Page 3 of Wild Card 13

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 CDsscattered 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.”