Page 73 of Pucked Up

Chapter twenty-one

Micah

The bleachers were raw aluminum—cold enough to remind me I had skin. I sat near the top, arms folded, boots planted wide, trying not to lean forward like I always did at tense games.

This wasn't a game. Only drills. Lines and cones. Edges carving through yesterday's skate marks.

Noah moved like he'd rebuilt himself one tendon at a time. No swagger. No showboating. He skated with deliberate strides and crisp pivots. He wasn't pushing the edge of his limits, but he occasionally brushed against them. Checking the perimeter. It was like he was relearning his body language after forgetting it mid-sentence.

His skates hissed as they bit into the ice. He engaged in a quick give-and-go with number 23—some over-muscled kid with a soft shot and decent hands. Noah stayed low through the turn, his weight on the inside edge. He didn't flinch when the puck came flying back. He turned it into a smooth transfer, a clean snap that kissed the boards behind the net.

The coach barked something unintelligible over the whine of the Zamboni warming up in the back tunnel. The next rushstarted—three on two. Noah kept pace, peeled wide, and called for the puck with one sharp tap. He got it and followed with a fake wrist shot and drop pass. Then, he circled behind the play like he'd done it a thousand times in his sleep.

It wasn't flashy. He demonstrated carefully executed craft that didn't care if anyone applauded.

A smile pushed at the corners of my mouth, small and tight.

Noah took a check in the corner—nothing brutal, just enough to knock him off rhythm. I tensed, boots pushing into the floor.

He sprawled on the ice, half-twisting, but rolled through it and came up on one knee. His stick clattered, and he grabbed it before laughing and slapping his glove against the other guy's shinpad. He chirped something I couldn't hear.

While he practiced with his team, Noah didn't glance up once. Never searched the bleachers. Never looked for me.

He didn't need to.

He knew I was there.

And for once, that was enough trust that I let the smile stay.

They shifted to power play drills, running lines with staggered timing. Noah slotted in as right wing on the second unit. His skates cut narrow circles while the first group finished up.

His stick rested horizontally across his thighs, tapping a slow rhythm against his pants. His helmet sat crooked on his head like it always did—too loose and too casual for me, but I knew he liked it that way. He said it helped him breathe.

When the whistle blew, he sprang into the drill like he'd been shot forward on cables. He was not the fastest on the ice, not anymore, but he was smart. He knew how to fill space without forcing it, and he knew how to read the goalie's weight shift before the shot.

First rep, he cycled behind the net and back to the dot before drawing the defender out wide. A pass zipped back from the blue line. Noah didn't stop it. He one-timed it low, stick flexing, puckflattening like a stone on water. It smacked the goalie's pad and rebounded off the boards.

Next drill, he crept closer—ghosted off the defender's shoulder like smoke. He didn't crowd the crease and didn't chirp. Just stayed present. Waiting. When the puck came, he redirected it mid-stride, body torqued slightly backward, blade tilted just so. It clanged off the post.

The coach muttered something to his assistant and scribbled a note. Noah didn't see it. He just skated back into the line like none of it mattered.

They broke into a short scrimmage to close out practice. Half-ice. Full contact. The puck drop was sloppy, and it was chaos from the jump. Jerseys blurred. Boards thundered. Sticks clashed like knives in a drawer.

Noah's line was out during the second shift. He got crushed early on—sandwiched between a defenseman and a plexiglass wall. He managed to stay on his feet, rode the hit, spun out, and reclaimed the puck. He cut across the blue line, deked past a defenseman, and flipped a soft, mean little saucer pass to the kid in the slot.

Goal. Horn from the bench. Half-hearted cheer from the goalie's side.

Noah's grin was quick. Crooked. Gone just as fast.

Then he caught someone's stick in the shin. It was a dirty hook. Nothing vicious, but enough to twist his balance. He staggered, face twisted, eyes wide for half a breath—then he righted himself and snapped his stick down on the ice with a crack that echoed like a gunshot.

He didn't chirp. Didn't retaliate. He skated off with jaw set and nostrils flaring.

I felt something tighten in my gut—fierce, familiar, half-rage and half-awe. That look in his eye? That was a man who remembered who the fuck he was.

They ended practice with stick taps and a clatter of blades heading toward the tunnel.

I sat in the rafters long after the last door slammed shut.

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