18. Buzz #4
I lowered my head, needing to tell her everything at once. Fargo. St. Croix. Coach. Dad. Thane giving me the weirdest compliment of my life. The way the whole hallway felt like it had opened in a direction I had been skating toward since I was two years old.
“Luce—”
“Burns!” Coach shouted from down the hall. “Team photo. Now.”
My eyes closed.
Lucy stepped back immediately, smile still on her face. “Go.”
“My face is in high demand.”
“I know. Very tragic for you.”
I caught her hand and squeezed it once before letting go. “Don’t move.”
Her expression softened. “Nobody changes seats once the game starts, remember?”
I wanted to kiss her.
I wanted to stay.
But I turned because half my team was shouting for me near the section championship plaque and Coach looked like he might physically drag me if I delayed much longer.
That was the first time that night hockey took me from her after I had reached her.
I did not think of it that way then.
Then, it was just a photo.
Just one more thing to do.
Just the natural order after a win.
You scored. People wanted you.
You played well. People needed you.
You had a future. People started stepping into it before you understood they were making room.
By the time we reached the parking lot, the cold had sharpened.
Breath lifted white beneath the lights. Students ran between cars still chanting the fight song.
Horns honked. Someone had tied a Northbend flag around the roof rack of a station wagon and was hanging half out the window while his father yelled at him to get back inside before he died celebrating.
Betsy sat crooked near the back of the lot.
Lucy noticed immediately. “You know there are painted lines for a reason,” she teased. “You were taking up one and a half spots.”
“Greatness requires space.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
My family gathered a few cars away, still debating Matt’s. Dad was talking to Thane in a low voice near his truck. Kendrick was loading Grandma Ruth’s tote into the backseat while complaining that the thing weighed more than a furnace. Mom waved at us like she was pretending not to give us privacy.
Naomi and Arlo were arguing about whether nachos counted as dinner.
For once, nobody came closer.
I opened Betsy’s passenger door and put my skate bag behind the seat.
Lucy leaned in. “It smells like something haunted your equipment bag.”
“She’s sensitive.”
“She has a smell.”
“Character.”
“Biohazard.”
I found what I was looking for, wrapped loosely in a towel because I had stolen it off the locker room cart before Coach could notice.
The overtime puck looked ordinary in my palm. Ridiculous how something that small could hold a whole night. I turned and held it out to her.
Lucy stared at it. Then at me. Her mouth parted slightly. “Ty.”
“It’s yours.”
Her eyes snapped up. “No, it isn’t.”
“Pretty sure I just said it was.”
“You scored the overtime winner with that.”
I shrugged, trying to look casual even though my chest had gone tight again. “I was there. I remember.”
She looked down at the puck again, and something in her face changed. Softened. Opened. Her fingers closed around it carefully, like I had handed her something breakable instead of a chunk of frozen rubber that had survived being slapped around by teenage boys. “You’re really giving me this?”
I nodded.
“Why?”
“Because you’re my good-luck charm.”
Lucy’s expression turned dry instantly, even though her eyes were too bright. “You scored because you’re talented.”
“Also luck.”
“And because Mase yelled for the puck so obnoxiously that an entire defensive pair turned toward him in self-defense.”
“That helped.”
She laughed, then looked down at the puck again. She held it against her chest with both hands. “I’m so proud of you.”
For a few seconds, the parking lot disappeared. Then she whispered, “What did they say?”
I pulled back enough to see her face. “Fargo wants a meeting after the season. Camp invite. Maybe Phase II in May if they like where things go.”
Her eyes widened. “And St. Croix?”
“They’re still interested,” I said.
Lucy’s fingers tightened around the puck. “They said after graduation?” she asked.
“Maybe.” I leaned back against Betsy because standing still was suddenly impossible. “I mean, nothing’s decided. We still have state. Camp. The whole draft thing.”
Her mouth twitched.
“Shortcake.” I reached for her hand. “We’ll figure it out.”
Her eyes searched mine.
“I’m not saying that like some dumb thing people say because they want to make the moment easier.” I stepped closer. “If Fargo happens, it’s not that far.”
“It is not nothing.”
I squeezed her hand, trying to pull her back to me, to us, to the part of the night that still felt simple. “We can do long distance.”
The words sounded mature when I said them. Adult. Like people in movies who stood in airports and made reasonable decisions while music played.
Lucy looked down at our joined hands. “We can,” she said softly. “Four years is nothing compared to a lifetime.”
“I’m not leaving you behind,” I pledged.
Her eyes shone in the blue-white light. The promise grew bigger in the cold air between us the second I said it. Too big, maybe. But I believed it.