Page 11

Chapter eleven

Micah

M orning came like a thief, stealing warmth from the edges of the bed. I woke before dawn, habit dragging me from sleep despite the comfort of Noah's heat pressed against my back.

His breathing brushed my neck in even, steady puffs—dreamless and deep. The cabin was tomb-quiet, that peculiar silence that settles when snow blankets the world outside.

I counted his breaths while gathering the will to move. One. Two. Three. The rhythm almost lulled me back under.

His arm lay heavy across my waist. During the night, he'd curled around me, his chest flush against my spine, legs tangled with mine. I couldn't remember the last time anyone held me like that—maybe never.

I shifted, careful not to disturb him, easing his arm up just enough to slide out from beneath it. The mattress dipped and protested as I sat up, legs dangling over the edge. Noah murmured something unintelligible, face burrowing deeper into the pillow, but he didn't wake.

When I rotated my shoulder to stand, fire blazed through the joint like lightning striking a dead pine. The pain radiated down my arm and across my back. The nerve endings in my fingers tingled.

I bit the inside of my cheek, trapping the sound that threatened to escape. The burn wasn't unfamiliar—old injuries often awakened in the cold, reminding me of every hit I'd taken and delivered over fifteen brutal seasons.

You're not twenty anymore. And if he sees it—

I glanced back at Noah, still lost to sleep, face soft and unguarded. He didn't need to see this part of me, my failing machinery. The idea of seeing pity in those gray eyes was worse than the pain itself.

I flexed my fingers experimentally, coaxing circulation back. They responded sluggishly, like they belonged to someone else.

Frost had etched intricate patterns across the windows overnight, transforming the glass with delicate designs.

I pulled on sweatpants and an old thermal shirt. The floorboards creaked beneath my weight as I navigated the familiar path to the kitchen.

The counter was cold beneath my palms as I measured coffee grounds. Water gurgled through the machine, a counterpoint to the occasional pop and shift of the cabin settling around me. The heater kicked on with a mechanical sigh, breathing warmth into the stillness.

A few minutes later, the coffee finished brewing, filling the air with an earthy richness that temporarily masked the scent of pine and woodsmoke that clung to everything. I poured a cup and watched the steam rise in lazy curls that dissipated inches from the surface. My hand trembled slightly as I lifted the mug, a spasm that sent coffee sloshing against the rim.

A sharp breath hissed through my teeth as I set the mug down harder than intended. The liquid shivered, nearly spilling over. I pressed my palm flat against the table to steady it, watching as the tremor gradually subsided.

Just the cold. Just yesterday's work. Nothing more.

It was a lie, but it managed to soothe my mind for the moment.

I sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around the mug, absorbing its heat. The cabin came alive around me—the subtle tick of expanding pipes, a whisper of heat through vents, and a steady dripping sound as the ice melted on the roof.

I took a sip of coffee, its scalding bitterness a welcome distraction from the ache that had taken up residence in my bones. The kitchen grew marginally brighter as dawn crept closer, pushing shadows into corners but leaving enough darkness for comfort. I preferred the early hours when the day hadn't fully committed to itself yet.

With Noah still asleep, I pulled open the bottom drawer beside the sink—a catch-all space for things with nowhere else to belong. Beneath a tangle of mismatched utensils and forgotten instruction manuals lay a small cedar block roughly the size of my palm. I'd cut it months ago from a fallen branch, intending to carve something meaningful during the long winter nights ahead. Instead, it had sat untouched, waiting for its purpose.

I turned it over in my hands, testing its weight. The grain ran clean and straight, with no hidden knots to complicate the work. My pocket knife opened with practiced ease, the blade worn from years of everyday use. The first shaving curled away from the wood like a question mark, falling silently onto the table's scarred surface.

My right hand protested the first few cuts, but I pushed through the stiffness. The repetitive motion gradually loosened the seized tendons, and the pain receded to a dull background throb. Each careful stroke removed what didn't belong until something truer began to emerge from beneath my hands.

I worked without conscious intention, letting muscle memory guide the blade. The shape revealed itself gradually—pointed ears, a narrow muzzle, and eyes that watched over me. A wolf took form chip by chip.

