Page 86 of Wild Card 13

"You absolutely have a face."

Ty pushed himself off the ice before the referee had a chance to signal. The defenseman who'd hit him chirped something over his shoulder. Ty laughed, then stole the puck back less than ten seconds later and assisted on Northbend's third goal.

Coach pointed toward the bench as soon as the play was dead. "Burns!"

Ty coasted over wearing the unmistakable expression of someone who already knew he'd done something stupid.

Coach crossed his arms. "What'd I tell you about retaliating?"

"I didn't."

"You thought about it."

The student section dissolved into laughter again.

Even Coach's mouth twitched before he waved Ty back onto the ice.

The final horn echoed through the arena a few minutes later.

Three-two. Northbend.

Players poured off the bench, gloves smacking helmets, sticks raised, voices echoing beneath the steel rafters.

Ty found me one last time before disappearing through the tunnel.

Cold air slappedmy cheeks the second we stepped outside, stealing the warmth I'd collected inside the arena almost instantly.

Fresh snow had started falling while we'd been inside, dusting the parking lot in a thin layer of white that crunched beneath our boots. Fat flakes drifted lazily beneath the orange glow of the parking lot lights, settling across rows of pickup trucks and SUVs until every windshield looked dusted with powdered sugar.

The game might have been over, but the night wasn't.

Parents clustered around open tailgates and idling SUVs, waiting for their players to emerge. Younger siblings launched snowballs at each other while exhausted moms yelled half-hearted warnings that nobody listened to. Somewhere farther down the lot, someone had thrown open the doors of a pickup truck and country music spilled into the cold, blending with laughter, slamming car doors, and the muffled clatter of hockey bags hitting pavement.

The whole place whirred with the familiar energy that always followed a Northbend win.

"He's going to take forever," Arlo complained. "He always talks to everyone."

I smiled to myself without meaning to. "He likes people," I offered.

"He likes hearing himself talk."

Naomi bumped my shoulder with hers, nearly sloshing hot chocolate over the rim of her cup. "You like hearing him talk."

"I tolerate it."

She made a noncommittal humming noise that translated roughly tosure you do.

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't quite hide my smile.

The arena doors swung open again.

A wave of laughter spilled into the parking lot before the players ever appeared, followed by a rush of warm air that disappeared almost as quickly as it came.

Ty emerged near the front of the group, hockey bag slung effortlessly over one shoulder, damp hair curling against his forehead. He wore a faded gray hoodie beneath his letterman jacket, looking flushed from the game in that loose, happy way that always seemed to follow a win.

Beside him, Mase balanced two sticks against one shoulder while trying unsuccessfully to defend himself. "I had a guy on me."

"You had the whole net."