Page 193 of Wild Card 13

“That’s not the same. Lucy does it with glasses.”

A few guys laughed.

I lowered my gaze to the tape around my stick blade and forced my fingers to keep moving.

Lucy’s name could exist in a room without becoming a problem. It had existed in rooms before me. It would exist in rooms after me. She had a job. A title. A reputation now. The guys were allowed to talk about her like she was part of the organization because she was part of the organization.

Director of Player Operations and Organizational Logistics.

Lucy Thomas.

Not Shortcake.

Not mine.

Not anything the room knew how to name.

“She’d have us lined up by sock color if she was here,” Zee said.

“She would be correct,” Jonah replied. “The sock situation in this room is chaos.”

“My socks are fine,” Zee said.

“You are wearing two different compression sleeves.”

“They’re both black.”

“One is navy.”

Zee looked down. “Son of a bitch.”

The room cracked again.

I made myself smile because it was expected. Because smiling was easy. Because if I smiled, no one would look at my hands too closely.

Victor snorted from the wall. “Too bad the boss’s daughter missed this one.”

Something cold moved down my spine before he finished the sentence.

I kept my eyes on my stick. Just tape. Just composite. Just the rough drag of my thumb over the edge where I had smoothed the seam too hard.

Victor kept going, careless and bored and pissed off because everyone else in the room had something to do except him. “Sure would love the opportunity to show her my hotel suite.”

A couple guys barked out laughs. Not big. Not mean, exactly. Reflexive. Locker-room stupid. Sound filling space before anyone thought about what had actually been said.

I felt my jaw lock.

Then Victor added, “Wouldn’t mind seeing what’s under that blazer.”

The words landed wrong. The whole room kept moving around them for one second like nothing had happened. Tape ripping. Music pulsing. Somebody laughing under his breath. Dylan shuffling backward toward the door because he had delivered his update and wanted to survive long enough to file whatever form came next.

One second I was at my stall with my stick in my hand. The next, my skate hit the rubber mat. Not hard. Not a stomp. Notenough to snap the room’s attention toward me. Every bit of oxygen in Denver disappeared.

My vision narrowed to Victor leaning against the wall in sweats he had not earned his way out of, mouth still shaped around a joke that had reduced Lucy to fabric and fantasy and nothing else.

Lucy, who had stood in a room full of executives with her knuckles white around a remote and still made the whole event sound possible.

Lucy, who had rebuilt someone else’s mess into a morning that made parents cry behind the boards.