Page 4 of Wild Card 13

“You too?”

“My dad plays it constantly in the garage.”

Something softened unexpectedly between us after that. The truck felt smaller somehow. Warmer.

Ty drummed his fingers against the steering wheel while we drove through snow-covered neighborhoods glowing gold beneath streetlights. Downtown Northbend passed outside the windows in sleepy winter quiet. Christmas lights still hung from rooftops even though January had already settled in hard.

“You ever skate on a lake before?” he asked.

“Not since I was a kid.”

Ty glanced over from behind the wheel. “You’re kidding.”

“I grew up actively protesting anything hockey related.” I tucked my hands farther into the sleeves of my coat. “My father loves ice more than his children.”

Ty laughed softly under his breath. “You know your dad owns a hockey team, right?”

“I am regrettably reminded endlessly of that fact.”

Ty shook his head. “So what, you just boycott winter?”

“I skated a little when I was younger.” I shrugged one shoulder. “Then I realized hockey stole my father every year and decided I didn’t need hobbies that involved frozen water.”

“You really hate hockey that much?” he asked quietly.

I stared out at the glowing streetlights passing outside the truck windows. “No,” I admitted after a second. “I just hate losing to it.”

The cab went strangely quiet after that. Like something honest had settled between us unexpectedly. Then Ty cleared his throat and pointed suddenly toward the dashboard. “Okay but explain something to me.”

I glanced over. “What?”

“How does someone born in Minnesota not know how to skate on a lake?”

“I know how to skate.”

“That sounded defensive.”

“It was defensive.”

He grinned. “So what happened?”

I hesitated. “I may have fallen through a snowbank trying to get out of skating lessons when I was eight.”

Ty stared at me for half a second. Then he barked out a laugh so loud it echoed through the cab. “You tried escaping?”

“It was cold.”

“You dramatic little menace.”

“My father had to pull me out by my skates.”

Ty was laughing too hard to speak now, one hand tight on the steering wheel while the other pressed against his forehead. “This explains literally everything about you,” he finally choked out.

“I survived a traumatic event.”

“You were defeated by snow at eight years old.”

“I was making a statement.”