Page 14
Story: Pucked Up
Chapter fourteen
Noah
T he morning following Micah's confession, I sat at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug. He moved around the cabin with deliberate steps.
Something was different. The weight on his shoulders hadn't disappeared, but he no longer braced for a new impact.
He poured coffee into his own mug without speaking, his back to me. Steam curled upward, blurring the hard lines in his face when he turned. Our eyes didn't meet, but it wasn't avoidance—more like giving each other room to exist in the aftermath of shared raw truth.
"Sleep okay?" I ventured, testing the waters.
"Fine." His voice was morning-rough but without the edge that usually accompanied it. He leaned against the counter, one hand absently rubbing his shoulder where I'd noticed stiffness before.
Neither of us mentioned how he'd shared his darkest memory or how I'd slipped into his bed afterward, our spines pressed together like twin support beams. Micah drained his mug and set it in the sink with a soft clink.
He disappeared down the short hallway without explanation, returning minutes later with an old mesh equipment bag slung over his shoulder. The fabric was faded blue, worn transparent in spots, with frayed straps that had been repaired multiple times.
He paused in the doorway, backlit by pale sunlight filtering through the cabin's windows. "Come with me."
No explanation. No destination. Just a direct request.
I studied his face. Trust me, it said.
I set my mug down. "Let me grab a coat."
He nodded once. Whatever it was, it mattered to him. And that was enough.
I walked at his side as Micah led the way down a narrow trail that wound between towering pines, their branches heavy with fresh powder. Our boots crunched through virgin snow, leaving parallel tracks.
The trail sloped gently downward, and the forest thinned perhaps 1/4 of a mile from the cabin. Micah paused at the edge of a small clearing, waiting for me to catch up. As I reached his side, the view opened before us—his perfectly round and pristine private lake surrounded by an amphitheater of pines.
"Careful here," he warned as we navigated the descent to the shoreline. He steadied my elbow when I slipped on an icy patch.
At the lake's edge, Micah dropped the equipment bag onto a flat rock and unzipped it with care. He pulled out two pairs of hockey skates, worn but meticulously maintained.
"These haven't seen action in a while." He handed a pair to me.
Next came two vintage wooden sticks with curved blades. Finally, he extracted a bright orange street puck, scuffed and dented from countless impacts.
"Hope you didn't forget how to lace up. I think these are likely to come close enough to fit you."
I turned the skates over in my hands. They were artifacts from Micah's history. I noted the careful patches and resoled sections.
"I could lace up in my sleep." I sat on the rock beside the bag.
Micah nodded, sitting a few feet away to pull on his skates. The ritual was familiar to us both. I watched from the corner of my eye as his fingers worked the laces with practiced efficiency, tightening and securing in a pattern unique to each skater's preference.
A grimace flashed across his face when he flexed his right shoulder after finishing. He caught me looking.
"Lake's solid." He tapped his stick against the ice. "I checked it yesterday while you were sleeping in."
I finished lacing my skates and stood carefully, testing my balance on the narrow blades. "You come here often?"
"Not as much as I should."
I accepted the wooden stick he offered. It was different from my professional composite—heavier, with character etched into every dent and scratch. The tape grip had molded to someone else's hand, and I resisted the urge to ask who had held it before me.
Anticipation rushed through my veins while I stood at the edge of the ice. Micah felt it, too, hesitating briefly before stepping onto the frozen surface.
The moment was sacred somehow. Intimate. Whatever brought him to this hidden lake with these worn skates was personal, and he chose to share it.
My first step onto the ice was like reconnecting with an old friend. My right skate slipped slightly, and I windmilled my arms, a startled laugh escaping. My balance returned just in time to prevent an embarrassing fall.
"Graceful," Micah commented. He'd stepped onto the ice more confidently, though a subtle wobble in his knees was evident as he adjusted to the return to skates.
"Look at you, holding onto your stick like it's a walker," I shot back.
He didn't quite use it for balance, but his knuckles had whitened around the shaft. A half-smile spread across his face.
We pushed off, beginning slow circuits around the lake. It was a little disorienting, like rediscovering how to walk after a long illness. My ankles protested the unfamiliar strain.
The ice beneath us wasn't the manicured perfection of an NHL rink. It was nature's imperfect canvas—patches of glassy smoothness interrupted by ripples and snow-dusted sections.
Micah found his rhythm, his robust frame settling into familiar motions. His technique was rougher than mine—built for power rather than speed.
"Keeping up okay, Grandpa?" I called, executing a tight turn that sent ice shavings spraying.
He raised an eyebrow. "Careful, rookie. That puck's got your name on it."
He tossed the bright orange disc onto the ice between us. It skittered across the uneven surface, bobbing and weaving unpredictably. I trapped it with my stick, the familiar vibration traveling up the wooden shaft into my hands.
