10. Lucy
LUCY
THEN
The Northbend High arena always smelled the same.
Cold air.
Freshly cut ice.
Burnt coffee.
And the unmistakable scent of damp hockey gear that clung to concrete walls no matter how many seasons passed.
People insisted arenas smelled like home.
To me, they smelled like my father.
Long before he owned the Frosthawks, before boardrooms and press conferences and draft nights consumed every spare minute of his life, there had been rinks exactly like this one.
Community arenas with rattling heaters that never quite kept up with Minnesota winters.
Bleachers polished smooth by generations of parents.
Volunteers pouring burnt coffee into paper cups while the concession stand sold hot chocolate and popcorn that tasted exactly the same every season.
I'd spent enough of my childhood inside buildings like this that I could've found the locker rooms blindfolded.
It didn't mean I liked hockey.
"You're smiling." Naomi was watching me instead of the warmups, bundled beneath an oversized forest-green scarf that swallowed half her face. She balanced a paper cup of hot chocolate between both hands, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
I glanced sideways. "I am not."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm cold."
"You've been cold since October."
I tucked my gloved hands farther into the sleeves of my wool coat and looked back toward the ice before she could continue her interrogation.
Varsity warmups had already started. Pucks snapped crisply against the boards. Skates carved white ribbons across fresh ice. Coach Whittaker stood near the bench barking instructions that absolutely nobody was listening to.
I understood every drill without thinking about it.
Defensemen rotated low.
Centers supported below the dots.
Wingers stretched the neutral zone before curling back through the middle.
Years of sitting beside my father had taught me hockey almost by accident.
I knew systems.
I knew positioning.
I knew exactly which mistakes would earn a player extra conditioning after practice.
What I didn't know—what I still couldn't explain—was why anyone willingly chose to get hit by another human being traveling twenty miles an hour.
A body slammed into the glass directly in front of our section.
The boards rattled hard enough to shake my boots.
Naomi didn't even flinch.
I winced automatically.
"There he is," she said.
My eyes had already found him.
Helmet tucked low. Jersey half untucked because apparently that was physically impossible for him to avoid. Flying through warmups with the same reckless energy he approached literally everything else in his life.
Most players conserved movement before puck drop.
Ty looked like he'd been shot out of a cannon.
He chased loose pucks he had absolutely no business chasing. Tried an unnecessary between-the-legs move during warmups. Almost collided with Mase before laughing hard enough that Coach immediately pointed toward the blue line and yelled something that made the entire team grin.
"You know..." Naomi mused beside me. "I think he only does half of that because you're here."
"He absolutely does not."
"He looked up here three times."
"He looks everywhere."
She slowly turned toward me. "I love that you're trying to convince the wrong person."
Before I could respond, somebody dropped into the empty seat on my other side hard enough to make the bleachers bounce.
Arlo.
Already eating nachos. "I found you," my baby brother announced proudly around a mouthful of tortilla chips.
"I can see that."
He held the tray between us. "You want one?"
"You got cheese on your hoodie."
He looked down. "...worth it."
Naomi snorted into her hot chocolate.
Arlo followed my line of sight toward the ice. "Oh." His grin spread immediately. "You're watching him."
"I am watching the pregame."
"You've watched Buzz for the entire warmup."
"I have watched multiple players."
"Bull." He pointed a nacho toward the ice. "The puck's over there."
"I know where the puck is."
"But your boyfriend's over there."
Heat crept into my cheeks before I could stop it. "I can multitask."
"Oh, she's gone," my brother snickered, looking at Naomi with exaggerated concern. "We've lost her."
Naomi didn't even bother looking away from the ice. "No," she said quietly. "I think she's just happy."
The funny thing was...she wasn't wrong.
Not because Northbend was playing. Not because hockey suddenly mattered. Not even because Northbend was favored to beat their biggest rival.
I was happy because somewhere on that sheet of ice was a loud, ridiculous eighteen-year-old boy who still waved every single time he found me in the crowd.
And right on cue...Ty looked up. His helmet turned toward our section. Then, despite Coach standing less than ten feet away, he lifted one gloved hand and gave me the smallest, quickest wave before immediately pretending he'd done no such thing.
Coach blew his whistle. Ty pointed innocently at Mase. Mase shoved him with one shoulder. Coach looked profoundly unamused.
