Page 23
Story: Pucked Up
T he noise didn't bother me anymore.
It used to. There was the echo of skates, sharp whistles, and the shriek of a metal goalpost scraping across ice—I used to feel it all in my teeth. My flinches were bone-deep like my body bracing for another hit I couldn't see coming.
Now, I simply stood there, arms crossed, shoulder pressed to the plexiglass, and watched.
Noah was out on the ice with the kids, knees bent in that easy crouch that made him look half-wild and half-weightless. It was October, nearly a year since Noah showed up on my porch. His team was hosting a fundraiser for local Marquette hockey.
He skated backward with one hand outstretched, guiding a little girl in a glitter-pink helmet whose jersey hung off her like it had been made for someone twice her size. Her stick dragged behind her like an afterthought, but she was smiling so hard it didn't matter.
Noah winked at her, then peeled away, calling out something I didn't catch. The sound blurred with everything else—the slap of pucks against the boards, the squeak of cheap rental skates, and the voice of some parent asking if hot dogs were still on sale at the concessions.
I liked watching him like this. Loose. Loud. Alive in a way I could never match. He didn't have to think about being gentle—he just was .
My breath fogged the glass in front of me. I let it sit there. Let it cloud the view for a second and then blinked past it.
The smell of the rink still hit me in waves—old rubber, dried sweat, and ice shavings melting into the seams of the concrete floor—but it wasn't the only thing rattling around in my head.
There was another kind of cold still stuck to the inside of me.
Memories of a lake. Not Superior, the big one. It was the one by the little cabin halfway up the bluff with a stove that smoked no matter how we rigged the flue. We spent one weekend at the end of spring and three weekends over the summer there—only us and a cooler full of whatever we didn't forget.
We skated there in late spring on a patch of thaw-softened lake that shouldn't have held me. On the last day, it didn't.
Noah didn't scream when I went under. He moved. Fast. Sure. Swearing at me the entire time.
Later, dripping and shaking on the porch with towels over both our heads, he pointed out, "You didn't even panic."
I didn't. That was the strange part. I trusted the lake. Or maybe I merely trusted Noah.
A scuffed puck tapped against the boards by my foot. I looked down.
A kid stood there. Eight, maybe nine. His helmet sat crooked, and the laces on one skate were barely looped. He had ink smudges on his fingers and held a puck out like he wasn't sure if it was a peace offering or part of a dare.
"You're the guy from the video, right?" he asked.
I didn't have to ask which video. Only one lived in the minds of hockey fans all over.
"Yeah." I took the puck, pulled a marker from my jacket pocket, and signed it. Block letters. No flourish.
He stared like he expected more. A nod. A smile. Something human.
Noah skated past and ruffled the kid's helmet.
"He's cooler than he looks," he said, grinning over his shoulder.
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.