Page 75 of Pucked Up

Noah didn't speak. He stood just inside the threshold, steam rising faintly from his neck, breath coming slower now but still not settled. His gear bag slumped at his feet. He'd slung his skates over one shoulder, blades still wet enough to drip.

I watched him peel off each layer like it was a second skin—jacket first, then the hoodie beneath, his shoulder rolling awkwardly as he winced. It was probably from the hit in the corner. He was probably acting like it didn't still sting. He didn't ask for help. He never would.

I moved to the kitchen. The faucet groaned when I twisted it on, clunky from mineral build-up, and filled two cloudy glasses with water. Nothing in the apartment was fancy. Nothing matched. The table was secondhand. The chairs wobbled, and the radiator in the corner hissed like it was mad to be alive.

I held out one of the glasses without looking at him.

"Thanks."

He drank half in one go. When he lowered the glass, he didn't move away.

He just stood there, close enough that I could smell the sweat dried into his shirt and the hint of liniment still clinging to his skin. "I felt you watching tonight."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

"You do that thing," he continued. "It's where you don't cheer, don't move. Just... bore holes in me with your eyes like you're willing the puck to behave."

I stared into my glass. The water trembled slightly in my hand. I didn't know if it was me or the radiator.

Noah stepped closer.

"I hated it at first at practice," he said. "The way you watch. I thought it meant you were waiting for me to fuck up."

"And now?"

"Now I know better."

He set his glass down on the counter with a gentle clink and stood before me, hands still at his sides.

"I need to hear it. You know what I mean. Not because I don't believe it, but because I do."

I didn't answer right away. My mouth was dry.

"Say it." His voice was softer this time.

My throat worked around the shape of the word. "Mine." The word sounded almost like a confession. "You're mine."

Noah bit his lip.

"Say it again."

I reached up and curled one hand behind his neck, thumb grazing the edge of his jaw where stubble still clung to sweat. My hand trembled.

"You're mine." It was a firm statement. "And I don't care who hears it. I don't care if it scares me. I don't care if it scares you. You're mine."

He leaned into me like he'd been given permission to collapse, not from exhaustion but from carrying the weight of wondering.

"Good, because I'm fucking tired of running."

We stood like that for a while. Nothing moved except his hands, slowly curling into the back of my shirt like he needed to feel the fabric bunch under his fingers to believe I was real.

I didn't let go.

And I didn't say anything else.

I'd already said the one thing that mattered.

Chapter twenty-two

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