Page 9 of Wild Card 13

“To be fair,” he said, “you have always been very organized.”

“I color-coded one binder in ninth grade and you have been dining out on that for a decade.”

“You had tabs.”

“I was a teenager. Everyone had tabs.”

“No,” he corrected gently. “Everyone else had folders full of loose paper and crushed granola bars. You had tabs.”

Bea pointed her fork at him immediately. “That is exactly the kind of thing that gets competent women punished with more work.”

“Thank you.” I gestured toward her with my glass. “Someone understands.”

“Deeply. Men discover you can make a spreadsheet and suddenly you’re responsible for the emotional infrastructure of an entire organization.”

Lo hummed thoughtfully. “Put that on a pillow.”

Dad’s smile turned faintly rueful. “I feel like I should defend men here.”

“You should not,” Bea and I answered at the same time.

Lo laughed softly, and something in the room loosened with it.

I let myself enjoy it for a second. The familiar clink of silverware. The warmth of the kitchen. The way my father’s house held people differently than the arena did.

At Talon, he belonged to the team. To players and staff and sponsors and reporters and fans who all wanted pieces of him at once.

Here, at this table, he was just my dad.

He watched me over the rim of his glass, expression shifting in that quiet way I knew too well. The owner faded. The former player disappeared. “You’re miserable there, Lucy.”

I looked down at my plate automatically. “I’m not miserable.”

Bea made a small sound that suggested I had personally insulted her intelligence.

I pointed my fork at her. “You are supposed to be my friend.”

“I am. That’s why I’m not letting you lie during poultry.”

“It’s a startup,” I insisted, because apparently defending bad decisions was one of my more committed personality traits. “Everyone is miserable at startups. That’s part of the branding.”

Dad lifted one eyebrow.

I sighed dramatically and set my fork down again. “Fine. I’m not thrilled.”

“That is your professional way of saying you hate it,” Lo translated.

I folded my napkin in my lap, unfolded it, then folded it again because my hands apparently required active employment. “I hate parts of it.”

“Which parts?” Bea asked.

“The part where I do three jobs and get paid for half of one.”

The sun shifted across the table, warm light catching the condensation on my water glass. Somewhere deeper in the house, old pipes creaked softly behind the walls.

My father’s house always sounded lived in. Not museum-perfect the way rich people’s houses looked in architectural magazines where nobody appeared to actually consume carbohydrates.

This house had noise. Lo’s candles burning year-round. Hockey games humming from distant televisions. Dishes clinking in the sink. The front door opening constantly because players, staff, coaches, and random giant men apparently treated my father’s kitchen like a community center with better appliances.