13. Lucy
LUCY
THEN
The engine ticked in the cool winter air, a rhythmic settling that felt louder without the radio.
Ty cut the headlights and the dark rushed in to fill the space, the lake spreading silver and still under a scatter of stars I could barely count through my glasses.
My canvas tote slid across the worn bench seat when he shifted, and I felt the movement more than I saw it—the dip of the springs, the brush of denim against my thigh.
His hand landed on the seat between us. Palm up. Fingers loose. An invitation.
I watched it there, illuminated by nothing but the faint glow of the dash lights warming his skin.
I knew that hand. I’d watched him tape his wrists before a game, seen it flick water at me from across the lunch table, caught it gripping the wheel white-knuckled when he talked about the scout from State.
It had always been moving. Never still like this. Never waiting.
My breath snagged somewhere I couldn't reach. I pulled my glasses off—the gesture automatic, a reflex I'd learned for all the moments I wanted to feel instead of see—and placed them on the dash.
I set my hand in his. His fingers closed around mine—gentle, like I was something he was afraid to break—and his thumb found my knuckles.
Traced a slow line across them. Once. Twice.
I felt the calluses there, the friction from years of gripping a stick, and my own hand trembled in a way I couldn't control.
His voice came low, rough at the edges. "Did you enjoy your party?"
"It was good," I said. The words sounded thin, stretched over something I couldn't name. The worn seat creaked as I shifted, and the cold from the window found the back of my neck, raising goosebumps I couldn't blame on the temperature.
He didn't respond. The silence swelled between us, thick enough to taste—lake water and the faint chemical bite of the rink soap. I felt his shoulder against mine, solid and warm, and I realized I'd stopped breathing.
I turned my head.
His face was half-lit by starlight, the rest of him swallowed by shadow. The freckles across his nose were dark smudges, his jaw tight, his blue eyes fixed on something in the dark beyond the windshield. He was gripping the steering wheel with his free hand—white-knuckled, the tendons standing out.
He was nervous. Not the easy, goofy nervous he wore like a second skin when he fumbled a pass or dropped his lunch tray. This was something else, a crack in the golden-boy armor I'd watched him wear for years.
"Ty," I said.
His eyes snapped to mine. The air in the cab went still—no ticking engine, no lapping water, just the space between his breath and mine. His mouth opened, closed. His hand on the wheel relaxed half an inch, then tightened again.
"Lucy." My name was barely a word—a breath he'd been holding, falling out of him like he couldn't stop it. His hand cradled my jaw, trembling, and I felt the rough calluses on his palm scrape against my skin as he leaned in, slow enough that I could have pulled away.
I didn't.
The space between us collapsed, and his lips found mine.
The first touch was soft—uncertain, like he was still asking. His mouth was warm and tasted faintly of mint and cheap beer. My brain short-circuited, every thought I'd ever had flooding out through my toes. My hand was still in his, and he tightened his grip, anchoring himself to me.
I kissed him back, tilting my head. When I changed the angle, a sound left his throat that I'd never heard before—low and hungry and raw.
His fingers slid into my hair, threading through the curls at the nape of my neck, and the sensation ran down my spine like a current. His other hand still held mine, and I felt his pulse through the heel of his palm, fast and erratic.
Ty broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, his forehead pressed against mine, his breath hot on my lips. His voice was wrecked. "I've wanted to do this since—" He stopped, swallowed. "Since forever."
I opened my eyes. The starlight caught the blue of his irises, and I could see the want there—naked and unguarded, the golden-boy armor stripped clean away. My chest ached with it. I curled my fingers into the collar of his hoodie and pulled him back.
The next kiss was different. Slower. Deeper.
His hand slid down to the small of my back, pulling me across the bench seat until my hip pressed into his thigh.
The cold radiating from the glass hit my neck, raising goosebumps, but his mouth was fire against mine.
I felt his tongue trace my lower lip, hesitant, asking—and I parted my lips and let him in.
The taste of him deepened as his fingers tightened in my hair. He wanted more. I could feel it in the tremor of his hand against my spine, in the way his breath stuttered when I pulled him closer.