The sound of our skates cutting through ice filled the clearing—a rhythmic scrape punctuated by the hollow clack of the puck against our sticks. It was nothing like the chaotic noise of a professional game.
No crowds, whistles, or teammates shouting. Only blades cutting through ice and sticks colliding with the puck.
My lungs burned pleasantly as I inhaled the crisp air, sharper and cleaner than anything I'd breathed in months. Each exhale emerged as a plume of white that dissipated into nothing. After weeks of stale hospital air and the woody confines of the cabin, the open space was exhilarating.
Micah sent the puck sliding toward me. I caught it, cradling it briefly before returning it. Our passes gradually lengthened, forcing us to chase and retrieve.
"Not bad for someone who's been lounging in my cabin for days." Micah received a pass from me with a subtle flick of his wrist.
"Was only waiting for the right invitation."
Micah's skating grew more confident with each passing minute, his strides lengthening as muscle memory overrode caution. A different man emerged on the ice—less guarded and more fluid. When he executed a tight pivot to retrieve a wide pass, I glimpsed something I'd only seen in game footage: the natural athlete beneath the enforcer's reputation.
We gradually rediscovered versions of ourselves that existed before our collision. For the first time since arriving at his cabin, I wasn't overthinking. I was playing.
I barely trapped a particularly aggressive pass, laughing as the impact vibrated up my forearms. "Getting serious, are we?" I called, returning it with equal vigor.
Micah didn't respond verbally, but his eyes narrowed with concentration. We began circling wider, skating faster. Micah's powerful strides ate up the distance between us. When he sent the puck whistling toward me, I had to pivot quickly, the blades of my skates sending up a spray of ice crystals that caught the morning light.
Each exchange became a challenge—testing reflexes. Competitive energy charged the air between us.
We breathed harder, forming clouds that lingered in the cold air before dissipating. Sweat beaded at my temples despite the outdoor temperature.
"You're not half bad for someone hiding in the woods," I said, skating backward while maintaining eye contact.
"And you're not half bad for someone who got his ass handed to him."
The comment might have stung days earlier, but now it landed like a recognition of my resilience rather than a reminder of weakness.
As our pace intensified, I became increasingly aware of the subtle compensations in Micah's movements. His left arm worked harder, taking on responsibilities his right shoulder should have shared.
My collarbone—the one he'd broken—throbbed with a phantom ache as if reminding me that our bodies carried memories our minds might prefer to forget. We were both damaged in different ways, both pretending we weren't.
When he lunged for a pass I'd sent wide, his body didn't respond with the fluidity it should have. His right arm extended reluctantly, the motion stiff and abbreviated. He still managed to trap the puck, but the effort cost him.
He's hurting again, but he won't stop. Not if it means showing weakness.
I considered mentioning it and suggesting we take a break. The words formed in my throat but remained unspoken.
Being on the ice mattered to him. He moved purposefully, sharing something he loved without the weight of professional expectations. Drawing attention to his pain would only remind him of its permanence and what the game had taken from him.
I kept playing, adjusting my passes to accommodate his limitations without making it obvious.
"Getting tired, rookie?" he called, noticing my altered approach.
"Just trying not to embarrass an old-timer," I shot back, executing a tight turn.
His laugh surprised us both—sharp and genuine. The sound echoed across the frozen lake, bouncing off the surrounding pines.
For a moment, we were only two hockey players on a pristine sheet of ice, unburdened by history or consequence. It was like a gift I never expected to receive.
The mood shifted when we settled back into a more aggressive rhythm. Micah's passes gained velocity, and the space between us narrowed. We began challenging each other—circling, feinting, each trying to outmaneuver the other without explicitly saying so.
I sent the puck skittering toward the center of the lake, forcing Micah to chase it. He responded with powerful strides and unexpected speed. Watching him move mesmerized me. It was raw power channeled through years of training discipline.
The orange disc bounced erratically over a rough patch of ice. Micah lunged for it, extending his reach as his body committed fully to the interception.
Too fully.
His skate clipped mine when our paths intersected. The contact was minimal—a glancing blow that wouldn't have registered during a professional game. In the wild, on the uneven surface, it was enough.
My balance evaporated. One moment, I was upright; the next, I was airborne, limbs pinwheeling in a desperate attempt to negotiate a soft landing. The world tilted sideways, and I hit the ice with spectacular inelegance—arms splayed, stick flying from my grasp, legs akimbo.
The impact knocked the wind from my lungs. For one disorienting moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, and could only register the cold seeping through my clothes while I stared at the vast blue sky spinning above me.
Then, absurdly, laughter bubbled up from inside my chest—uncontrollable and bordering on hysterical. Pure, childlike joy at the ridiculousness of my fall.
Micah was beside me instantly, dropping to his knees with a heavy thud. His eyes opened wide, his breathing rapid.
"Shit. Noah—are you—?"
