Page 70 of Pucked Up

It was from a square labeledA. Vaughn, League VP, Player Conduct. His camera was off.

"Present parties include league officials, team representatives, the player rep, a behavioral consultant, and one guest observer."

Pause.

A thin curl of disdain slipped through his following sentence. "Can someone explain why the injured party is here?"

No one said a word. The silence was loud and rattled in my bones.

I leaned forward, elbows digging into my knees, and spoke into the gap.

"Because I'm not only the injured party." My voice was steady, not raised, but I ensured the words had weight. "I'm the reason he's still breathing."

The silence that followed was a different breed. This one sat back on its haunches, teeth bared.

I saw a face twitch in one of the tiny windows—someone whose name I didn't catch. A throat cleared. A woman in the upper left corner blinked hard but didn't look away.

I swallowed once, the words sour on my tongue, but I hadn't finished.

"I asked to be here. He didn't invite me. He didn't ask for cover, but I won't let you talk about him like he's a case study when I've watched him do the work."

No responses. I kept going.

"You think this ends with the hit? Do you think he vanished into the woods because he didn't want to face it? That's not why. He didn't run. Hebled, and when that was under control, he came back."

A few more squares flickered on. Cameras snapped on like they'd only now decided this was worth seeing.

Micah hadn't moved beside me. Not even a blink.

I felt a change. The air around him pulled tight like a drawstring bag while he waited.

He didn't speak right away.

He let the silence spool out until it turned uncomfortable, until people started shifting in their chairs or glancing down at notes that didn't exist. It was the kind of pause that made people remember he wouldn't play by their rules—not anymore.

When he finally did open his mouth, his voice was low. It wasn't hoarse or theatrical.

"I hit him because he reminded me of the kid I used to be."

No one responded.

"The one I couldn't save."

He paused to let his words sink in. He also needed his own space to keep breathing through it.

"So I tried to erase him."

Micah didn't explain further. Didn't soften the blow. He let the sentence land like a gut punch and didn't flinch from the pain.

Onscreen, someone winced—Micah's coach. He looked older than I remembered, his eyes shadowed and mouth drawn in like a man who'd spent the last few months watching game film and coming up with no answers. His hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, a gesture I'd seen a hundred times when reporters cornered him after a tough loss.

"Jesus, Keller," he muttered, the words half-swallowed. His gaze dropped to something off-camera. I could almost see the highlight reel playing in his mind—every fight, every penalty, every time he'd sent Micah over the boards with that subtle nod that meant "make it hurt." Now, he knew why his enforcer never needed much encouragement.

Micah continued.

"I didn't realize it at the time. I thought my aggression was adrenaline. It was the heat of the moment. That's the story we tell ourselves, right?"

He glanced at the camera. At them. At me.

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