I broke away, gasping. The air was cold and sharp in my lungs, and the world came rushing back. His face was inches from mine, flushed, his lips pink and swollen, his eyes dark.
"Ty," I said, and my voice was barely above a whisper. "I’ve wanted to, too."
His breath caught as he pulled me into his chest, wrapping both arms around me like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go. His heart hammered against my ear, and I let my eyes close, breathing him in—ice rink soap and coffee and everything I'd been too scared to reach for.
His hand left mine. The absence of it was a cold spot, immediate and sharp, and I felt the shift of his weight across the bench seat as he leaned past me.
The sleeve of his hoodie brushed my chest, and I caught the faint scent of him before his fingers found the knob.
The dash lights died with a soft click, and the dark rushed in to fill every corner of the cab.
The only light left was the faint silver of the lake beyond the window, a ghost of a reflection. I couldn't see his face. I couldn't see anything.
His hand found mine again in the dark. Slid over my knuckles, threaded through my fingers, and squeezed. I felt the shudder in his grip. The darkness made it louder. Made every touch a question.
His breath hitched. "I'm terrified," he whispered, and the words landed like stones in the dark. "I don't know how to not screw this up."
I shifted closer, the seat groaning beneath me.
I couldn't see his face, but I knew the shape of him in the dark—the broad shoulders, the jut of his jaw, the soft mess of his hair.
I lifted my free hand and found his cheek, my fingers tracing the line of his cheekbone, the rough edge of his jaw.
He leaned into my touch, and I felt the flutter of his eyelashes against my fingertips.
"Then don't think." The words came from somewhere deep, somewhere I hadn't known I was storing them. "Just be. With me. Right now."
His hand slid around my waist, pulling me until my chest pressed against his.
The dark swallowed all distance, all space, until there was nothing but the heat of his body and the ragged rhythm of his breath against my ear.
His lips found my forehead, soft and warm, and I felt the tremor run through him as he held me there, suspended in the black.
The lake lapped against the shore, steady and unhurried. Somewhere beyond the glass, the stars were still turning. But in the cab, there was only the dark, the weight of his arms, and the quiet sound of his heart beating against mine.
His hands moved before he did—a slow slide from where they'd been wrapped around me, palms dragging across the fabric of my sweater until they reached the hem.
The motion was hesitant, each inch a question he was afraid to finish.
I felt the calluses on his fingertips catch on the wool, and then the cold air hit my lower back as his thumbs slipped beneath, grazing the bare skin just above my jeans.
The touch was electric. A jolt that traveled up my spine, made me gasp against his collarbone. His hands stopped immediately, hovering there at the edge of my sweater, the heat of his palms radiating against my skin without quite touching. A question. A line he wouldn't cross without an answer.
The dark pressed in, thick as velvet, but I felt his breath on my forehead, felt the tension in his shoulders where my fingers had curled into his hoodie. His heart hammered against my ribs, and I realized he was waiting.
I shifted just enough to press my back into his palms. The movement was small, barely a nudge, but it said everything.
His breath left him in a shudder, and then his hands were moving again, sliding upward, fingertips tracing the ridges of my spine like he was memorizing each one.
The fabric of my sweater bunched around his wrists, and the cold air chased his touch, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the winter night.
His hands were rough in the best way—the rough of years on the ice, of taped sticks and cold mornings.
But they moved like he was handling something sacred.
His thumbs swept outward, following the curve of my ribs, and I felt the muscle in his forearms tense as he held himself back from taking more than I'd offered.
I swallowed, my throat dry. "Ty." His name came out broken, half a question I didn't know how to finish.
His hands stilled again. I felt his forehead press against mine, the heat of his breath mixing with mine in the dark. "Tell me to stop," he whispered, and his voice cracked on the last word. "If you want me to."
I didn't want him to. I wanted his hands everywhere—wanted to feel the shape of him in the dark, wanted to map the space between his shoulder blades with my fingers. But the word stuck in my throat, too big, too honest.
Instead, I tilted my chin up and found his mouth in the black. The kiss was blind, messy, my lips catching his lower lip before adjusting. He made a sound against my mouth—low and desperate.