Page 143 of Wild Card 13

The word emerged automatically.

Marion’s eyes stayed on mine.

Behind her shoulder, Naomi shifted beneath the blanket. “Is this coffee,” she asked, reaching toward the thermos, “or something Fraser uses to remove rust from air-conditioning units?”

Marion blinked, then laughed.

Fraser finally looked away from the ice. “Coffee shouldn’t need milk.”

“Coffee should not dissolve metal,” Naomi replied.

“It builds character,” Ty’s old man snickered, offering the smallest smirk.

“So does lead exposure. We still discourage it.”

Kendrick coughed into his fist.

The moment passed.

Marion poured another cup while Naomi kept speaking, dragging the conversation firmly toward the terrifying contents of the Burns family thermos and away from the answer I had not given.

I stared down at the coffee warming my hands. My mother was probably carrying boxes through our front door right now. Dad had no idea. Ty had no idea. And I was sitting beneath my boyfriend’s grandmother’s handmade blanket imagining a future with people who had never once made showing up feel complicated.

The arena lights dimmed slightly. A roar built from the Northbend student section as the first players appeared near the tunnel.

Hal straightened his roster. Fraser rose halfway beforeremembering it was only warmups and forced himself back into his seat. Thane’s attention sharpened.

Then something behind the Northbend bench caught my eye.

Three men stood near the lower entrance to the reserved section at center ice. None wore school colors. None carried food. None spoke to the parents trying to identify them without appearing obvious.

One wore a dark jacket embroidered with the crest of St. Croix State University. My safety school. The acceptance letter still sat inside the top drawer of my desk at home, beneath three unfinished sketches and a Midway University brochure I had nearly worn soft from rereading.

Another man wore a Fargo Force jacket.

The third wore no visible organization at all. A credential hung from a lanyard against his chest and watched the ice with the particular stillness of someone who had learned not to react while evaluating eighteen-year-old boys.

Two fathers behind us leaned toward one another.

“Fargo came for Burns,” one murmured.

“I heard the State guy asked Whittaker for another look,” commented the other.

“That other one’s NHL.”

“No NHL scout is wasting a Friday night at a section final.”

“He knows Thane.”

My fingers tightened around the thermos cup. Ty had mentioned the scout from State before. Casually at first. Then with enough tension beneath the joke for me to understand it mattered.

He had never mentioned Fargo.

I looked over my shoulder.

Fraser’s attention was no longer on the tunnel. He was watching the men near center ice.

Beside him, Thane leaned forward slightly. Something shifted in his expression before disappearing again.