Page 61 of Pucked Up

I didn't say yes or no. My hand pressed flat against the counter, needing the contact to stay vertical.

Brody paused. "You don't have to answer right now. We just wanted to give you a chance. Thought you might want to take advantage of it. You're young."

He gave me a callback number. I repeated it out loud, sharp and clear, before he hung up.

I stood there watching my phone's connection fade. Signal gone. It had only clawed its way through the pines long enough for me to receive that one call.

Micah stepped up behind me, resting his hand on my shoulder. He didn't ask what the call was about. He didn't need to.

"Tryout?"

I nodded once.

I didn't talk about it. Not right away. Not even when I sat cross-legged on the rug, pulled my shirt over my head, and laid it beside me.

The fire hung on—barely. Half a log still smoldered. I didn't feed it. It was easier to let it be.

Micah lowered himself to the couch, arms crossed, eyes sharp and unreadable. He didn't offer questions or comfort.

Without more thought, I began checking out my body's muscle memory. I started with neck rolls. Shoulders next. Then, the deeper ones—scapular isolations and core twisting.

Left arm up. Reach. Right arm across the chest, pull.

That's when an ache bared its teeth—low in the joint, a hot knot I'd learned to respect. I held it, breathed through it, let it crest and fade.

"I'll need to tape before drills," I muttered without turning to look at Micah.

He didn't answer.

I flattened onto my stomach and lifted into a modified plank. The rug scratched against my knees.

"I'm not scared of the ice anymore." The words sounded like a defensive proclamation.

I sat back and ran my fingers over the skin above my collarbone, then down the side of my shoulder. The scar was pale now, not angry.

It still puckered in the middle, like a seam barely holding. My fingertips hovered over it—not touching or tracing. Only remembering.

Micah's voice was low and coarse. "You say that like you negotiated a peace treaty with it."

"No, but I won't let it speak for me."

The fire gave out.

We didn't rekindle it. The air in the cabin took on a dry bite—barely tolerable but better than the noise of pretending everything was fine.

I sat on the floor with my knees up, arms braced on them. Micah hadn't moved.

He asked the crucial question. "You going?"

No curiosity in it. It was like the hinge of a door creaking open.

I didn't answer right away. My pulse pounded in my chest

"Yeah," I said finally. "But I don't want to do this without you."

Micah didn't blink. He absorbed the word.

Slowly, he stood and then paced from one edge of the room to the other. The space between us didn't shrink, but it changed shape.

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