Page 77 of Pucked Up

Micah's injured hand trembled, knuckles split open, blood bright against the pale gauze he'd likely wrapped around his hand himself. His thigh twitched beneath his joggers like his body hadn't gotten the memo that the fight was over.

I touched his other hand. Just a light press. "Hey."

A gravelly voice responded. "I thought I was past this."

"You are, or at least you're trying. That counts."

He looked at me with one eye. "That shit still gets under my skin. The looks. The whispers. It shouldn't, but it does."

I nodded, pulling more gauze and antiseptic wipes from the med kit. "You get to feel things, even ugly things, but you don't get to bleed alone."

He didn't answer as he watched me clean the wounds slowly, one careful swipe at a time. I held his hand like it might fall apart otherwise.

Micah winced when the alcohol touched raw skin, but he didn't pull away. He closed his eyes for a second and let me finish. I pressed the gauze against his knuckles, wrapping the tape snugly but not tight, my fingers grazing his as I tied it off.

His voice remained raw. "I didn't even yell. I just needed to hit something."

"You hit a wall. That's not the same as hitting a person. You walked away, Micah. That's progress."

He laughed hoarsely. "Still fucked up, though."

"Yeah. Same here."

We were both silent for a minute. Then Micah spoke. "Why are you always the one patching me up?" His tone was curious, not bitter.

I didn't pretend to have a clever answer. "Because I keep showing up."

He nodded and exhaled.

***

Three weeks later, spring was thinking about arriving. Lake Superior looked different in April. Less cruel. It was still too cold for swimming, but the ice had receded from the shoreline, and the wind carried more water than snow.

I stood on the narrow balcony of our apartment, mug in hand, and watched Micah pace the parking lot below, phone pressed to his ear. I could only catch fragments of the conversation—his name, then "thanks for the call," and then a low laugh that didn't sound forced. He hung up and turned toward the stairs, seeing me watching through the railing.

When he stepped inside, he kicked off his boots without speaking. I handed him the second mug of coffee I'd already poured. He took it, still wearing an unreadable expression.

"Well?"

"They want me to keep coaching. Not only the Marquette juniors. The league wants me to run clinics and help coach travel teams. I'll have a full schedule next season if I want it."

"Do you?"

He didn't answer right away. He moved to the window, staring out toward the lake.

"I think so. Not because it's easier. It will be harder, but it will be mine."

I leaned against the doorframe and sipped. "That's the best reason I've ever heard."

"You staying?"

"Micah, I signed a year lease with your name on the mailbox. All of my stuff is unpacked and put away. I even bought a damn laundry basket. I'm not going anywhere."

"What about the league?"

"Brody says if I keep skating like I did last week, I'll be on the top line before playoffs. He also told me not to piss off the refs anymore."

Micah chuckled. "That's progress, too." He paused. "Do you think I will ever stop being the guy who broke someone?"

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