I'd never been good with words. As a kid, explanations tangled in my throat, leaving me frustrated and misunderstood. My hands had always known how to speak for me—on the ice, in a fight, or in moments like this, when the wood surrendered to my blade and became something meaningful.

The wolf wasn't beautiful by any conventional standard, but it came alive with a feral energy that satisfied something in me. Its haunches tensed as if ready to spring, and its raised ears were alert to dangers within hearing range. I carved wary, deep-set eyes that neither trusted nor retreated.

My thumb brushed across its back, feeling the ridges I'd left deliberately unsmoothed. They reminded me of scars—evidence of survival rather than flaws to be corrected.

I didn't know why I'd chosen a wolf, perhaps because they lived in the space between wildness and order. Or maybe because they endured northern winters without complaint, adapting to conditions that would kill lesser creatures.

The carving wasn't meant as art or even as a gift. It was more like leaving a mark that said, "I was here," and "I saw you."

When I finished the carving, I held it in my palm, letting its weight settle. It wasn't perfect, but it was truthful.

Without overthinking, I crossed to the window and placed the wolf on the sill, its snout pointed toward the forest as if scenting prey. The wooden surface was cold beneath my fingertips, frost melting slightly at the contact.

He'll find it. That doesn't mean I have to explain it.

I swept the shavings into my palm and dropped them into the trash, then wiped the table clean, erasing the evidence of creation. My knife folded shut with a satisfying click, disappearing back into my pocket.

The coffee had gone cold in my mug. I poured it down the sink and started a fresh pot, the familiar routine anchoring me back in the practical world after the intimacy of creation.

By mid-morning, I'd escaped to the woodpile, seeking refuge in physical labor. The sun had broken through the cloud cover, turning the snow-covered clearing into a blinding field of diamonds. I'd been at it for nearly an hour, the steady rhythm of the axe a counterpoint to the jumble of thoughts in my head.

I didn't see Noah wake up. Didn't watch him discover the carving. That had been the point—leaving something of myself without having to stand beside it, explaining intentions I barely understood.

The wood split cleanly beneath my axe, releasing the sharp scent of pine. With every swing, I felt the slight hesitation in my shoulder, the warning twinge that preceded full-blown pain. I adjusted accordingly, altering my stance to protect the weakened joint.

In the distance, a woodpecker's staccato drilling echoed through the trees. The sound wasn't entirely unlike pucks hitting the boards during practice—a memory from another life that seemed increasingly distant.

The cabin door opened with a familiar creak. Noah stood at the threshold for a moment, framed by the doorway, before descending the steps.

I continued working, loading split wood onto the growing stack. Sweat dampened my back despite the cold.

When I finally turned, wiping my forehead with the back of my gloved hand, Noah was already halfway back to the cabin. Through the window, I watched him move through the kitchen like he'd been there for years instead of days. He paused at the sink, mug in hand, gaze drifting to the windowsill.

His back was to me, but I saw how he paused. How his hand lifted, hesitated, then reached for the carving. His fingers traced the outline of the wolf's back. He didn't pick it up, only touched it with a reverence I'd never seen directed at anything I'd created.

Then, he rotated the wolf slightly, adjusting its position so it faced more toward the center of the room—toward the place where I slept—rather than out toward the forest. The change was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I saw it. I understood it.

It said, "I see you, too."

Noah continued making his coffee, moving with quiet efficiency. I drove the axe into the chopping block and headed back inside, brushing snow from my boots before crossing the threshold. The cabin's warmth enveloped me, drawing attention to how cold I'd actually been. Noah stood at the counter, his back still turned to me.

He spoke in a casual tone. "Made a fresh pot."

"Thanks."

He turned, mug cradled between his palms. His gaze met mine, direct and unwavering. There was no mention of the wolf, no question about where it had come from or what it meant.

He sipped his coffee, eyes never leaving mine. I crossed to the counter and poured myself a cup, hyperaware of his presence just inches away.

"Good morning," he finally said, a simple greeting.

"Morning." I gestured toward the window with my mug. "Clear day."