I couldn't answer immediately, too consumed by breathless laughter. "I… forgot how fun… it is to fall," I finally managed, gasping between words.
Micah hovered over me, hands hesitating inches from my shoulders as if afraid to touch and cause further harm.
"I didn't mean to—" I heard barely contained panic in his voice.
I interrupted. "You did, and I loved it."
Micah's expression shifted from concern to bewilderment and then a hint of a smile. "You're insane."
I propped myself on my elbows, snow clinging to my hair and coat. "Probably, but so is anyone who willingly straps knives to their feet and chases a rubber disc for fun."
"Fair point."
I made no move to get up, content to lie sprawled on the ice with cold seeping into my bones and Micah kneeling beside me. There was something profoundly satisfying about the moment—taking a fall and laughing instead of breaking.
Micah had been avoiding any contact resembling our infamous collision. He'd stepped carefully around me, hyper-aware of his size and strength. Now, he'd knocked me down, and instead of shattering, I'd laughed.
I brushed snow from my sleeve. "You know, most of my best memories involve falling: My first time on skates. Learning to check. A spectacular wipeout during the championship game in high school."
Micah settled comfortably beside me, one knee drawn up to his chest. "You wrecked during a championship?"
"I wish I could excuse it as a wreck. I tripped over my own stick in overtime. Slid face-first into the boards while the winning goal sailed over my head." I grinned at the memory. "Coach called it 'the most beautiful disaster he'd ever seen.'"
Micah chuckled softly. "Bet that made the highlight reel."
"Three different angles. My sister has it saved on a DVD."
The panic was gone from his eyes. We stayed on the ice for a few minutes longer—Micah kneeling, me sprawled. Neither of us rushed to stand and continue the game or retreat to the safety of the cabin.
Snow began to fall again, not the heavy flakes of a serious storm but delicate crystalline specks that drifted lazily from a brightening sky. They landed on Micah's dark hair and shoulders, lingering briefly before dissolving. One caught on his eyelashes, and he blinked it away, his gaze never leaving mine.
He stuck his tongue out to catch a snowflake. "When I was a kid, my dad would lose his mind if I fell during practice. He said it showed weakness." He traced a pattern in the snow beside my leg, fingertip leaving a thin line. "After games, he'd count the times I lost my footing. One push-up for each fall."
I listened, not interrupting. The voluntary confessions from Micah filled holes in my understanding of him.
"Hockey was the one place I felt..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Free. Until it wasn't."
A snowflake landed on my cheek, its brief, cold kiss melting immediately. "And now?"
"Now, I'm not sure what I feel."
"Looks like freedom to me," I observed quietly. "No coaches, crowds, or expectations."
"No future either," he added. It was a direct statement without any hints of bitterness.
"Maybe that's the point. It's our moment with only the ice."
He considered my comment, head tilting slightly. He rubbed his right shoulder.
"Is that bothering you?" I finally asked about what I'd seen all morning.
"Always does. Worse in the cold."
I sat up fully, brushing snow from my hair. Our faces were level, close enough that I saw the varied shades of blue in his irises.
"Thank you for bringing me here."
He glanced away, uncomfortable with my gratitude. "I needed to move and was tired of being cooped up."
We both knew it was more than that. The frozen lake was a sanctuary—perhaps the only place where Micah still connected with uncomplicated joy. He'd chosen to share it with me.
I made no move to stand, and neither did he. We forgot about the game. What remained was the unexpected peace of sitting together on a frozen lake, watching snowflakes dance around us like nature's confetti.
"Fall again," Micah said suddenly.
"What?"
"You said you forgot how fun it was. Fall again… for me."
Understanding dawned on me, and I smiled. Without hesitation, I flung myself backward, arms spread wide, executing a dramatic snow angel across the ice. The cold bit through my jacket, but I embraced it, laughing as I swept my limbs back and forth.
From my prone position, I watched something remarkable happen—Micah's face transformed. The perpetual guardedness melted away, replaced by an expression I'd never seen before. It was nearly a broad smile.
After a moment's consideration, he lowered himself beside me. His larger frame made a deeper impression in the thin layer of snow covering the ice.
We lay there side by side, not touching but aligned, parallel lines against the vast whiteness. It was trust in its purest form. I had fallen, and Micah hadn't broken me. Instead, he'd made me laugh. And now, in his own way, he was falling, too.
Looking up at the endless expanse of winter sky, I realized that perhaps this was what healing looked like. It wasn't dramatic declarations or grand gestures. It was small, brave moments of letting go—two bodies making angels in the snow and finding freedom in the fall.
I spoke softly. "We should do this more often."
Micah's answer was barely audible. "Yeah. We should."
But, as we lay there, I couldn't shake the feeling that we might be building something on unstable ice. The league hearings were still coming. My team was still waiting. And whatever peace we'd found here was temporary—a beautiful, fragile thing that the real world would eventually shatter.