Wild Card #13 (Shots on Goal: MN Frosthawks #2)

Prologue

LUCY - THEN

“Ihate this,” Ty Burns groaned across the library table like he had been sentenced to hard labor instead of asked to study for biology.

I looked up slowly from my flash cards. “Coach is not going to let you play Thursday if you fail tomorrow’s test.”

“I’ll pass.” The smirk stretching across his face did absolutely nothing for my confidence in him.

Around us, the Northbend High library hummed with midterm panic.

Chairs scraped against old tile floors. Someone whispered too loudly near the nonfiction shelves.

A printer jammed somewhere behind the circulation desk while Mrs. Jensen muttered the kind of threats only librarians and kindergarten teachers ever perfected.

Outside, snow drifted lazily past the tall windows in soft white streaks beneath the parking lot lights. Minnesota winter had settled fully over Northbend weeks ago, coating everything in frozen quiet and dirty roadside snowbanks taller than some freshmen.

Ty sprawled farther back in his chair, hockey hoodie half-zipped, one long leg stretched beneath the table while he tapped his pencil against the edge of my notebook with the steady rhythm of someone born incapable of sitting still.

“You’re distracting yourself on purpose,” I informed him.

“I’m multitasking.” He grinned.

Unfortunately, that grin had become a problem recently.

A small, annoying, persistent problem that had started somewhere between our fourth tutoring session and the afternoon he’d stolen my mechanical pencil, tucked it behind his ear, and spent twenty minutes pretending not to know where it went while I threatened violence across the cafeteria.

There was no reason for either of us to tolerate the other.

Ty Burns was loud. Reckless. Chronically late. One of those hockey boys who somehow traveled in packs through the hallways like migrating geese wearing varsity jackets.

I liked libraries and sketchbooks and quiet coffee shops downtown where nobody bothered me while I read.

Ty liked slap-shotting empty soda cans into garbage bins and chirping at every living person within a ten-mile radius.

And yet somehow, over the last two months, he had slowly crawled his way under my skin anyway. Which was deeply irritating.

“Come on,” he sighed dramatically, letting his head fall backward toward the ceiling. “It’s too nice out to be stuck in this dusty old place.”

I blinked at him. “Too nice?”

He gestured vaguely toward the windows. “Snowing.”

“That is not how weather works.”

“For Minnesota? Yeah it is.”

I tried to suppress my smile and failed instantly.

His eyes narrowed. “There it is.”

“What?”

“That thing you do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You smile like you’re trying not to.”

Heat crept straight into my cheeks. I looked back down at the flash cards before he could notice. “Define cellular respiration,” I said firmly.

“Absolutely not.”

“You need this grade.”

“And you need to relax before your eye starts twitching again.”

“My eye does not twitch.”

He pointed at me. “Right there. Tiny little stress twitch.”

“You are the reason for the twitch.”

“Wow.” He pressed one hand dramatically against his chest. “After everything we’ve been through together.”

“We’ve gone over mitochondria.”

“We’ve shared experiences.” His grin widened, triumphant and warm in a way that made something in my stomach flip over stupidly. Ty leaned across the table suddenly, closing the biology textbook in front of me with one sharp thud.

I jumped. “Fine,” I snapped. “We can do flash cards during study hall tomorrow morning. Happy?”

Crossing his arms, he shook his head slowly. “You’re coming with me.”

My eyebrows pulled together. “Where?”

“Kellers’ place.”

“That tells me literally nothing.”

Ty stared at me like I was personally offensive. “You’ve never been to Mason Keller’s lake house?”

“I avoid places where hockey boys gather in large groups.”

“That feels discriminatory.”

“It’s self-preservation.”

He laughed softly under his breath. “Some of the guys are having a fire tonight,” he explained. “Lake’s frozen over. We’re skating.”

“I don’t skate.”

“You’re from Minnesota.”

“And yet.”

“Come on.” His voice softened just enough to feel dangerous. “Please?”

I looked down at my notebook, pretending to think about it while my brain completely abandoned me.

Objectively, this was a terrible idea. I did not belong at hockey bonfires on frozen lakes with loud boys and beer coolers and whatever else happened at those things. I belonged here. In libraries. With books and sensible decisions.

“You’re seriously not going to stop asking, are you?” I muttered.

“Nope.”

“You’re impossible.” I sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

His entire face lit up. It happened instantly. One second he looked relaxed and teasing and lazy in his chair. The next, genuine excitement cracked across his expression so openly it caught me off guard. “Seriously?”

“Do not make this weird.”

“Too late. I’m thrilled.”

Mrs. Jensen shushed us from across the library.

Ty grinned unapologetically.

I should not have noticed the way the fluorescent lights caught against the messy ends of his hair.

Or the way his hockey practice had left his cheeks pink from the cold.

Or how unfairly good-looking someone could be while carrying a backpack with one broken strap held together by athletic tape.

But unfortunately, I noticed all of it, which felt medically concerning.

We stepped outside into sharp winter air that immediately stole the warmth from my lungs. Snow crunched beneath our boots across the parking lot. The night smelled like chimney smoke and frozen pavement and distant wood fires drifting through the neighborhood beyond the school.

Ty shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie beside me. “You cold already?”

“No.”

“You tucked your chin into your scarf like a turtle.”

“I’m preserving body heat.”

“Tiny angry turtle.”

“I’m going back inside.”

“You absolutely are not.” He bumped his shoulder lightly against mine as we walked. The contact lasted maybe half a second. It still made my heartbeat trip over itself.

His truck sat crooked near the back of the lot beneath one flickering light pole. It was old. Loud. Slightly rusted around the wheel wells. The passenger door squealed when he opened it for me.

“Wow,” I said dryly. “Women must love this.”

Ty looked genuinely affronted. “Betsy is a reliable vehicle.”

“You named your truck Betsy?”

“She’s sensitive. Don’t insult her.”

The cab smelled like cold air, peppermint gum, hockey gear, and something warm underneath it that smelled distinctly like Ty himself.

There were fast-food wrappers shoved into the center console.

A pair of hockey gloves in the backseat.

Three CDs scattered near the dashboard. I picked one up. “You listen to Fleetwood Mac?”

Ty climbed into the driver’s seat beside me. “Obviously.”

“You do not seem like a classic-rock person.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I assumed you listened exclusively to screaming gym music.”

He started the truck with a violent rumble that sounded mechanically questionable. “You ever think maybe there are layers to me, Lucy?”

“Not particularly.”

“You wound me.”

Snow swirled through the headlights as he pulled out of the parking lot. The heater blasted aggressively three minutes later, fogging the windows while Fleetwood Mac filled the truck speakers in warm crackling sound.

I stared at him.

“What?” Ty asked, glancing over at me from the corner of his eye.

“You actually know this song.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re singing the right lyrics.”

“Again. Aggressive.”

I laughed quietly, shaking my head. “This is my mom’s favorite album,” I admitted.

Ty glanced over at me briefly before turning back toward the road. “No way.”

“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.”