Page 8 of Pucked Up

It wasn't fear. It wasn't surprise. It was something else I recognized.

Hunger.

Not just his. Mine.

A memory slammed back into my consciousness: sixteen years old, backed against the locker room wall. Tyler Jenkins—captain, golden boy—had his hand on my chest. Not pushing. Just resting there, fingers splayed. "You're always watching me, Keller."

It wasn't an accusation. It was a fact.

I broke his nose two days later on the ice. Called it an accident.

It wasn't.

I shook my head.What if pain is the only language Noah understands? What if the hit left more than a scar?

What if it opened something in him he didn't know was there?

The thought lodged in my chest. I remembered his gaze when he arrived—not scared or angry. Curious. Almost... inviting.

"Fuck," I whispered, and drained the glass in one gulp.

The cabin groaned as the wind battered its frame. I poured another drink, wondering if Noah lay awake down the hall, listening to the same sounds and wondering about me.

I didn't go to bed. Couldn't bear the thought of lying in the dark, knowing he was just down the hall. So, I claimed the chair by the fire instead, feeding it another log and watching the flames crawl across the bark, slowly consuming it and turning it to ash. The whiskey dulled the edges of my thoughts but sharpened every sound—the pop of the wood, the howl of the wind, and the subtle shift of the cabin adjusting to the storm.

Then, I heard something else. Footsteps.

It wasn't the hesitant steps of a prowler exploring unfamiliar territory. The footsteps were much more deliberate than that. They knew precisely where they were going.

My muscles tensed. Noah wasn't in the guest room anymore.

The floorboards in the hallway creaked, and he emerged into the dim light. He had the navy wool blanket from the guest room wrapped around his shoulders, trailing behind him like a cape. His hair was mussed, and his t-shirt rumpled. He didn'tacknowledge me as he padded to the couch and curled onto it, facing the fire.

I stayed motionless, sitting in the shadows, breathing as quietly as possible. He had to know I was here. My glass had clinked against the bottle not five minutes ago. Yet he settled on the couch like a cat, pulling the blanket tighter, eyes on the flames.

Why did he join me? Why sleep on a couch instead of a comfortable bed?

To make me watch?

To tempt me?

He shifted, tucking his legs under him, and I stared at the clean line of his jaw in the firelight. It was too perfect. Noah had the kind of beauty that begged for destruction.

Does he think we're something now? Two broken pieces that fit together now after I broke him?

I almost laughed. That idea was absurd.

Whatever he wanted, he showed no fear, lying quietly with his back to me, vulnerable in sleep.

The wind rattled the window frames. I poured another drink and waited.

I stared at Noah's back.

I'd seen guys invite pain in hockey before. They dropped their gloves for the rush and wore their bruises like trophies, laughing off stitches in the locker room. Hockey encouraged them—men who danced with violence and then went home to wives and normal lives after the final buzzer sounded.

Noah wasn't like them.

There was something different in his eyes that night. It wasn't someone who wanted to be a daredevil playing the game of pain. He needed it. Required it. He was the type who recognized pain as an old friend rather than an occasional visitor.

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