Page 71 of Pucked Up

"But the truth is, I saw him flying down the ice, and all I could think was—he doesn't get to survive it. Not when I didn't."

A long inhale. Audible. Measured.

"I disappeared after that. Not because I didn't want to face it, like Noah said. I faded out because I was afraid I'd do it again. Not to him. To someone else. Because I didn't trust myself not to confuse survival and defiance."

He ran a thumb along the seam of his jeans.

"I left my isolation to be with Noah. Not to skate. Not to make things right. Just… tobe present."

No one interrupted. No one dared.

"If you let me on the ice again, I'll earn it. And if you don't—I'll still show up. Outside of what you have set up. I'll still take the hits because the only thing I've got to prove now is that I'm not hiding anymore."

That was it. He didn't tie up any tidy little bow at the end. He didn't make a pitch. He only dropped that final sentence. Weighty, rough, and real.

Micah didn't look at me, and no one spoke. The screen seemed to freeze. It was seventeen blinking cursors in a courtroom with no gavel.

Then, Vaughn cleared his throat.

"We'll confer. Cameras off, please."

The screen blinked dark, one square at a time.

The laptop screen dimmed to a grid of empty, labeled boxes. Blank avatars and muted icons. Names suspended in a kind of purgatory. It was like being left behind in a house after somebody locked the doors from the outside.

Micah didn't move. Didn't sigh. He didn't adjust his posture, roll his neck, or rub his temples like most people might when the pressure eased.

It hadn't eased. Not yet.

It sat on his shoulders with the same relentless weight as always.

I spoke up. "They're not going to forget what you said."

His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, the reflection of his name staring back at him.

"That's not the point."

"No." I swallowed. "But it's part of it."

He blinked, slow and deliberate. "The part where they think I'm salvageable?"

"No." I turned to face him more fully. "The part where they remember you're human."

Micah exhaled through his nose. I reached for my coffee—stone cold now—and didn't bother drinking it. I only wanted something in my hands. Something real. I wanted to bridge the silence with more than words, but I didn't know how.

I turned to look at him, really see him.

My eyes fixed on the rough patch where his beard didn't quite grow even. Then, I studied the scar bisecting his eyebrow that most people mistook for tough-guy drama. It wasn't. He'd told me it was from falling face-first onto concrete after a practice when he was seventeen and too dizzy to stand up straight.

My voice was low. "Whatever they say, you did good."

Micah didn't argue. He didn't agree either.

He continued staring at the blank space where judgment would eventually appear.

"You meant it," I added. "That's why it hurts."

That got him. His eyelids fluttered. He didn't speak, but his hand drifted a little closer to mine. Not touching. Not even halfway there, but closer.

---