Page 76 of Pucked Up

Noah

The bleachers clanged under my boots as I climbed toward the back row. The aluminum seats were cold enough to bite through denim, and my thermos of coffee released steam clouds above my head.

The rink reminded me of where I played in my youth hockey days—cracked boards and stained Plexiglas. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like disturbed bees. The ice below bore deep scratches from the figure skaters using the surface hours before.

I set the thermos beside me and flipped open a legal pad. I already had two pages of scribbles—notes on Micah's drills, which ones worked best, and which kids responded to what. It wasn't for anything official. I just wanted to understand how he worked. He'd abandoned the NHL, and watching him with the kids was like watching someone carve themselves into a new shape.

The youth team skated out in loose formation, about fifteen kids between ages nine and twelve. They wore mismatched gear, untucked jerseys, and some helmets that wobbled on undersized heads. One kid wore bright green duct tape around both elbowslike neon battle scars. Another had a stick that might've doubled as a shovel.

Micah stood by the blue line, whistle tucked into his hoodie collar. He crouched next to the smallest kid on the ice—a little guy, likely nine, skates barely laced.

Micah adjusted his shin guard and then gave his arm a gentle tap. He wasn't the kind of coach to bark orders.

Practice hadn't even officially started, and I was already smiling ear to ear. I jotted a note—kneels to meet them where they are—and underlined it.

A moment later, Micah skated backward in front of the group, demonstrating tight crossovers. He made it look effortless, all balance and subtle power, like the ice had been waiting for him to come home. The kids followed in sloppy lines, arms windmilling, blades whining.

One of them—a lanky kid with a pink-taped stick—finally nailed a backward crossover on his right side. His reaction was instant: a yelp of surprise and then a grin that threatened to swallow his face.

Micah clapped once, loud enough to echo. "That's what I'm talking about!"

Then came a puck-control relay—chaos incarnate. Cones scattered across the ice as the kids zigzagged through them with more enthusiasm than technique. Someone wiped out hard; limbs spread wide in an exaggerated sprawl.

Micah was there in an instant, crouching beside the stricken player, checking his elbow. I couldn't hear what he said, but he demonstrated something—angling his skate and showing how to use the outside edge for tighter control. The kid nodded solemnly, like he'd just been handed the secret of the universe.

Laughter rippled through the stands during the next scrimmage; for once, it wasn't only from the kids. Micah played passive defense, letting one of the smaller forwards deke aroundhim with a cartoonish flourish. He lifted his stick in fake surrender, grinning as the puck slid into the net.

That's when I heard the first comment.

"Sheesh, he's good with them," someone murmured behind me. It was a man's voice. "Never seen my kid skate like that."

Another voice, closer. A woman. "He used to play, right? Like, professionally?"

A pause. Then—sharp, quiet, and meant to be overheard.

"That's Keller, isn't it? The one who took that rookie out?"

Someone else whispered, "What's he doing around kids after that? Thought they suspended him."

I looked out towards the ice.

Micah had frozen mid-stride like something inside him locked up.

Then, without a word, he dropped his stick. He walked over to the assistant coach, whispered something I couldn't hear, and skated off to the locker room without looking up at the stands.

I didn't think. Operating on autopilot, I followed.

The locker room door stuck on the bottom hinge, groaning like it didn't want to be part of whatever was happening. I shoved it open with my shoulder.

Inside, lights flickered in that particular way fluorescent bulbs do when they're ready to die but too stubborn to admit it. The air was heavy with a sour cocktail of sweat, wet rubber mats, and whatever chemical they used to clean the walls.

Micah sat on a bench at the far end, elbows braced on his knees, head down. His right hand curled loosely in his lap, blood slowly dripping onto the rubber flooring. It wasn't a lot.

There were spots of blood on the cinderblock wall behind him.

I approached slowly, crouching down in front of him. He didn't flinch or look up. His breathing was shallow and slow.

A med kit sat open on a folding chair nearby.

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