Page 156 of Wild Card 13

“It is not nothing.”

I squeezed her hand, trying to pull her back to me, to us, to the part of the night that still felt simple. “We can do long distance.”

The words sounded mature when I said them. Adult. Likepeople in movies who stood in airports and made reasonable decisions while music played.

Lucy looked down at our joined hands. “We can,” she said softly. “Four years is nothing compared to a lifetime.”

“I’m not leaving you behind,” I pledged.

Her eyes shone in the blue-white light. The promise grew bigger in the cold air between us the second I said it. Too big, maybe. But I believed it.

CHAPTER 19

LUCY

NOW

By the time I reached the secondary rink level at Talon Arena, the building had already begun pretending it was awake.

The concourse lights still held that faint bluish cast they had before the public doors opened, and most of the arena remained quiet in the heavy, echoing way large buildings did when they were built to hold thousands of people but currently held only staff with travel mugs and clipped-on radios. Somewhere beyond the wall, the main bowl sat empty and enormous, rows of charcoal seats disappearing into dimness beneath the scoreboard. Work lights glowed over the ice like the building had one eye open.

The secondary rink felt warmer by comparison, though only because people had already started moving through it.

Rubber mats created the walkway between the family lounge and the rink entrance. Folding tables lined the wall, each one covered with labeled bins, clipboards, credential lanyards, water bottles, snack baskets, and stacks of waiver packets I had checked too many times to count. The quiet room had been set up beside the lounge with dimmed lamps, extra chairs, soft blankets, fidget items, and a sign I had rewritten twice last night because the first version felt too clinical and the second felt like I was trying too hard. The third simply said: Quiet Space.

I stood near the check-in table with a coffee I had forgotten todrink cooling in my hand and my radio clipped to the waistband of my trousers beneath my blazer.

You can do this,I thought as I forced a breath deep into my diaphragm.If Charlotte can do this, you can do this.

Her absence moved through the morning in practical, irritating ways instead of dramatic ones. A missing sponsor arrival time. A media release form filed under the wrong subfolder. Accessibility notes that should have been merged into the staff packet and had instead existed in three separate email threads, two of which had been forwarded to an account that no longer had building access.

I had fixed all of it. The event was happening. The children would arrive at nine. The Mighty Blades coordinator had already confirmed she was five minutes out. Equipment services had the adaptive sleds staged beside the ice. Freya had arrived early, hair piled on top of her head, leggings tucked into winter boots, already talking with the volunteer lead about safe body positioning and how not to treat enthusiasm like permission.

Bea stood twenty feet away with Tasha, both of them reviewing the photo consent list while Tasha held a camera against her chest like someone prepared to document joy and ruin anyone who violated boundaries around it.

Sarah Yu moved through the space with a tablet and the kind of expression that made interns straighten their posture from across the rink.

Everything was fine. I looked down at my clipboard.

Everything was fine because I had done every possible thing I could do before the families arrived, and the only thing left was to keep my head on straight.

A puck hit the boards on the far end of the rink where one of the equipment assistants was testing the ice surface. The sound cracked through the air, sharp and clean. My fingers tightened around the clipboard.

“Your coffee is losing its will to live,” Bea said beside me. Bea glanced over my face, and for half a second the teasing thinned into something softer. “You okay?”

I inhaled through my nose. “I’m functional,” I said.

Bea’s mouth twitched. “A deeply realistic answer.”

Before I could respond, Sarah approached with her tablet tuckedagainst one hip. “The west service entrance is clear. Mighty Blades coordinator is pulling in now. Security has the spectator section marked off behind the glass along the near blue line.”

“Thank you.”

“Your father is upstairs for a donor call. He said he’ll come down once arrivals settle,” she added quickly.

My stomach tightened once, then released. “All right.”

At exactly 7:45, the west service door opened. Ty Burns came through carrying three bundles of short hockey sticks under one arm, a Frosthawks duffel over his opposite shoulder, and a shopping bag dangling from two fingers. He wore black athletic pants, a dark hoodie beneath his team jacket, and his hair looked like he had attempted to tame it before deciding personal growth had limits.