Page 5

Chapter five

Micah

I woke to the sound of cabinets opening and closing. My body felt like concrete had dried in my joints overnight—rigid, aching with the cold that seeped through the cabin's aging windows. For a moment, I forgot he was still in my with me.

Then, memory unfolded its sharp edges inside me, a switchblade clicking open between my ribs.

Noah. The rookie. The man I'd injured.

I rolled out of bed, shoulders tight with tension, and shuffled to the kitchen. He was already there, seated at the scarred pine table, eating dry Cheerios straight from the box like some feral child. His hair stuck up at odd angles, but his eyes—steel gray in the sunlight streaming through the windows—were alert.

"Morning." It was so casual. He said it the way someone who lived here would. Or perhaps like we were teammates at training camp.

I grunted, pouring coffee into a chipped mug.

"You know what this reminds me of?" Noah gestured at the cereal box. "Those predawn gas station stops on minor league road trips. You were in the minors before the big dance, right? It's like those stops when you're half-awake, and everything tastes like the inside of the bus."

"You ate dry cereal on road trips?"

"Sometimes. It depended on what was available. Whitey—our goalie—he'd only eat beef jerky and those packaged Danishes. Said it was his good luck ritual."

"The Danish that could survive a nuclear winter?"

Noah laughed, a sound that scraped against something raw inside me. "Yeah. Orange-glazed abominations."

I leaned against the counter, maintaining distance between us—no danger in joining in on this inane conversation. "Anderson used to mix Mountain Dew with those vitamin waters. He called it his performance enhancer."

"That's disgusting."

"Yeah, well, so was his plus-minus."

Noah smiled, and for a brief, disorienting moment, we might have been any two players shooting the shit before morning practice.

"What's the worst roadside food you've ever had?" he asked, reaching for more cereal.

"Iowa, middle of nowhere. Some truck stop advertised homemade pie. It wasn't pie—more like soup in a crust." I sipped my coffee. "You?"

"Pickled eggs and Funyuns."

I stared at him. "Together?"

"Markowitz dared Simons. Hundred bucks. He threw up on the equipment manager's shoes."

I couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up out of my chest. "Amateur."

Suddenly, the words were wrong—this conversation was about nothing. We might as well have been playing pond hockey on thin ice. We were making jerky brands matter while ignoring that our worlds had cracked open and rearranged themselves when he showed up.

I turned away, draining my mug. Whatever game he was playing, I could refuse to join in.

Later that afternoon, I retreated to the small workbench in the corner of the cabin's main room. I'd set up a makeshift maintenance station when I first arrived—somewhere to keep my hands busy when the voices in my head refused to shut up. I pulled out an old hockey stick, the blade worn from too many shots against the makeshift net I'd set up outside.

The rhythmic scrape of sandpaper against composite filled the silence. Noah had wandered outside an hour ago. I'd watched through the window as he circled the perimeter of the property.

I worked slower than necessary, methodical in my strokes: sand, oil, polish. My fingers remembered the motion even as my thoughts scattered. I did my best to concentrate on the grain of the wood beneath my thumb and the faint chemical smell of the oil.

"That's an old Bauer, isn't it?"

I flinched. Noah stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold. I hadn't heard him come back inside.

"Yeah." I didn't look up. "Supreme. From before they changed the flex point."

He moved closer, not quite beside me but near enough that I smelled the cold air clinging to his clothes. "Mind if I watch?"

I did mind. I minded everything about his presence—how he took up space, observed every movement, and grated against my thoughts like sandpaper against a raw nerve. When I shrugged, he took it as permission.

My hands turned clumsy under his gaze. The familiar motions were suddenly foreign as if my body belonged to someone else.

I stared at the stick in my hands, the curve of the blade. How often had I used equipment like this to clear opponents from the crease? How many bodies had I driven into the boards? How many stitches had I caused?

"What are you looking for?" I finally asked, the words cutting through the quiet.

Noah's expression didn't change. "I told you. The truth."

"About the hit? About why I—"

"About all of it."

The silence that followed was like the moment after a bad check before you knew if someone would get up or stay down.

I set the stick aside, unable to maintain a pretense of normality. Noah stepped closer, reaching for the stick. Our fingers brushed, and I pulled back like I'd touched a live wire.

"Do I make you nervous, Micah?"

"No," I lied.

Did I bring the punishment on myself, or did he carry it in with him, wrapped in silence and bruises? I couldn't shake the feeling he saw right through me—every scar, violent impulse, and dark thought was laid bare under his gaze.

"I think I do," he said softly. Not taunting. Only confident.

I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floorboards. "I need air."

I didn't wait for his response; I grabbed my coat and fled outside. The bite of the cold was familiar—a welcome pain, something tangible. Something that made sense.

A memory ambushed me as I trudged through the snow—triggered by nothing more than the taste of fear at the back of my throat.

I was fifteen. Gangly and awkward, all height and no mass yet. Our team had just won regionals, and the locker room hummed with the chaotic energy of teenage boys intoxicated by victory.

Logan smiled at me from across the room while the others packed up their gear—Logan, with his quick hands and quicker laugh. We'd been circling each other for weeks by then—long glances, shoulders brushing in the hallway, and blushes in the middle of teasing conversations.

When the others filtered out, he stayed behind. I stayed, too.

It was only a kiss—clumsy, terrified, electric. My first. His, too, I think. It was a stolen moment in the steam of an empty locker room. We didn't talk about it afterward. Didn't acknowledge what it meant.

