Page 13 of Wild Card 13

Good smile.

Good hands.

I did not think about his hands. I definitely did not think about them enough for heat to rise briefly into my face years after the fact like my nervous system had been waiting patiently for humiliation to return.

“Buzz,” Bea repeated slowly.

I smoothed my napkin unnecessarily across my lap. “Sounds less like a hockey player and more like somebody who should be monitored by a beekeeper.”

Lo laughed softly into her wine.

Dad, unfortunately oblivious in the specific way loving fathers could be when they thought enough time had passed to dull something sharp, continued talking. “He’s valuable. More valuable than people realize. But he gets by on instinct, charm, and talent. That works until it doesn’t. He needs business-minded structure around him.”

I stared at the condensation slipping slowly down my water glass.

Across the table, Bea had gone very still. Then slowly, she whispered, “What’s the story with Buzz?”

There it was. Carefully placed in the center of the table like a live grenade waiting for the pin to be pulled.

I shrugged one shoulder. “There isn’t a story.”

Bea’s eyebrows lifted immediately. “Oh my God,” she gasped, sitting up straighter. “Lucy.”

I looked at her warily.

“You dated Buzz Burns in high school?”

Lo reached for her wine.

Dad blinked once across the table like he genuinely had not realized this counted as shocking information. Which honestly felt unfair considering he had technically lived through it.

“It wasn’t serious,” I said automatically.

Bea stared at me in open betrayal. “You never told me you dated Buzz Burns.”

I took a very careful sip of water. “I never talk about Buzz.”

And I never wanted to again.

I’d built routines around it. Avoiding old photos. Avoiding certain songs without consciously meaning to. Avoiding Northbend bars during alumni weekends because somebody always had stories about Buzz. As if his name still moved through town independently of him.

Across from me, Dad looked mildly bewildered by the tension now unfolding at his dining table. “You dated for years,” he said.

I closed my eyes briefly. “Thank you, Dad. Very helpful.”

Bea turned toward me slowly. “Years?”

“It was high school.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is technically an answer.”

Lo bit back a smile behind her wine glass.

Bea pointed at me accusingly. “You let me spend weeks doing PR damage control for this man without mentioning you used to date him?”

Dad laughed softly into his iced tea.