Page 38 of Wild Card 13

Even after growing up around hockey, Talon Arena still had the ability to catch me off guard. Not because it was intimidating. Because it was alive.

Arenas weren't office buildings.

They weren't corporate headquarters.

They were ecosystems.

By eight in the morning, thousands of moving parts were already shifting into place for a game that wouldn't start until nightfall.

Even early in the morning, before fans and lights and game-night adrenaline transformed the place into controlled insanity, the building already pulsed with movement beneath the surface.

The employee entrance smelled faintly like industrial cleaner, coffee, sharpened skate blades, and fresh ice.

A weirdly comforting combination.

Security nodded me through automatically now, which still felt slightly surreal considering I spent most of my childhood wandering these hallways holding my father’s hand while trying not to get flattened by hockey players built like refrigerators.

“Morning, Lucy,” Greg at the security desk called.

“Morning.”

I stepped farther inside, boots clicking softly against polished concrete while the arena unfolded around me in layers of organized game-day motion.

Staff rolled equipment carts through service corridors.

Someone from media relations hurried past carrying three camera batteries and a laptop while muttering into a headset.

Farther down the hallway, arena crews swapped out sponsor graphics beneath giant digital boards glowing blue and silver with Frosthawks branding.

The distant sound of pucks hitting glass echoed faintly from the lower bowl where morning skate cleanup was still wrapping up.

Voices carried everywhere.

Coaches.

Equipment staff.

Operations assistants.

Someone yelling about missing meal deliveries.

Someone else arguing about power-play graphics.

The entire building felt like a living organism preparing itself for nightfall.

And somewhere inside all of it—Ty existed.

The thought hit me so abruptly I almost missed my office entirely.

I exhaled slowly and kept walking.

The executive corridor overlooking the lower bowl stayed quieter than the rest of the arena, softened slightly by dark carpeting and glass-paneled offices lining both sides of the hallway. Through the windows overlooking the rink, the empty arena stretched massive and silver-blue beneath work lights while crews moved across the ice far below.

Beautiful.

Cold.

Endlessly hockey.