Page 133 of Wild Card 13

I looked at him again.

His attention did not waver. “Do we have extras?” he asked. “Shorter ones. Different grips. Anything they can use if theirs breaks or doesn’t feel right once they’re here?”

“I would have to confirm with equipment services.”

He nodded immediately. “And the kids who need more help physically, are we supposed to assist them onto the sleds, or do caregivers handle that?”

“Caregivers and trained volunteers will manage all transfers. Players should not lift or physically reposition a child.”

“Good.” The answer came quickly. Seriously. Not because he disliked the responsibility. Because he understood that enthusiasm did not equal permission. His gaze dropped to the packet between usfor the first time since he had entered. He reached for it and pulled it closer. “Where are the accessibility notes?”

“Green tab.”

He found it immediately and began reading. The shift should not have surprised me as much as it did. Ty had always been capable of focusing when something mattered to him. On the ice, that restless energy narrowed into something precise and instinctive. He noticed openings before they appeared. Read bodies and momentum like everyone else was moving a fraction slower than he was.

But this was not hockey. Not exactly. There were no goals to score. No crowd to impress. No camera currently pointed in his direction. He read the page anyway.

“There are sensory profiles in here?” he asked.

“General considerations,” I clarified. “No unnecessary identifying information. Some families provided specific information about noise sensitivity, touch preferences, communication styles, or transitions that may require additional time.”

He scanned farther down the page. “So we don’t come in loud.”

“Correct.”

“No surprise touching.”

“Correct.”

“And if a kid doesn’t want to talk to us, we don’t keep trying because we think we’re being friendly.”

Something in my chest loosened by a degree. “Correct.”

He nodded, eyes still on the page. “Are there specific kids who need one-on-one support?”

“Four have dedicated volunteers assigned. Two others may need additional support depending on how they respond once they arrive.”

“Can I know who they are?”

“You’ll receive the group briefing tomorrow morning.”

“I’d rather know before they’re standing in front of me.” The words were quiet. Practical.

I watched him for a moment before turning to another section of my packet. “I can send you the player-facing support notes tonight,” I said. “They won’t include private medical information, but you’ll know the children’s names, preferred communication methods, and any interaction guidance the families approved.”

“Perfect.” He turned another page. “What about pictures?”

“All registered families completed media permissions. Some selected foundation photography only. Others approved individual photographs with players. The lanyards will be color-coded so nobody has to ask a family publicly.”

His eyes flicked toward mine. “Who came up with that?”

“Bea.”

“Of course she did.” There was something like respect in his voice. He looked back at the packet. “Can families take their own pictures too?”

“Yes, unless photography creates a disruption during an activity. We want this to feel relaxed, but the children’s experience takes priority over creating content.”

“Good.” He said it again like he meant it.