Page 7 of Pucked Up

"Your stuff goes in there." He nodded toward a narrow hallway. "Bathroom's the first door. Spare room's at the end."

Wilderness hadn't softened him. If anything, isolation had stripped away whatever social veneer he'd maintained in the league. This Micah was more feral.

His thermal shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat despite the cold outside. A thin scar bisected his left eyebrow.

I picked up my bag and walked deeper into his sanctuary, aware of his gaze burning into my back. The spare room was barely that—a twin bed with a navy blanket pulled military-tight across it, plus a wooden chair and a single, small dresser. No decoration or personality. Pure function.

I turned to find him filling the doorway with his broad shoulders, blocking any escape. "You're wasting your time," he said. His voice was rough from disuse. "There's nothing for you here."

I set my bag on the bed, making myself at home. "Strange. That would have been my statement before you nearly put me through the boards."

His eyes narrowed, but something else flickered there, too. Recognition, maybe. Or fear.

I moved toward him, closer than I should have dared. The scent of him was stronger—pine and clean sweat. His nostrils flared as I entered his space.

"I can leave tomorrow." My voice was calm and measured despite the way my heart hammered against my ribs. "After you tell me why you looked at me like that before you hit me."

A muscle worked in his jaw. For a moment, I thought he might grab me—push me back, throw me out, something to reestablish the control I was deliberately taking from him. Instead, he stepped back, creating distance between us.

"Dinner's at seven." His voice was flat. "There's only one rule here. Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to."

He turned, disappearing back down the hallway, leaving me alone in the room that suddenly felt too small and intimate, as if the walls themselves had absorbed his presence and were breathing it back at me.

I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the ache in my shoulder where it had never quite healed right. Outside the window, snow fell harder, blurring the line between earth and sky until there was nothing but white.

I was trapped here for now, whether Micah wanted it or not. I'd come for the truth, but he didn't only leave a mark on me. He left something behind. And I think part of me wanted him to take it back.

Chapter three

Micah

The bedroom door closed with a soft click, and I stood alone in the hallway, staring at the pine door where Noah had disappeared. No lock. There was nothing but two inches of wood between us.

I pressed my forehead against the door frame, taking several shallow breaths. What the hell had I just done? I'd let him in. Not only into the cabin but also into the inner sanctum I'd carefully constructed since the suspension began.

I backed away from the door, each footstep causing the floorboards to creak. The wind howled outside, rattling the glass panes. Inside, the air was silent, but it couldn't hide the fact that I wasn't alone anymore.

Noah Langley was here. In my space. In my head.

In my goddamn guest room.

Back in the cabin's multi-purpose living room and Master bedroom, I struck a match, the sulfur scent sharp in my nostrils as I lit a thick candle. The fireplace still smoldered, orange embers pulsing like something alive, but the room was darkerthan was comfortable. Shadows pooled in corners where light couldn't reach.

I sank into my worn leather chair, my hands shaking. A half-empty whiskey bottle sat on the side table where I'd left it. I grabbed it, unscrewed the cap, and poured amber liquid into a smudged glass. The first swallow burned, but not enough to drown out my thoughts.

He wants something. Nobody drives into a snowstorm just to say hi.

I took another drink, letting it coat my throat. The cheap stuff burned all the way down.

I stood, muscles stiff from sitting too long in the cold, and tossed another log onto the dying fire. Sparks shot upward as the dry wood caught.

Truth, he'd said. Standing in my doorway with snow melting in his hair, looking at me like I held answers instead of more questions. What the fuck did that even mean? What truth was worth risking your life in a blizzard?

An apology? My career was already in tatters. What good would sorry do him now?

Revenge, then. Could that be it? He'd had his chance when I opened the door. He could have swung first, even pulled a gun. Or he could have brought the press in his wake.

I closed my eyes, but all I saw was Noah on the ice seconds before impact. That frozen second when our eyes locked—when his mouth tightened, and mine did too. He braced, not like someone caught off guard, but like someone whounderstood andwelcomedit.

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