Page 79 of Pucked Up

I handed the puck back. The kid ran off before I could say anything else.

I turned toward the bleachers out of habit, not curiosity. They were half-full, mostly parents. I scanned the rows without really looking until I overheard a voice.

"That man still scares the hell out of me," one dad said to another.

"Yeah," his friend replied. "You see those hands? Like fucking concrete blocks."

There was a pause. Then a woman's voice, sharp and dry as salt: "He's impressive. My kid listens to him."

That comment landed.

I didn't move. I didn't shift my weight, but something in my chest eased… for a second.

I smiled—barely. It was enough to feel the crack in my face before it sealed back up.

***

Lake Superior never looked the same twice.

Tonight, it was flat steel. Cold and smooth as a knife laid across dark cloth. Our apartment sat high enough to see a stretch of water between the buildings. The wind off Superior had teeth already—sharper than last week, biting around the window seams and rattling the glass.

Our apartment smelled like damp gear and leftover garlic bread. Noah had burned the edges of it on purpose, saying it was better that way. I didn't argue. At least the crust was crunchy.

He sprawled out on the couch with one leg draped over the armrest and his ankles crossed. His socks didn't match. He watched a muted replay of one of the evening's NHL games but wasn't following it. His fingers twitched like he wanted to be holding a stick. Or my hand. Or maybe both.

I stood in the kitchen doorway with a glass of water gone warm and a book I hadn't cracked open. I didn't want to read. I wasn't sure what I wanted.

Noah didn't look away from the TV when he spoke.

"You're still tense when you sleep."

I didn't answer right away. I let the words sit momentarily.

"Only until you breathe."

That got him. He didn't laugh. He made a sound in his throat that indicated he heard me.

I crossed the room, set the glass down, and lowered myself beside him. The couch creaked. He shifted to make space and didn't say anything when my fingers touched the edge of his jaw.

My thumb brushed the faint white scar where the bone had once broken. It was a clean, familiar line now.

I tilted his chin gently and brushed my lips along the clean line of bone.

"That's mine now."

He turned toward me.

"It always was."

There was no space between our mouths when I spoke again:

"And so am I."

We didn't kiss again right away. We sat like that, breathing the same air.

Later, as we moved through the quiet of dishes and gear drying on racks, I stopped to look at a photo on the fridge.

It was a Polaroid from a camera Noah bought for fun. The image was a little blurry, taken by propping the camera on a rock and setting the timer.

The lake behind us was still frozen.

We had skates slung over our shoulders.

Our faces were serious, not smiling. Just there. Still standing.

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