Page 96 of Thin Ice

"Probably."

I put the trophy on the deck railing. Carefully. Like it might break, even though it was solid metal and had survived fifty years in the wrong house. Then I put my hands on his face and kissed him.

His hands came to my waist and my hands stayed on his face and the cold was everywhere and I didn't feel any of it.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too."

"No, I mean. I love you and you stole a national championship trophy from your father's office for my school."

"I love you and I'd do it again."

"Don't do it again. Once is romantic. Twice is a felony."

He laughed. I felt it against my mouth. I kissed him again, slower this time, and his hands were in my hair, and we stood on the deck in the cold with the stars above us and the trophy beside us and the year running out.

"We should go inside," I said.

"Bring it."

I picked up the trophy. We walked back into the cabin. The warmth hit my face. The music was louder now. Everyone was in the living room, the countdown on Ethan's phone on the coffee table, seven minutes to midnight.

Remy saw it first.

He was in his chair with his feet tucked up and his energy drink on the armrest, and he saw me walk in carrying it and his body went still. He unfolded his legs. Stood up. Crossed the room.

"Give me that."

I handed it to him. He held it in both hands and turned it and read the engraving, and his face did something I'd never seen from him. The composure cracked. His eyes widened and his mouth opened, and he looked at Alex and then back at the trophy and then back at Alex.

"Is this the '67?"

"Yeah," Alex said.

"Where was it?"

"My father's house."

Remy held the trophy. His hands were tight on it. He read the names. Every one. His lips moving.

"How long has it been there?"

"My whole life."

The room was quiet. Everyone watching Remy hold a sixty-year-old trophy like it was something alive.

"Tyler is going to lose his mind," Remy said.

The room exploded. Noah was on his feet yelling. Ethan had his phone out. Priya was asking "What is the '67?" and Noah and Remy and I were all trying to explain at once, tripping over each other. The only national championship. Stolen in 1970. Empty case in the boathouse. Tyler's been obsessed since freshman year.

"Call him," Noah said. "Call Tyler right now."

Ethan was already dialing. FaceTime. The phone rang twice, and Tyler picked up and his face filled the screen, backwards hat, a party behind him, someone's living room.

"WHAT. It's eleven fifty-six, I'm busy."

Remy held the trophy up to the camera.