Page 131 of Wild Card 13

My fingers stopped against the packet. He watched me carefully.I should have asked what he meant. I should have made him explain himself instead of allowing one uncomplicated sentence to shift the air between us. “You noticed,” I said.

“Your email signature changed.” Ty shrugged one shoulder, as though noticing six missing letters at the bottom of an email meant nothing. “Congratulations.”

There was no teasing in it. No bitterness. Only something warm and restrained that made looking at him unexpectedly difficult.

I lowered my eyes toward the packet and aligned it with the edge of my desk, even though it was already straight. “Thank you.”

Dottie pressed her chin against my knee.

Across from me, Ty’s chair tipped slowly back onto two legs again. And just like that, the moment was gone. Almost.

“For tomorrow,” I began, forcing the shift before my lungs forgot how to breathe, “you’ll need to enter through the west service entrance at eight fifteen.”

Ty glanced down at his phone again. “Eight fifteen.”

“That was not a question.”

“I was committing it to memory.”

“There is a schedule in front of you.”

His gaze moved toward the untouched packet on the corner of my desk. “There is.”

I waited. He did not reach for it. My fingers tightened around my pen. “The doors open to participating families at nine,” I continued. “That gives us forty-five minutes for the player briefing, accessibility review, equipment checks, and a walkthrough of the rotation stations.”

“Forty-five minutes.” He tapped something against his screen.

“Yes.”

“Lot happening before breakfast.”

“You should eat before you arrive.”

“That seems demanding.”

“You are a professional athlete. I assume somebody has explained food to you.”

His mouth twitched without his eyes lifting from the screen. “I usually wait for a trained specialist.”

“I can add nutritional independence to your professional development plan.”

That brought his gaze up. The corner of his mouth pulled higher. “You’re making me a development plan?”

“I’m making myself a contingency plan.”

“Feels personal.”

“It is entirely personal.”

Ty stared at me for half a second. Then he laughed. Not the loud, attention-seeking laugh he used in hallways or locker rooms when he wanted everyone within hearing distance to join him. This one came out low and surprised, his head dipping slightly as the sound filled the small office.

Something inside me responded before I could prevent it. A laugh slipped out of me too. Brief. Soft.

Ty looked up. The amusement remained on his face, but the sound disappeared between us as quickly as it had come. His blue eyes held mine across the desk, and the air changed again.

I became aware of everything at once. The open office door. The soft hum beneath the floor. Dottie’s warm weight pressed against my knee. The way Ty’s shoulders nearly filled the chair. The hotel room in New York hovering at the farthest edge of my memory, waiting for one wrong breath to become real again.

I lowered my eyes first. “The event is being held in partnership with the Northbend Mighty Blades,” I managed, turning the page with more force than necessary. “They’re a local adaptive hockey organization serving children between five and twelve.”