Page 22

Chapter twenty-two

Noah

T he bleachers clanged under my boots as I climbed toward the back row. The aluminum seats were cold enough to bite through denim, and my thermos of coffee released steam clouds above my head.

The rink reminded me of where I played in my youth hockey days—cracked boards and stained Plexiglas. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like disturbed bees. The ice below bore deep scratches from the figure skaters using the surface hours before.

I set the thermos beside me and flipped open a legal pad. I already had two pages of scribbles—notes on Micah's drills, which ones worked best, and which kids responded to what. It wasn't for anything official. I just wanted to understand how he worked. He'd abandoned the NHL, and watching him with the kids was like watching someone carve themselves into a new shape.

The youth team skated out in loose formation, about fifteen kids between ages nine and twelve. They wore mismatched gear, untucked jerseys, and some helmets that wobbled on undersized heads. One kid wore bright green duct tape around both elbows like neon battle scars. Another had a stick that might've doubled as a shovel.

Micah stood by the blue line, whistle tucked into his hoodie collar. He crouched next to the smallest kid on the ice—a little guy, likely nine, skates barely laced.

Micah adjusted his shin guard and then gave his arm a gentle tap. He wasn't the kind of coach to bark orders.

Practice hadn't even officially started, and I was already smiling ear to ear. I jotted a note— kneels to meet them where they are —and underlined it.

A moment later, Micah skated backward in front of the group, demonstrating tight crossovers. He made it look effortless, all balance and subtle power, like the ice had been waiting for him to come home. The kids followed in sloppy lines, arms windmilling, blades whining.

One of them—a lanky kid with a pink-taped stick—finally nailed a backward crossover on his right side. His reaction was instant: a yelp of surprise and then a grin that threatened to swallow his face.

Micah clapped once, loud enough to echo. "That's what I'm talking about!"

Then came a puck-control relay—chaos incarnate. Cones scattered across the ice as the kids zigzagged through them with more enthusiasm than technique. Someone wiped out hard; limbs spread wide in an exaggerated sprawl.

Micah was there in an instant, crouching beside the stricken player, checking his elbow. I couldn't hear what he said, but he demonstrated something—angling his skate and showing how to use the outside edge for tighter control. The kid nodded solemnly, like he'd just been handed the secret of the universe.

Laughter rippled through the stands during the next scrimmage; for once, it wasn't only from the kids. Micah played passive defense, letting one of the smaller forwards deke around him with a cartoonish flourish. He lifted his stick in fake surrender, grinning as the puck slid into the net.

That's when I heard the first comment.

"Sheesh, he's good with them," someone murmured behind me. It was a man's voice. "Never seen my kid skate like that."

Another voice, closer. A woman. "He used to play, right? Like, professionally?"

A pause. Then—sharp, quiet, and meant to be overheard.

"That's Keller, isn't it? The one who took that rookie out?"

Someone else whispered, "What's he doing around kids after that? Thought they suspended him."

I looked out towards the ice.

Micah had frozen mid-stride like something inside him locked up.

Then, without a word, he dropped his stick. He walked over to the assistant coach, whispered something I couldn't hear, and skated off to the locker room without looking up at the stands.

I didn't think. Operating on autopilot, I followed.

The locker room door stuck on the bottom hinge, groaning like it didn't want to be part of whatever was happening. I shoved it open with my shoulder.

Inside, lights flickered in that particular way fluorescent bulbs do when they're ready to die but too stubborn to admit it. The air was heavy with a sour cocktail of sweat, wet rubber mats, and whatever chemical they used to clean the walls.

Micah sat on a bench at the far end, elbows braced on his knees, head down. His right hand curled loosely in his lap, blood slowly dripping onto the rubber flooring. It wasn't a lot.

There were spots of blood on the cinderblock wall behind him.

I approached slowly, crouching down in front of him. He didn't flinch or look up. His breathing was shallow and slow.

A med kit sat open on a folding chair nearby.

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?"

I crossed over to him and set my mug down before reaching for his hands. They were both whole now, the right one wrapped in healing scars.

I held on as I spoke. "I think you're the guy who came back and kept showing up, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt."

He didn't flinch when I touched his jaw and when I kissed him.

When we pulled apart, he whispered, "We're fucked up, you know that?"

"Yeah, but we're fucked up together."

"Then maybe we've got a shot."