"Good for working outside."

I nodded, grateful for the mundane exchange that masked the deeper currents flowing beneath. "More wood to split."

"I'll help," he offered, and I recognized it for what it was—not only assistance with labor but a willingness to stand beside me in the work of existing.

Noah emerged from the cabin, bundled in one of my spare coats that hung too large across his shoulders but somehow looked right on him. He surveyed the woodpile—an impressive stack that would see us through weeks of winter yet to come. "You've been busy."

I shrugged, uncomfortable with what might have been praise. "Just needed to move."

He nodded like he understood completely. "Mind company?"

I glanced at him, then at the second axe leaning against the shed—unused since I'd arrived at the cabin. It had belonged to the previous owner, the handle worn smooth from years of use. "There's another axe if you want to try again."

Noah retrieved it without hesitation, testing its weight with a practiced grip that hadn't existed days before. He'd learned quickly, his athletic intelligence transferring seamlessly to this new skill.

We worked side by side, establishing a rhythm almost immediately. I positioned a log on the chopping block, split it with a clean stroke, and then stepped back as Noah moved in to gather and stack the pieces. Our exchange was wordless and efficient like we'd choreographed it beforehand.

After twenty minutes, Noah took his place at the block. I watched him settle into the stance I'd taught him—feet planted shoulder-width apart, back straight, grip relaxed but firm on the axe handle. He raised the tool, muscles tensing beneath his jacket, and brought it down in a fluid arc.

The log split with a satisfying crack. Noah looked up, and a flicker of pride crossed his features before he tamped it down.

"Not bad for a rookie."

"Had a good teacher."

I paused for a sip of water. "A city boy like you. I wouldn't have figured you'd take to this."

"City boy like you," I said during a brief pause for water, "wouldn't have figured you'd take to this."

Noah wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. "I can adapt."

"So I see."

I positioned another log on the block, but as I raised the axe, a vicious spasm tore through my shoulder. The pain was sudden and blinding, radiating down my arm and across my back. I couldn't hide the grimace that twisted my features or the sharp intake of breath that hissed between my teeth.

Noah was beside me instantly, not hovering but present. "Shoulder?"

I nodded once, tight-lipped. "Old news. It'll pass."

He didn't offer useless platitudes or insist I stop. Instead, he stepped to the block and picked up where I'd left off, his movements now precisely calibrated to minimize strain—the stance slightly wider, the grip higher on the handle, letting the axe's weight do most of the work.

When he glanced back, I saw no pity in his eyes. "Anderson was like that," he said casually, naming a veteran defenseman we'd both played with. "Left shoulder, right? Separated it three seasons ago against Boston."

I watched him work, appreciating how he directed the conversation away from my immediate discomfort. "Four. And it was Detroit."

Noah grinned briefly. "Right. Big hit on Stahlberg into the boards."

"You were still in juniors."

"Watched every game." He brought the axe down in a perfect arc, the log splitting cleanly. "Same shoulder's been bothering you since before the suspension."

It wasn't a question. He'd been watching me long before I drove him into the boards—studying, learning, seeing things others missed.

I flexed my fingers, willing circulation back into the numbing extremities. "Comes with the job."

Noah nodded, positioning another log. "My mom used to say pain is only the body's way of taking attendance."

The unexpected humor set loose a laugh I couldn't stop. "Smart woman."

"She had to be." He paused, axe resting on his shoulder. "My dad wasn't exactly a model of restraint."

The casual admission hung in the air between us. I accepted it with a nod, respecting the boundaries of his disclosure.

After several more minutes, the pain in my shoulder receded to a manageable throb. I stepped back to the block, testing my range of motion. Noah moved aside without comment, falling into place beside me rather than retreating entirely.

We worked together for another hour, establishing a new rhythm—one that accommodated my limitations without dwelling on them. When my swing faltered, Noah stepped in. When his technique slipped, I corrected it with a quiet word or simple gesture. The pile of split wood grew steadily.

The sun had begun its descent toward the tree line when we finally stopped, surveying our handiwork. The stack was impressive—neat rows of split logs that would fuel the fireplace through weeks of winter yet to come. We'd created something essential together, transforming raw material into sustenance and warmth.

