Page 22 of Puck You Both

Wall glances down at their hands, one eyebrow raised. “Problem?”

“First things first.” Patrick's voice stays level. “I need to know that what you saw stays with you.”

Wall's brow pulls tight.

There it is. The first real reaction is clean, immediate offense. His fingers tense on the puck. “Who do you think I am?”

Patrick considers him. There's history packed into the space between them. Then, he says, “I don't know.”

Wall's jaw moves, once, twice.

Oh, he wants to tell Patrick to go fuck himself. I can see the full sentence fighting for release behind his teeth. He stares at Patrick for another long second. “It stays with me.”

Air leaves my lungs. Quietly, thank every available saint.

Patrick nods.

Neither of them lets go of the puck.

They've settled the only question we officially came here to settle, yet they remain locked around it, fingers touching.

Wall's gaze drops to Patrick's hand again, then returns to his face. “Anything else?”

The pause stretches.

At first, I think he's choosing the wording. Then it goes on long enough that I realize he already knows the wording. He's choosing whether to say it.

His idea got us into this hallway. His pulse is now visible at the base of his throat.

I press my back against the wall before my knees can become involved.

He keeps his eyes on Wall. “You didn't leave. You could have.”

I stop breathing.

Wall says nothing.

The silence gets teeth.

Is he going to deny it? He could explain the whole thing away as freezing or misunderstanding.

Anger would also be fair. Patrick has cornered him in a supply room, holding him at gunpo—well, puckpoint—and brought up possibly the strangest two minutes of his life.

Wall only watches him.

Five seconds becomes ten, then the sense of time abandons me out of embarrassment.

Patrick waits patiently. He doesn't fill the quiet or rescue Wall from it. His fingers remain steady on the puck, but I see the tendons in his wrist standing out beneath his skin.

Then Wall's eyes narrow a fraction. “You didn't stop. You could have.”

My weight leaves the wall.

For half a second, I feel like I'm tipping backward with the clipboard clamped to my chest and one heel skidding on the linoleum. I catch myself on a box of trash bags before hallway security becomes hallway casualty.

Holy fuck.

Holy shit-fucking fuck.