Page 146 of Wild Card 13

But Lucy had texted me too. I had stared at that message. Not because it was different from the thousands of sarcastic things Lucy had sent me over the last two years. It wasn’t. It sounded exactly like her. Dry. Bossy. A little entertained in spite of herself.

But now I knew what her mouth felt like when she whispered my name in the dark. I knew the sound she made when she was trying not to laugh while I asked, for the second time, whether she was sure she was okay. I knew what it felt like to hold someone afterward and realize your whole life had somehow changed inside the same old truck you used to drive to practice.

Two days ago, Lucy Thomas had looked at me like I was permanent.

So, yeah. I wrote an L on my tape. Because I was an idiot. Because I loved her. Because tonight mattered, and for some reason, making sure she was on the ice with me felt as important as sharpening my skates.

When we finally left the locker room, the hallway outside the ice was louder than it had ever been. Sound vibrated through the concrete under my blades. The band was already playing, the student section already screaming, and the low thrum of the crowd pressed against the walls like weather.

Mase bounced on his skates beside me. “You nervous?”

“I’m too good-looking to be nervous.”

“Eden Prairie’s first line is going to use your face as a rink decal,” Mase teased.

Simon leaned forward from behind us. “I’m nervous.”

Mase chirped, “You keep missing the net high-glove in warmups.”

Simon gave him a wounded look. “Why would you say that?”

I reached back and tapped Simon’s shin pad with my stick. “Ignore him. He’s mad because his hairline started receding at sixteen.”

The doors opened. The sound hit like a body check. For half a second, everything became white ice and flashing lights and noise so big it seemed to get inside my ribs before my skates even touched the surface.

Then I pushed forward. I collected the first puck near the boards,cut behind the net, and snapped a shot off the crossbar because it felt good. The metal ring cracked through the building, and the Northbend side lost its mind.

Mase yelled something at me, so I shot another puck. That one went in.

I circled once, half listening to the crowd, half tracking the shapes in the stands. My family sat where they always sat when Dad got his way. Back row for him, because by the third period he would refuse to sit and complain if anyone complained about it. Grandpa Hal beside him with his roster. Kendrick leaning forward like he was already annoyed to be impressed. Thane sitting still enough to make strangers uncomfortable.

Mom was there too. Grandma Ruth. Naomi. Arlo, with nachos, because of course Arlo had nachos before puck drop. And Lucy.

I had been in love with Lucy for years, which sounded insane when I thought about it too long. At fifteen, I barely knew how to talk to her without saying something stupid. But even then, she had looked at me like there was more in me than hockey and noise and the version of myself everybody else already understood.

Now she sat with my family like she was part of the shape of them. Like she would be there later. Years later.

I turned my wrist so she could see the tape. Her eyes caught on the L. The entire building could have collapsed and I wouldn’t have noticed. I tapped the glass once, small enough that nobody else would understand, then looked up and winked.

“Burns.” Coach leaned over the boards. “You know why people are here tonight.”

“I’m very popular.”

His eyes did not move. “There are eyes in the building,” he said. “You understand me?”

I nodded once.

“Play the game in front of you.” His voice stayed low, firm enough to cut through the arena. “Not the scouts. Not your brother. Not your father. Not your girlfriend. The game.”

My jaw tightened before I could stop it.

“You are the best player I have ever coached,” he said. Something in me went still. Coach Whittaker did not say things like that. He barely said good job without making it sound like a warning. “But the best player on the ice is not always the one who wins the game,” he continued. “Sometimes he’s the one who understands what the game needs before everybody else does.”

I looked toward center ice without meaning to. A man in a Fargo jacket stood near the reserved section. Another wore St. Croix State colors. A third man did not need a jacket. He had the kind of face scouts wore when they did not want teenage boys to know whether they were impressed.

My pulse kicked once.

Coach’s hand landed on the back of my neck, brief and heavy. “Do not chase anything, Burns. Play.”