Noah looked across at me, sweat dampening his hairline despite the cold. He stepped closer, brushing snow from my shoulder.

His fingertips lingered a fraction longer than necessary, the pressure light but unmistakable through my jacket. "We should head in. Light's fading."

I nodded, suddenly aware of how the forest had deepened toward evening, shadows stretching between the trees like ink spreading through water. The temperature dropped with the sun, the day's brief warmth receding into memory.

The walk back to the cabin was short. Our footprints left parallel tracks in the snow—separate but aligned, never touching but never straying far from each other.

At the threshold, Noah paused, glancing back at the woodpile we'd created. "Not bad for a day's work."

"No. Not bad at all."

We stepped inside together, leaving the cold behind. The wolf carving watched from the windowsill as we moved through the familiar space, no longer strangers navigating separate orbits but something closer to partners finding their way in shared darkness.

I peeled off my damp outer layers and hung them near the fire, flexing my shoulder carefully to test the damage. The ache had dulled for now, but I knew better than to believe it was over.

Noah moved through the kitchen with easy confidence, spooning cocoa into mugs like he'd been doing it for years. The scents of chocolate and woodsmoke filled the air, warm and grounding. I mumbled something about grabbing dry socks and crossed to the storage trunk by the window.

The lid creaked as I opened it. Inside, a tangle of winter gear sat layered with things I hadn't looked at in months—some of it years. I dug deeper past wool hats and mismatched gloves until my fingers caught on something soft. Familiar.

I pulled it out before I knew what it was.

An old jersey.

Navy and silver, number 71. The fabric was faded and sweat-stained at the collar. It had a crooked patch on the left sleeve from where a trainer had sewn it back on after a late-season fight. The name stitched across the back— KELLER —had begun to fray at the edges.

I stared at it, frozen. My thumb brushed over the lettering. A breath caught in my throat.

Some part of me had expected it to still feel like mine. But in the firelight, it looked like it belonged to someone else. A younger man. Stronger. Invincible. Before the hits started to hurt more than they used to. Before the suspension. Before Noah.

I didn't hear him come up behind me.

"You wore that like armor."

I didn't turn. I held the jersey in both hands like it might vanish if I let go.

"I kept it because I didn't know how to be anyone else."

He stepped closer. "Do you still think you have to be that guy?"

My throat tightened. "Some days. I still wake up thinking I've got a game to play. Then I sit up and remember… the pain doesn't come after the hit anymore. It's already there. Waiting."

My fingers curled tighter around the fabric. I didn't want to look at him. Couldn't.

"I used to think it meant I'd done something right, you know? That hurting meant I was still in the fight." My voice dropped. "Now it just means the fight's over, and my body didn't notice when it ended."

The jersey sagged in my hands. I didn't fold it. Didn't hang it. I carefully set it down in the trunk, like I was laying something to rest.

Noah didn't rush to speak. When he did, his voice was steady and certain.

"You don't need armor with me."

He placed his hand on my shoulder—not to reassure me, just to let me know he was there. Solid. Real.

I didn't say anything.

But I didn't move away either.

We didn't speak again.

Not while he poured the cocoa. Not when he handed me a mug.

We sat across from each other at the table, steam curling from our cups. Outside, the snow had picked up again, soft and slow, burying the remnants of our footprints. Covering. Erasing.

I took a sip. It burned, but I didn't pull back.

Across the table, Noah cradled his mug in both hands. His eyes met mine. I held the gaze longer than I meant to.

Eventually, he broke it, setting his mug down with a quiet clink. He stood first, stretching slowly, then crossed to the woodstove to add another log. The flames crackled back to life, casting flickers across the floorboards and the wolf's wooden snout.

I stayed at the table. My bones ached in a familiar way.

He didn't ask if I was coming to bed. He didn't need to.

When I finally moved, I didn't bother to turn off the lights. I followed him down the hallway, the soft creak of floorboards counting each step behind him.

The storm outside had swallowed the world.

But inside, the heat held.

And for tonight, that was enough.