Page 59 of Pucked Up
He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Noah—a long, slow assessment.
The guy said something to his friend, too quiet to catch, then got up and walked toward us like he was stretching his legs… until he stopped. He leaned against the bar less than five feet from our table, with his eyes still fixed on Noah. He tipped his chin.
"You're the kid Keller destroyed, huh?"
He said it loud enough for the tables around us to hear. It came out like he was repeating a fact from trivia night, almost like asking who was the guy who used to host the local weather broadcast.
Noah blinked once. Then, he looked down at his beer like he was deciding whether to take a sip or throw it.
I didn't think. I didn't move right away, either.
My blood roared so loud that I couldn't hear responses from anyone else in the bar. My vision tunneled.
In my mind, I saw my fist grip the denim jacket just before his back hit the bar hard enough to rattle the bottles. I watched as his eyes flew open wide, and the beer hit the floor.
I heard the collision with the boards. That sound. That crunch.
Only I wasn't on the ice now. There were no helmets or officials. My hands twitched, but I remained seated.
I dug my fingers into my thighs under the table, grounding myself with the pain of it. My shoulders were tight. I had done enough damage.
My pulse pounded so hard in my ears that I could barely hear Noah respond in a soft voice. "Yup. That's me. I'm the kid with the titanium collarbone and fan mail from the ER nurses."
The guy laughed once, sharp and mean. He turned to go like he'd done what he came for but lingered a second too long. Testing.
I stood. My chair scraped the floor. The sound captured the room's attention. Heads turned.
I walked up as calmly as I could fake. Every part of me vibrated, but I tamped it down. I stopped before him, close enough to smell the beer on his breath. I didn't touch him. I didn't need to.
He looked up, one eyebrow rising.
"And he got back up," I said.
It wasn't loud. It didn't have to be. I held his gaze and didn't blink. It was a dare to say one more thing.
Noah's voice came from behind me, clear but quiet. "He always does."
The guy broke first. Scoffed. He shook his head like we weren't worth it and muttered something on his way back to his stool.
I didn't watch him go and failed to move for a long minute, letting the tension leak out of my knuckles one drop at a time. I stood there a second longer. I ensured he could feel the space I'd occupied before taking it with me.
Next, I returned to our booth.
Back at our table, Noah had his beer in hand again, fingers tapping the glass. "That was… dramatic. You okay?"
"No," but I sat anyway.
When we left, the truck's engine rumbled low like it had something to say but didn't know the words. Snow hissed under the tires—melt refreezing into patches of ice, the kind that liked to slide up under you when your attention drifted.
We didn't talk for the first few minutes. It was quiet except for the sound of the road unraveling beneath us and the soft metallic rattle of the gas canisters in the back. Noah had one arm propped on the door, fingers resting loose on the window crank like he was thinking about rolling it down to feel the cold again.
I gripped the wheel like it might pull free if I let go.
I broke the silence between us. "My hands were shaking."
"Back there?"
I nodded. "I wanted to break his face. I saw it… felt it in my bones. I knew how it would sound and feel." I paused, jaw tightening. "I wanted it."