Warmups dissolved into organized chaos as players gathered around their benches, helmets knocked together, sticks tapping against the rubber mats before they spilled onto the ice for the opening faceoff.
The building shifted with them. Parents settled into their seats. Someone behind us argued about line combinations before the puck had even dropped. A little kid two rows down bounced excitedly against the glass wearing a jersey that looked two sizes too big.
I pulled my scarf a little higher around my chin.
"You know," Naomi said, "I still don't understand hockey."
"You don't have to."
"I know icing now."
Arlo snorted. "No, you don't."
"It means..." She frowned. "Something about the red line?"
"The wrong red line," Arlo corrected.
"There are too many lines."
"There are literally five."
"Exactly."
I smiled despite myself. "You two are exhausting."
"We're delightful," they answered together.
The puck hit the ice.
Instantly, Ty exploded forward.
It never looked like effort. That was always the part that amazed me.
Other players skated.
Ty flew.
Every stride seemed to carry him somewhere impossible, his edges carving effortless arcs through fresh ice while the rest of the game struggled to catch up. He wasn't simply fast.
He saw openings before they existed.
A defender reached for him barely thirty seconds into the shift. Ty slipped around him so smoothly it almost looked rude. The crowd rose with a collective gasp.
"Oh, he's feeling himself tonight," Arlo laughed.
"He knows you're here," Naomi teased under her breath.
Ty crossed the blue line carrying the puck, faked a slap shot that froze both defenders for half a heartbeat, then feathered a ridiculous backhand pass through traffic to Mase.
Mase caught it cleanly.
Missed the net by inches.
Ty threw both hands into the air. "You had the whole net!"
Mase answered with a gesture that Coach definitely pretended not to see.
I laughed. "So mature," I murmured.
"They're basically toddlers with better balance," Naomi replied.
The game settled into a rhythm after that.
Northbend attacked.
Recovered.
Reset.
Ty never stopped moving.
Even without the puck, he was impossible not to watch.
He chased every loose puck like it had personally insulted him. Backchecked harder than anyone else on the ice. Then immediately tried something completely unnecessary the next shift simply because he could.
Coach Whittaker slammed the bench door. "Burns!"
Ty looked over innocently while still skating. "What?"
"You trying to make the highlight reel or win the damn game?"
A grin split across Ty's face. "Can I pick both?"
The entire student section erupted.
Coach pinched the bridge of his nose. Even the assistant coach looked like he was trying not to laugh.
"You know," Naomi said, "I'm beginning to understand why your father gets migraines."
Northbend regained possession.
The puck worked its way around the offensive zone before landing on Ty's stick just inside the right circle.
Everything slowed.
I'd seen enough hockey to recognize what everyone else recognized at the exact same moment.
Space.
Just enough.
Ty saw it too.
He shifted his weight, pulled the puck around one defender's stick, and snapped a wrist shot through a screen before the goalie ever finished squaring to him.
The red goal light flashed.
The arena exploded.
Ty disappeared beneath a pile of navy jerseys as teammates launched themselves toward him.
Arlo was already on his feet yelling loud enough to embarrass everyone sitting within three rows.
Naomi clapped politely.
I didn't realize I was standing until Ty looked toward the glass.
Toward me.
His smile got even bigger.
He skated straight toward our corner before peeling away at the last second, reaching out with one gloved hand to tap the glass exactly where I was standing.
Thunk.
Just once.
Quick.
Almost secret.
Then he pushed backward toward center ice before Coach could yell at him again.
"You've got to be kidding me," Arlo groaned melodramatically.
"What?"
"He celebrates with you before his teammates."
"He absolutely did not."
"He literally ignored everyone else."
"He had six people hugging him."
"And somehow still found you."
Naomi didn't even look away from the ice. "I told you," she said quietly. "He always knows where you are."
The words wrapped around my heart before I could stop them.
I looked back toward center ice just as Ty adjusted his helmet.
For one brief second, across the noise and bright lights and hundreds of people packed into the arena, he smiled only at me. Like scoring had been fun. But making sure I'd seen it—that had been the point.
Northbend held onto the lead for the rest of the game.
Ty took one spectacular hit halfway through the third that sent him sprawling into the boards hard enough for the entire arena to suck in a collective breath.
I was already half out of my seat.
"He popped right back up," Arlo said before I could panic.
"I know."
"You weren't watching."
"I was."
"No," he said with entirely too much satisfaction. "You were making the face."
"What face?"