Page 163 of Wild Card 13

For the next twenty minutes, the event turned into the kind of organized chaos that would have sent Lucy into silent task mode ifit had started earlier. But now the hard parts were behind us. The kids were more comfortable. The parents were easier. Tasha had found the rhythm of photographing without invading. Freya had somehow convinced three volunteers, one parent, and a terrified sponsor rep that hydration was not optional.

Alois stood near the equipment table with his arms folded, watching Niko show his mother how far he had made it across the ice.

The blue earmuffs were still crooked on Niko’s head.

“You know,” I said, stopping beside him, “you sitting on the ice was very emotionally generous.”

Alois did not look at me. “You made it strange.”

“I made it approachable.”

“You talked too much.”

“The kid laughed.”

“He laughed because you were annoying.”

“Still counts.”

Alois’s mouth did something that was not a smile because apparently smiling cost extra in Germany. “Unfortunately.”

I grinned. “That’s high praise coming from you.”

“Do not get comfortable.”

“Too late. I feel nurtured.”

He finally looked at me then, expression flat. “You’re an idiot.”

I laughed, and the sound came easier than I expected. Not loud. Not for show. Just there.

Alois looked back toward the ice. After a second, he said, “You did well.”

The words were so unexpected I almost missed a step. I opened my mouth.

He cut me off without turning. “Do not ruin it.”

I closed my mouth. Then, because I had apparently learned something today, I nodded once and let the compliment sit there without trying to make it into a joke.

Across the room, Lucy glanced over. Her eyes moved from Alois to me, and something flickered across her face before she looked away.

Hope was a stupid thing. Mine had terrible timing.

By the time the final group came off the ice, the wholesecondary rink had changed temperature. Not literally. It was still cold enough that the kids’ noses had gone pink and Grandma Ruth had started distributing spare napkins like survival equipment. But the tightness had gone out of the room. Families lingered instead of rushing out. Kids tugged parents back toward the boards. Someone asked if the Mighty Blades could come back next year, and Lucy’s face changed in a way I wanted to memorize before she tucked it away.

Grandpa Hal had been hunched over his folded roster for most of the last rotation. I’d assumed he was tracking nonsense. Shot attempts. Cone drills. Which kid chirped me hardest. Then he walked over to the Mighty Blades coordinator and handed it to her. “Thought they might like this,” he said.

She unfolded the paper.

I was close enough to see the columns. Favorite moment. Best laugh. First goal. Biggest cheer. Wanted to try again. Grandpa had written every kid’s name in careful block letters.

The coordinator pressed her fingers to her mouth.

Lucy saw it. She stopped beside the check-in table with two lanyards still looped over her wrist. For a second, everything professional in her face fell away. Her eyes brightened. Her lips parted, but she didn’t say anything.

Grandpa Hal shoved both hands into his coat pockets like he hadn’t just ripped her clean open.

My chest went tight.