Page 15 of Wild Card 13

The rest of lunch drifted onward after that.

Dad asked Bea about some PR issue without naming names, though Alois Müller’s giant emotionally constipated shadow sat heavily behind the entire conversation anyway. Lo told a story about a woman at the grocery store recognizing Dad beside the produce section and asking if he could please make the Frosthawks stop “fighting like raccoons in a church basement.”

Bea laughed so hard she had to dab at the corner of one eye.

Dad looked deeply offended for exactly three seconds before I watched him mentally save the phrase for future use.

I participated. I smiled in the right places. Made jokes. Helped clear plates afterward while Lo shooed everyone away from the kitchen like she was protecting national security instead of dirty dishes.

At the sink, Bea rinsed wine glasses while I dried them beside her. “You know I’m going to ask you Buzz,” she said casually. “Would you prefer emotional interrogation now or later?”

“Never is my current preference.”

“Unlikely outcome.”

Water slid over her fingers as she handed me another glass. “For the record, you looked like someone stepped on your grave.”

“Poetic.” I dried the glass carefully. “It was high school.”

“High school can absolutely qualify as emotional warfare.”

My throat tightened unexpectedly. I kept my hands steady anyway. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”

Bea looked at me. Then she nodded once, accepting the lie without remotely believing it. “Okay.”

By the time I left my father’s house, the sun had dropped lower across the neighborhood, turning everything amber and shadowed. The air smelled like damp leaves and distant woodsmoke, the kind of Minnesota cold that hadn’t fully committed yet but wanted everyone to know violence was under consideration.

I stood beside my car for a second with my coat wrapped tightly around me and looked back toward the house.

Through the kitchen windows, I could still see all of them moving around inside. Dad was loading the dishwasher incorrectly. Lo was correcting him with one hand planted firmly on her hip. Bea appeared between them, stole something from a serving plate, and disappeared again before either of them caught her.

Warmth spread through my chest so suddenly it almost hurt.

Then the ache followed right behind it.

That was the problem with hockey.

It took up too much space.

And somehow all the people I loved still existed inside it.

I slid into my car and sat there without starting the engine. The leather seats were cold beneath me.

My phone buzzed inside my purse with a notification I already knew, without checking, would be from my boss asking for something he should’ve requested six business hours ago.

The windshield reflected my face faintly back at me in the dim light. Tired eyes. Tight mouth. A woman who had somehow built an entire personality around being fine.

I could quit.The thought arrived quietly.

I could leave the startup office with its exposed ductwork and fake collaborative culture. Leave a boss who called me indispensable because it was cheaper than calling me underpaid. Leave endless meetings about problems everybody would’ve avoided if they’d listened to me the first time.

I could take a real job. With benefits. And stability. And people who already knew I was capable.

I could help my father. I could work with Bea.

It didn’t have to mean anything. It didn’t have to be permanent. And it absolutely, under no circumstances, could be about Ty Burns.

My grip tightened against the steering wheel.