Three days later, I learned.

Practice had run late. Most guys had gone home already. I was still in the shower when I heard them come in—Dougie, Ratner, and Mills. Seniors. Third-line bruisers with mediocre stats and something to prove.

"Keller." Dougie's voice echoed against the tiles. "We need to talk."

I knew that they'd found out. The thought lodged in my mind before I turned around and saw the look on their faces.

Logan must have told someone. Or they'd seen us. It didn't matter how they knew, only that they did.

I reached for my towel, but Mills snatched it away. "Faggots don't get towels."

I still remember how the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead and how the water dripped from my skin onto the concrete floor. One drop. Two. Three. While I waited for what came next.

Ratner shoved me first, his palm flat against my chest. I stumbled backward, feet slipping on the wet tile. My back hit the wall.

"You like boys, Keller?" Dougie asked, stepping closer. His breath smelled like the spearmint gum he always chewed. "You looking at us in the showers?"

I said nothing. Anything I said would make it worse.

Ratner pinned my arms. Mills spat—a glob of saliva landing on my bare chest. I watched it slide down my ribs. I couldn't look away.

The first punch caught me in the stomach. I doubled over, gasping. The second split my lip. The third—

The details I could remember were like the frame of a jigsaw puzzle with many pieces still missing. The squeak of their shoes on the wet floor and the taste of blood in my mouth stuck in my mind. I could still see how Dougie flexed his fingers after each blow as if he were testing to see if he'd hurt himself.

I still don't remember which one cracked my rib. Or maybe I've never wanted to know.

When they'd finished, they left me curled on the floor, naked and bleeding. Nobody came looking. No coach asked questions about my bruises at the next practice. Logan wouldn't meet my eyes.

I learned two lessons that day: that my body was something to be ashamed of and that it could be turned into a weapon before anyone else made it a victim.

I never kissed another boy until college. I never let anyone pin my arms again. And I started lifting weights the next week, adding muscle that would eventually become my armor.

Standing in the snow outside my cabin sixteen years later, I realized I was shivering. Not from the cold. From the memory of being that exposed. That vulnerable.

And now Noah was here, looking at me like he could see that boy still hiding inside me.

I spent hours outside, splitting more wood than we'd need for days until my palms were raw and my shoulders screamed. Physical exhaustion was the only antidote I knew for toxic memories.

By the time I returned to the cabin, Noah had built a fire. The smell of something cooking greeted me—pasta, maybe. My stomach clenched, reminding me I hadn't eaten since a pile of dry Cheerios in the morning.

He didn't look up when I entered, only gestured toward the bathroom. "You should wash up."

I looked down at my hands—dirt crusted under my nails and a splinter in my thumb I hadn't noticed. I stood there, dripping melted snow onto the floorboards, unable to process the simplicity of his suggestion.

"I made dinner," he added.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Figured we both have to eat."

In the bathroom, I scrubbed my hands until they stung, watching pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. My reflection in the clouded mirror looked haunted—dark circles under my eyes and stubble too heavy to reflect anything but neglect.

When I emerged, Noah had set two bowls on the small table. It was nothing fancy. He'd prepared spaghetti with jarred sauce and some dried herbs he must have found in the cupboard, but it was the first meal I hadn't prepared for myself in months.

We ate in silence, the fire crackling in the living room. The pasta was slightly overcooked, and the sauce was too salty. It was the best thing I'd tasted since I'd left the city.

"Thanks," I said when I'd finished.

Noah nodded, collecting the bowls. As he moved toward the sink, I noticed a faint limp—barely perceptible, but there. Because of me. Because I'd lost control for ten crucial seconds on the ice.

Later, we sat in front of the dying fire, the silence between us shifting from hostile to something more complex. The warmth from the hearth had faded to a dull glow, casting long shadows across the cabin floor. Occasionally, Noah would turn a page in the paperback he'd found on my bookshelf. I pretended to sharpen my knife, the stone scraping rhythmically.

He edged closer, supposedly to catch the fading light. I stiffened, my muscles coiling with the instinct to either flinch or fight. I wasn't sure which.

Through the corner of my eye, I watched the firelight play across his features. The shadows emphasized the sharp cut of his jaw and the hollow beneath his cheekbone. He was studying me too, I realized—quick glances when he thought I wasn't looking.

What happened to you, Micah?

The question hung in the air, unspoken. Noah didn't say it. Not out loud. Still, I heard it.

And beneath it, my own questions circled like vultures: Why are you really here? Do you want the man who hit you? Or are you waiting for him to do it again?

The knife slipped in my hand, nearly catching my finger. I set it down, suddenly exhausted beyond words.

"I'm turning in," I announced, getting to my feet.

Noah looked up, his face unreadable in the dim light. "Goodnight, Micah."

He said my name like he was testing how it felt in his mouth.

In bed, I stared at the ceiling, listening to Noah move around. There was a soft creak from the couch as he settled onto it. I rolled onto my side and faced the wall.

He should've left after breakfast. Should never have come at all.

But maybe I wanted him to stay.

Sleep refused to come. I lay awake with my mind racing, caught between the memory of violence and the strange, unnerving peace of sharing space with the person I'd hurt. Tomorrow, he might leave.

Tonight, though, we both breathed the same air, sheltered by the same roof. And somehow, that was like both punishment and grace.