Puck me on ice

Tessy's POV

"Tristan." His name slipped out of me like a secret I hadn't meant to tell.

His hands found my waist, pulling me flush against him. His lips brushed my neck, and heat rolled through me like a struck match.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured against my skin.

"You."

His mouth crashed against mine—

I jolted awake, heart slamming, sheets tangled around my legs.

"Fuck." I dragged a hand down my face and stared at the ceiling until my pulse remembered how to behave.

Another dream. Another ridiculously vivid, humiliating, five-star dream starring Tristan Hale.

At this rate I was going to lose my mind before sophomore year officially started.

I peeled myself out of bed, took one look at the damp sheets, and groaned. Great. Just great. I stripped the bed, shoved everything into the hamper, and beelined for the bathroom.

Cold shower. Definitely a cold shower.

I refused to start the year looking like a disaster, so I threw on my usual uniform — black sweatpants, oversized T-shirt, comfortable, unremarkable, safe — grabbed my bag, and shuffled into the kitchen.

"Good morning, roomie!" Sophie sang from her perch at the counter, cereal bowl in hand. Her smile faltered the second she saw my face. "Whoa. You look like you didn't sleep."

I slid onto the stool beside her and stole a grape. "Because I didn't. Not really."

She raised an eyebrow, delighted. "Dreams again?"

"I swear I'm cursed."

"You're not cursed, Tessy. You just want to jump his bones. Why don't you actually talk to him instead of torturing yourself every night?"

"Easy for you to say." I gestured at myself. "Have you seen him? Star of the hockey team. Girls throw themselves at him. I'm dressed like a comfortable toddler."

"You're beautiful. Talented. Funny. Any guy would be lucky. Especially him."

"I love you, but you're delusional."

"And you need to believe in yourself more. You're an incredible artist and you cook better than my mom. That's wife material."

I smiled despite myself. "Flattery will get you everywhere. I'm still not risking public rejection. I'd rather not spend my weekend ugly-crying over a guy I can't have."

"Fair. But you can't keep living in dream-land either." Sophie's face lit with the specific brightness that meant trouble. "There's a party tonight. Owen from the hockey team invited me. You're coming."

I groaned. "A house full of hockey players? Pass."

"Tristan will probably be there. This is your chance to actually talk to him instead of drooling in your sleep."

I gave her my best deadpan stare. "You have way too much faith in me."

"Are you coming or not?"

"Fine." Already defeated. "But I'm not wearing anything of yours. My boobs are staying covered."

She grinned wickedly. "We'll see about that."

—

Art History was still empty when I got there early, chasing the good seat near the front.

"Second," a familiar voice said behind me.

I turned and grinned. "Landon!"

He pulled me into a quick hug. "Missed you this summer. My family's lake house wasn't the same without you."

"I know, I'm sorry. Work was brutal."

We were still catching up when a deep voice cut through the room. "Do you mind? You're blocking the door."

Ryder King stood there, hockey bag slung over one shoulder, looking annoyed that the world had inconvenienced him by existing. We stepped aside. He walked past like he owned the building — like the building should be grateful.

"What's he doing in this class?" I whispered.

Landon shrugged. "Apparently suffering with the rest of us."

Professor Zoey arrived a few minutes later and got straight to it. "Welcome back, sophomores. First assignment — create something that tells us who you are. One week. I want to see your soul in it."

My chest lifted. This was exactly my kind of project.

—

The morning blurred by — two more classes, then my shift at the campus café. I was wiping down the counter when a voice cut through the noise.

"Can I get an iced latte?"

I looked up and everything in my chest rearranged itself.

Tristan Hale. Backward cap, team hoodie, that easy, unbothered posture of someone who'd never once had to try at anything in his life — except, maybe, at looking like he wasn't trying. His eyes found mine, and I forgot, briefly and completely, how breathing worked.

"You okay?" He tilted his head, half a smile forming.

"Y-yeah! Iced latte. Coming right up."

My hands shook the entire time I made it. When I set the cup down, he slid cash across the counter, his fingers brushing mine for exactly half a second — the kind of accident that felt engineered even though I knew it wasn't.

"Thanks." He winked. Actually winked, like a person in a movie.

Then he was gone, and I stood there gripping the counter like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

"Oh my fucking God," I whispered. Then, louder, to no one, "He just winked at me."

Half the café turned to look. I waved them off. "Sorry. Carry on."

I floated through the rest of my shift and my second job delivering meals, still buzzing by the time I let myself into the dorm.

"Sophie!"

She jumped. "Jesus, are you trying to kill me?"

"Tristan came into the café. He winked at me. A full wink."

Her eyes went wide. "Shut up."

"I'm serious!"

"See? Tonight's the start of something. We're getting you ready."

Adrenaline and nerves tangled together in my chest. "I'm so fucking in."

—

Sophie had turned our tiny dorm room into a battlefield of clothes, makeup, and hairspray. I stood in front of the mirror in my safest outfit — dark jeans, plain black top — while she circled me like a stylist with a mission and zero patience left for my opinions.

"Nope. Absolutely not." She tugged at my hem. "We are not doing baggy-comfort tonight. Tristan already got barista-nervous you. Tonight he gets the girl who can actually hold a conversation."

"My boobs are staying in the house, Soph. Non-negotiable."

She sighed like I'd personally wounded her, but compromised — a fitted emerald sweater that hugged without screaming. I added my silver necklace with the tiny paintbrush charm and called it a win.

"Better," she said, fluffing my hair. "Stop fidgeting. You look gorgeous."

My stomach ran its own private Olympics the entire bike ride to the hockey house. Music thumped through the walls before we even reached the lawn. Cars lined the street; people spilled onto the porch, red cups in hand, already loud in the way of a party that had been going for at least an hour.

Owen spotted us the second we walked in — tall, easy-smiling, built like the rest of them. "Sophie! You made it." His eyes flicked to me. "And you brought a friend."

"Tessy," I said, with a small wave.

"Nice to meet you, Tessy. Drinks are in the kitchen." He leaned in toward Sophie, and I took that as my cue to disappear into the crowd.

The house was packed — bass in the floor, air thick with beer and cologne. I grabbed a cup of something fruity and tried not to look like a lost freshman, scanning the room for one person in particular.

And then I saw him.