Page 157 of Wild Card 13

He stopped just inside the rink area, glanced at the clock, then looked directly at me.

I hated that my body registered the exactness of it. The punctuality. The eye contact. The fact that he had shown up with both hands full and his phone nowhere visible.

He crossed the rubber mats toward me with an energy that was still unmistakably Ty, all loose limbs and barely contained motion, but there was nothing careless about the way he moved through the setup. He stepped around a volunteer carrying a bin of helmets, paused to let Freya pass with a stack of laminated instruction cards, then set the sticks carefully beside the equipment table.

“Seven forty-five,” he sang out.

“I can see that.”

“Just establishing the record.”

Bea made a sound beside me that was suspiciously close to a laugh, then immediately pretended to read her consent list.

I looked at the shopping bag. “Please tell me that isn’t breakfast.”

“Rude. Also no.” Ty reached into the bag and pulled out a package of child-sized noise-reduction earmuffs. Bright blue. Price tag still stuck crookedly along the plastic. Then another. Pink. Then green. Then black. “I wasn’t sure what colors were approved, so I panicked and bought all the options they had.”

For a second, I only stared at them while he set them on thetable carefully. “There are still price tags on them,” I said, because it was the safest sentence available.

Ty looked down. “Yeah, I made a judgment call in the parking lot between being on time and wrestling sticker glue before sunrise.”

“Growth and prioritization.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Thank you,” I said, and the words came out quieter than I intended.

Ty’s expression changed. Not into smugness. Not into triumph. Something warmer. More careful. “You said today mattered.”

Before the moment could deepen into something neither of us had time to handle, the main doors from the concourse opened and the morning truly began.

Families arrived in layers. Children in Frosthawks hoodies and Mighty Blades jackets. Parents carrying gear bags, backpacks, medical equipment, stuffed animals, snacks, water bottles, and the particular guarded hope of people who had learned to expect environments to be almost accessible but not quite. Volunteers checked names against lists. Tasha crouched beside one little boy to show him the camera and ask if pictures were okay. Freya directed two player aides away from the transfer area with a bright smile and a terrifyingly firm hand.

I moved from table to table, answering questions, smoothing timing, adjusting the rotation chart when one family arrived early and another called to say parking had confused them. The building filled with sound slowly. Velcro ripping open. Rubber wheels over mats. Skate blades over ice. Coffee lids snapping into place. A child laughing so hard near the boards that three adults turned just to hear it.

And then I saw Marion Burns. She stood near the controlled spectator section with Fraser beside her, Ruth on her other side, and Hal just behind them holding a folded roster and a pen.

For one suspended second, the secondary rink disappeared and I was eighteen again, wrapped in a navy blanket, holding coffee strong enough to strip paint.

Marion saw me at the same time. Her face softened with recognition that had learned how to be careful. She stepped forwardbefore I could decide what expression I was supposed to wear. “Lucy.”

“Mrs. Burns,” I stammered awkwardly.

Her hands came up, hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second, then settled around me in a warm hug that smelled faintly of vanilla, laundry detergent, and coffee. “It’s been too long, sweetheart,” she murmured.

I let myself hug her back for one breath too long. Then I stepped away before my face could betray me. “It’s good to see you,” I said, and it was so inadequate it almost hurt.

Marion seemed to understand that too. She only squeezed my forearm once.

Ruth leaned around her, already unzipping a tote. “I brought fudge.”

“Of course you did,” I said.

Hal lifted his folded roster slightly. Across the top, in neat block letters, he had written Northbend Mighty Blades Event. Beneath it, he had drawn columns.

“This isn’t a game,” I told him.

Hal looked at the ice. “Still worth keeping track. Kids might get a kick outta it.”