Page 132 of Wild Card 13

“Right.” His voice still carried the ghost of that laugh.

I kept my attention on the packet. “We currently have twenty-eight participating children registered. Once parents, siblings, caregivers, volunteers, and staff are included, we’re expecting somewhere between seventy-five and eighty people in the secondary rink area.”

“Okay.”

The chair creaked faintly as he shifted. I looked up. It was balanced on two legs again. His phone remained in his hand, his thumb moving across the screen.

The brief warmth in my chest vanished beneath a familiar flare of irritation.

I had spent most of the afternoon dismantling someone else’s negligence piece by piece. Tracking down missing communications.Reconfirming vendors. Apologizing to families who should never have been left waiting. Firing the woman responsible while she looked me in the eyes and suggested I was arrogant enough to believe competence would protect me.

And now Ty sat across from me appearing to give this meeting roughly half the attention he would have devoted to choosing a playlist.

I straightened the top page. “The event was originally scheduled as three primary rotations,” I went on. “On-ice instruction, family photographs, and a player meet-and-greet. We’ve adjusted that because not every child will be participating on the ice.”

“Got it.”

“Some of the children will use adaptive sleds. Some will skate with additional physical support. Others will participate rinkside because the ice environment is not appropriate or comfortable for them.”

“Okay.” The word came too easily. Too casually.

My jaw tightened. “We also have several children with developmental or sensory needs, so the schedule cannot be treated as rigid. Transitions may take longer than anticipated. The music volume will remain low, the overhead announcements will be limited, and there will be a quiet room available beside the family lounge if anyone becomes overwhelmed.”

Ty nodded once. At his screen.

I set my pen down carefully. The sound of plastic against wood was small, but his gaze lifted.

“Have I lost you?”

His eyebrows pulled together. “What?”

“You appear extremely busy.”

“I’m listening.”

“You have given every indication otherwise.”

His expression changed slightly. “Lucy?—”

“I understand this disrupted your free morning,” I said, my voice sharpening despite my attempt to control it. “But these families have been planning for this event for months. Several of these children have never met professional players before. Some have never been inside an NHL arena. They are not a sponsor obligation or aconvenient foundation photograph, and I need to know you understand that before I put you in front of them.”

Ty stared at me. The chair came down onto all four legs with a quiet, solid thump. He placed his phone face down on my desk. Then he leaned forward, resting his forearms against his thighs. Every trace of casual distraction disappeared. “What do you mean, some of them won’t be going on the ice?”

The change was so immediate that it took me a minute to answer. “Not all of the children are participating players,” I said. “The Mighty Blades serve children with a broad range of disabilities. Some children are still acclimating to the arena environment. For some, the available equipment may not meet their access needs. Others prefer to watch from the boards or take part in the off-ice stations.”

“How many sleds do we have?”

I glanced down at the inventory sheet. “Twelve are confirmed through the organization. The arena has four additional training sleds available, but two need to be inspected tonight.”

“Is sixteen enough?”

“We believe so. The children are divided into smaller groups, and not every on-ice participant uses one.”

“What about sticks?”

“The Mighty Blades bring their own equipment.”

“That’s not what I asked.”