sliding across the ice. But this… this choosing not to… it left space, a gap. That space asked questions.

The most disturbing thing wasn't that I didn't hit him. It was that I didn't want to anymore. If I wasn't that guy anymore, who the hell was I supposed to be?

Chapter eighteen

Noah

My phone vibrated against the kitchen counter with a dry, cicada-style buzz—three times, short and clipped. I stared at it like it might bite.

Reception at the cabin was like breathing underwater: unreliable, strained, and sometimes not worth the effort.

The number was unknown. I hesitated, then answered anyway.

I heard a man's voice. Measured. Not cheerful. "Noah Langley?"

My throat clicked as I swallowed. "Yeah."

"This is Mark Brody. I'm with the Northern Tier Developmental League. Got your name from someone I trust—someone who says you work hard and might be ready to return."

I leaned my hip against the counter, pressing hard enough that the edge bit through the denim of my jeans. Micah tended the fire and pretended not to listen.

Brody kept talking.

"We've got a slot open in Marquette. Tryout roster. Five days from now."

Marquette. I let the word land. It wasn't the NHL. Not even close. But it was organized ice and close to home, relatively speaking. Real drills. Hockey.

"I thought a rookie taken out in the first season was done."

A dry chuckle from the other end. "Not to everyone. Not forever."

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