“Hudson! There you are!” Mom bursts out of the kitchen, practically rocket-launching herself onto the counter to reach me. “I was so worried about you with the storm and—”

“I’m fine. I was … we hid out at … Sharon’s Café. Just until it passed.” I look at Josh for confirmation and he nods.

“Next time, answer your phone.” Mom runs her hand over my head, her gaze slowly shifting to the adjacent seat. As soon as she notices Josh, her face lights up. “You must be Hudson’s boyfriend! I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

“Ma!”

“I’m Beth, her mom.”

Josh takes her outstretched hand, not correcting her on the boyfriend thing. “Nice to meet you. I’m Josh. Hudson and I are … we know each other from school.”

Mom smiles, checking him out. Meanwhile, my head is about to explode like a marshmallow in the microwave, but no one around here seems too concerned.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she finally says, “but can I see you in the office when you’re done, Hud? I’m putting in the meat order and I want you to learn how it’s done.”

“Meat order. Awesome.” That’s what I get for dropping by Hurley’s when I’m not on the clock. “Be right there.”

Mom disappears into the kitchen and I bury my head in my hands, willing myself to apparate to Parallel Hudson’s world. Olympic training, product endorsements, Ice Capades … wherever she is, it’s got to be better than this.

“Hudson.” There’s a hand on my back, warm and solid. Slowly, I unfold my arms, and Josh leans in close to whisper in my ear. “Come to the game tomorrow night.”

Goose bumps roll across my skin, and I shiver.

“Come to the game,” he whispers again, “and then have dinner with me after. Just us. I know a cool place.”

I look into his eyes, my heart speeding up like it did the moment his lips touched mine. “Not Hurley’s?”

“Definitely not Hurley’s.”

“In that case, you got yourself a deal, Blackthorn.”

“So now you’re making fun of me, huh?”

“Never. Well, maybe a little. But mostly never.”

“Good. See you on the ice tomorrow, then. The indoor ice. Better yet, the sidelines of the indoor ice. I’m not taking any chances with you. Got it, Avery?” He pulls on his gloves, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Josh, I—”

“Hudson?” Trick yells from the little window over the grill, examining his slotted spatula as if he wasn’t spying on me. “Your mom wants to get that order wrapped up, hon.”

“Thanks for keeping such great tabs on her schedule. Tell her I’ll be right in.” I look at Josh. “You okay to get home?”

“I’ll ask one of the neighbors to dig me out.” He zips up his jacket and heads outside, bound for the snow-covered path back to Fillmore. I drop our chocolate-coated mugs and spoons in the bus bin, my heart light, my insides buzzing and alive.

Can we pretend that didn’t happen?

Not a chance, Blackthorn. Not a chance.

Chapter Twenty-One

Woolly Mammoth Freeze-Outs

Chilled chocolate cupcakes with chocolate buttercream icing rolled in dark chocolate, milk chocolate, and white chocolate shavings

Half an hour before the face-off against the Fairplay Sharks, Baylor’s is humming, air heavy with the smell of buttered popcorn and anticipation. I grab a hot chocolate from the concessions stand and find a seat near the center line, away from the influx of random new spectators, away from Ellie and Kara and the rest of the hockey wives. Dani’s next to a few girls I’ve seen at the parties, but if she notices me, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

Down behind the player’s box, Will’s local news fan club sets up their equipment, panning across the crowd for the folks watching from home. Even Dodd’s got more guests tonight—a bunch of stuffy VIP-looking dudes in suits, all shaking hands with Will’s father. Probably the recruiting squad.

I swirl the hot liquid in my cup, heat radiating against my palm. Everyone is glowing, all of them clinging to an unfaltering, unified hope, and when the boys skate out across the ice and wave to their newly adoring fans, the murmurs in the stands give way to a thunderous roar. My heart races as Josh brings up the end of the line, and when he spots me in the stands and raises his stick in the air, my head spins.

I know I’m not part of the practices anymore, but now, as they glide around the rink in their blue-and-silver jerseys in perfect formation, the crowd stomping its collective feet, my whole body tingles with pride. Not to get all mama bear, but it seems like only yesterday the pups were stumbling out of the box, lumbering over the ice with all the grace of bricks.

Tonight they’re playing in the semis, heading for the finals, breaking records with the unlikeliest, craziest, most insane comeback in the entire history of Watonka High. Even if they lose this game, they’ve still performed miracles. When everyone else told them they couldn’t do it, they marched out to the rink, banged their sticks on the ice, and raised the dead.

Cheers to that, wolf pack.

I raise my cardboard cup to the ice and take another swig, whipped cream tickling my lips. Down on the rink, the opposition slides out to a boo-hiss symphony, and the starters on both sides line up for the face-off.

The whistle blows. The puck drops. And it’s on.

Josh takes it first, cutting across the ice and slapping the puck down the rails to Rowan. Two more passes between them, one back to Gettysburg, back to Rowan, sliding into Sharks territory, over to Josh, Josh lays back to take the shot, but Will cuts across and nabs the puck, shoots hard, and scores, right between the goalie’s skates.

First goal of the game, less than two minutes in.

Will dominates the ice again, weaving in and out of the Sharks’ defensive line, the tightest turns I’ve ever seen him pull. When the other team steals the puck, Will steals it right back. He’s keeping it away from the Sharks, but he’s also keeping it away from his own guys. They’re total showboat moves, and in the final seconds of the first period, the opposing defensive line swipes the puck, sends it down the ice, and scores.

One to one at the first intermission, and Coach Dodd calls Will over for a private conference. Dodd’s hands flail around, his face red and blotchy, and Will’s shoulders slump. Dodd hasn’t paid much attention to Will’s technique all season, but when you’re backed by a pack of recruiters, priorities apparently change. Will should know better. Playing the showman card won’t score him any points with the suit committee.

At the start of the second, Frankie snags the puck from the Sharks’ center and slaps it to Josh. Josh takes it down the line, passes it to Micah, back to Josh at the Sharks’ net. Josh shoots and scores, right over the goalie’s shoulder, setting off a crushing roar through the stadium. My heart speeds up each time the boys skate back to the center line, and for the entire game, even though I’m sitting alone with no glittery signs or wolf-ear headbands or blue-and-silver flags, I cheer as loud as I can.

The Wolves are on fire, but Dodd lays into Will again at the next intermission. Josh stands behind them on the ice, bracing against the force of Dodd’s secondhand rage. By the time they line up for third period, both co-captains are on edge, elbowing each other as the ref drops the puck.

The score is tied three-three, and in the last five minutes of the game, a chant rises in the stands. By the time it reaches me, it morphs into a song, and soon the entire arena is belting out the chorus to Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London,” changing the words to “Wolves of Watonka,” which doesn’t have the same lyrical ring, but gets the point across.

The boys are completely pumped.