PUCK ME ON ICE

Tessy’s POV My alarm blared, ripping me out of sleep. I shot upright, chest heaving as air scraped down my throat. Sweat stuck the collar of my shirt to my neck, and my ribs thudded with every hard beat of my heart. I threw back the sheets and groaned. Another dream. Another ridiculously vivid dream about Tristan. At this rate, sophomore year hadn't even started and I was already losing my mind. I dragged a palm down my face, swung my legs over the edge, and stood up. I stripped the damp sheets from the mattress, tossed them into the hamper, and walked straight to the bathroom. Cold shower. Definitely a cold shower. I needed to freeze the heat out of my skin before heading to campus looking like a wreck. After washing up, I pulled on my usual black sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. On the corner of my desk sat a stack of supplies: thick tubes of acrylics, synthetic brushes, and clean sketchbooks. Most of them came from long shifts at the café and late nights delivering meals. My bank account stayed near zero, but every dollar went toward one goal: becoming a professional artist. It had to pay off eventually. I grabbed my bag and walked into the kitchen. “Good morning, roomie!” Sophie sang from the counter, a bowl of cereal in front of her. Her smile dropped the moment she looked at my face. “Whoa. You look like you spent the night running a marathon.” I slid onto the stool beside her and popped a grape into my mouth. “Feels like I did.” She raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Tristan again?” I buried my face in my hands. “I swear I’m cursed.” Sophie laughed softly. “You’re not cursed, Tessy. You’re just starving for him. Why don’t you actually talk to him instead of torturing yourself every night?” “Easy for you to say,” I muttered through my fingers. “Have you seen him? He’s the star of the hockey team. Girls literally line up for him. And I’m…” I gestured down at my baggy shirt. “…dressing like a comfortable toddler.” Sophie rolled her eyes. “You’re beautiful. You’re talented. You’re funny. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Especially Tristan.” I stared at her, unblinking. “I love you, but you’re delusional.” “And you need to stop hiding,” she grinned, pointing her spoon at me. “You’re an amazing artist, and you cook better than my mom. That’s top-tier material right there.” A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Flattery won't make me risk public rejection. I’d rather keep my pride than spend the weekend ugly-crying into a pillow over a guy who doesn't know I exist.” “Fair,” she said, digging back into her cereal. “But you can’t live in your head forever.” I stared down at my glass of water and remained silent. She wasn’t wrong. For two years, I’d watched Tristan Hale from behind my sketchbook. I knew his favorite number, his position on the team, and his exact coffee order. Yet we had never spoken a word. Sophie’s eyes suddenly snapped wide. “Speaking of dreams—there’s a party tonight.” I groaned. “A house full of sweaty hockey players? Pass.” “My friend Owen invited me. He’s on the team. You’re coming.” “No.” “Tristan will probably be there.” My hand froze on my bag strap. Sophie’s smile turned triumphant. “This is your chance to speak to him with your eyes open.” I gave her my flattest deadpan stare. “You have way too much faith in me.” “Are you coming or not?” I let out a long sigh. “Fine. But I’m keeping my normal clothes. My chest stays completely covered.” Sophie’s grin turned mischievous. “We’ll see about that.” I reached the Art History lecture hall early to grab a seat up front. The room was mostly quiet, the rows of tiered wooden desks still empty. I set my notebook down near the front row and smiled. Perfect spot. “Second.” A familiar voice came from behind me. I turned around to find Landon standing in the aisle. “Landon!” I hugged him quickly. “Missed you this summer, Tessy,” he said, stepping back. “My family’s lake house was dead without you.” “I know, I’m sorry. Work was brutal.” “Still pulling double shifts?” “Someone has to pay for my expensive paint habit.” He laughed, but before he could answer, a low voice cut through the aisle. “Do you mind? You’re blocking the walkway.” We both turned. Ryder King stood a step behind us—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a relaxed posture that made it look like the room belonged to him. His jaw was set in a slight scowl, as if having to stand there was a personal insult. Landon and I stepped aside. Ryder didn't offer a thanks; he just walked past us and took a seat in the very back row. I leaned toward Landon. “What is he doing in an introductory art class?” Landon shrugged. “Fulfilling an elective requirement, probably.” I turned back to my desk and opened my sketchbook. I had enough on my mind without tracking Ryder King. Professor Zoey walked in a minute later, setting her stack of papers on the podium. “Welcome back, sophomores,” she said, scanning the room. “For your first assignment, I don't want technical perfection. I want you to create something that shows us who you are.” I sat up straight, pen hovering over my notebook. “You have one week,” she continued. “Don't turn in something you think will fetch a good grade. Bring me something honest. Show me your soul.” My pulse quickened. Art was the only place where I didn't stumble over my words or hide behind loose clothing. By mid-afternoon, I was behind the counter at the campus café, wiping down the stainless steel espresso machine. “Can I get an iced latte?” The deep, calm voice came from right across the register. I wiped my hands on my apron and looked up. Tristan Hale stood on the other side of the counter. He wore a backward gray cap and a black team hoodie that made his storm-gray eyes stand out. For three seconds, my throat locked, and I forgot to draw breath. He tilted his head slightly, studying my face. “You okay?” “Y-yeah!” The word popped out an octave higher than normal. “Iced latte. Right away.” I spun around to the espresso grinder before my red face could betray me. My hands shook as I pulled the shot, poured the milk over ice, and snapped a clear lid onto the cup. I set it on the counter, and Tristan slid a bill across the surface. When I took the money, his knuckles brushed against my fingertips for a split second. A wave of static seemed to shoot straight up my arm. “Thanks,” he said. He took the cup and turned to walk out, then paused at the doorway. He looked back over his shoulder. “See you around, Tessy.” He gave me a brief wink and walked out into the sun. My heart slammed against my ribs. He knows my name. I stared at the empty doorway, my lips parted. “Oh my God,” I whispered. Then, louder than I intended, “He just winked at me!” Three customers at the pickup counter turned to look at me. I cleared my throat and waved a hand. “Sorry! Coffee high. Carry on.” I practically floated back to the dorm after my meal delivery shift ended. I threw the door open so hard it hit the rubber stopper. “Sophie!” Sophie jumped off her bed, dropping her phone onto the rug. “Jesus! Warning next time!” “Tristan came into the café.” Her jaw dropped. “He did?” “He said my name. And he winked.” “No way!” I let out a squeal and did a quick spin in the middle of the room. Sophie grabbed my shoulders, shaking me gently. “See? I told you! Tonight’s party isn't just a party—it’s the start of something.” I grinned, my cheeks hot. Maybe she was right. I was tired of watching from the sidelines. Sophie immediately converted our small room into a disaster zone of curling irons, denim, and perfume. I stood in front of the full-length mirror wearing dark jeans and a plain black top, but Sophie immediately marched over and grabbed the hem. “Nope. Absolutely not. Tristan got the nervous barista version this afternoon. Tonight he gets the artist.” “My neck and chest stay covered, Soph. I’m not changing my mind.” She huffed, rummaged through her closet, and tossed an emerald-green fitted sweater at me. It hugged my waist and arms comfortably without cutting low. I pulled it on, clasped my favorite silver paintbrush charm around my neck, and looked in the mirror. “Better,” Sophie said, fluffing the ends of my hair over my shoulders. “You look gorgeous.” “Okay,” I breathed out, smoothing the sweater over my hips. “Let’s go find your hockey player.”