Page 107 of Wild Card 13

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Her shoulders rose with one breath. Then lowered. “I know.”

CHAPTER 13

LUCY

THEN

The engine ticked in the cool winter air, a rhythmic settling that felt louder without the radio. Ty cut the headlights and the dark rushed in to fill the space, the lake spreading silver and still under a scatter of stars I could barely count through my glasses. My canvas tote slid across the worn bench seat when he shifted, and I felt the movement more than I saw it—the dip of the springs, the brush of denim against my thigh.

His hand landed on the seat between us. Palm up. Fingers loose. An invitation.

I watched it there, illuminated by nothing but the faint glow of the dash lights warming his skin. I knew that hand. I’d watched him tape his wrists before a game, seen it flick water at me from across the lunch table, caught it gripping the wheel white-knuckled when he talked about the scout from State. It had always been moving. Never still like this. Never waiting.

My breath snagged somewhere I couldn't reach. I pulled my glasses off—the gesture automatic, a reflex I'd learned for all the moments I wanted to feel instead of see—and placed them on the dash.

I set my hand in his. His fingers closed around mine—gentle, like I was something he was afraid to break—and his thumb found my knuckles. Traced a slow line across them. Once. Twice. I felt thecalluses there, the friction from years of gripping a stick, and my own hand trembled in a way I couldn't control.

His voice came low, rough at the edges. "Did you enjoy your party?"

"It was good," I said. The words sounded thin, stretched over something I couldn't name. The worn seat creaked as I shifted, and the cold from the window found the back of my neck, raising goosebumps I couldn't blame on the temperature.

He didn't respond. The silence swelled between us, thick enough to taste—lake water and the faint chemical bite of the rink soap. I felt his shoulder against mine, solid and warm, and I realized I'd stopped breathing.

I turned my head.

His face was half-lit by starlight, the rest of him swallowed by shadow. The freckles across his nose were dark smudges, his jaw tight, his blue eyes fixed on something in the dark beyond the windshield. He was gripping the steering wheel with his free hand—white-knuckled, the tendons standing out.

He was nervous. Not the easy, goofy nervous he wore like a second skin when he fumbled a pass or dropped his lunch tray. This was something else, a crack in the golden-boy armor I'd watched him wear for years.

"Ty," I said.

His eyes snapped to mine. The air in the cab went still—no ticking engine, no lapping water, just the space between his breath and mine. His mouth opened, closed. His hand on the wheel relaxed half an inch, then tightened again.

"Lucy." My name was barely a word—a breath he'd been holding, falling out of him like he couldn't stop it. His hand cradled my jaw, trembling, and I felt the rough calluses on his palm scrape against my skin as he leaned in, slow enough that I could have pulled away.

I didn't.

The space between us collapsed, and his lips found mine.

The first touch was soft—uncertain, like he was still asking. His mouth was warm and tasted faintly of mint and cheap beer. My brain short-circuited, every thought I'd ever had flooding outthrough my toes. My hand was still in his, and he tightened his grip, anchoring himself to me.

I kissed him back, tilting my head. When I changed the angle, a sound left his throat that I'd never heard before—low and hungry and raw.

His fingers slid into my hair, threading through the curls at the nape of my neck, and the sensation ran down my spine like a current. His other hand still held mine, and I felt his pulse through the heel of his palm, fast and erratic.

Ty broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, his forehead pressed against mine, his breath hot on my lips. His voice was wrecked. "I've wanted to do this since—" He stopped, swallowed. "Since forever."

I opened my eyes. The starlight caught the blue of his irises, and I could see the want there—naked and unguarded, the golden-boy armor stripped clean away. My chest ached with it. I curled my fingers into the collar of his hoodie and pulled him back.

The next kiss was different. Slower. Deeper. His hand slid down to the small of my back, pulling me across the bench seat until my hip pressed into his thigh. The cold radiating from the glass hit my neck, raising goosebumps, but his mouth was fire against mine. I felt his tongue trace my lower lip, hesitant, asking—and I parted my lips and let him in.

The taste of him deepened as his fingers tightened in my hair. He wanted more. I could feel it in the tremor of his hand against my spine, in the way his breath stuttered when I pulled him closer.

I broke away, gasping. The air was cold and sharp in my lungs, and the world came rushing back. His face was inches from mine, flushed, his lips pink and swollen, his eyes dark.

"Ty," I said, and my voice was barely above a whisper. "I’ve wanted to, too."