Page 72 of Pucked Up

So, I waited.

The screen blinked back to life without warning.

One by one, the names reappeared. Cameras turned on again like eyes opening after a long blink—some hesitant, some sharp, and one or two already flicking toward emails on second monitors. It was an illusion of humanity, restored just enough to get through the final minutes.

The League VP was the last to show. Andrew Vaughn, square-jawed and flat-eyed, sat behind a desk that looked like it cost more than the whole rink in Marquette.

He leaned back in his chair, hands steepled like a man preparing to deliver a lecture, not a sentence.

"Keller."

Micah didn't answer. He stared into the screen, expression flat.

"You're reinstated, as follows on league rules."

The words landed without ceremony. No preamble. No justification. Just that: reinstated.

My breath caught—but Micah didn't flinch.

"Effective immediately, provided you comply with oversight."

Micah blinked once. "What kind of oversight."

"Six-month behavioral review window. Mandatory sessions with a league-assigned mental health professional. Weekly check-ins with your player rep. Any misconduct or off-book incidents will terminate reinstatement without appeal."

Micah didn't argue. Didn't object. He nodded. It was a single, steady tilt of the head.

Vaughn leaned forward. "This isn't a pass. It's a tether."

"I know."

"Good, because if you fuck up again, no one's going to come looking."

Micah's jaw flexed once, and then he said the quietest, most honest thing I'd ever heard from him.

"No one did the first time."

Vaughn didn't respond. Maybe he couldn't.

The meeting ended the way it began—blunt and cold. One click at a time, the cameras disappeared again.

And then it was just us: two men and a silent laptop.

Micah exhaled. Not a sigh—more like a pressure valve finally releasing.

I didn't speak. Neither did he.

We sat there, backs pressed to the couch we'd brought from the cabin. It sagged in the middle and held the shape of whoever needed it most.

I turned to Micah slowly, not asking anything.

He met my eyes.

Not smiling.

But there.

Still there.

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