4. Lucy #2
Freya was still laughing. “You have to babysit Buzz Burns?”
“I have to professionally monitor Buzz Burns.”
“That's somehow funnier.”
“Freya.”
“Sorry.” She wasn't. Not even a little.
I tore off a piece of sticky bun and immediately understood why Lo had become emotionally attached to baking. Butter might genuinely solve problems.
Not all problems. Definitely not the six-foot-two blond disaster currently ruining my week.
But some.
“Apparently repeated missed obligations now require additional accountability measures,” I explained.
“Translation?” Freya asked.
“Translation,” Bea said dryly, reaching for her tea, “Buzz keeps forgetting he is a professional athlete.”
“It’s not fair,” I griped loudly into my coffee.
Both women looked at me.
I immediately regretted speaking. Because that had come out far too fast. Far too automatic.
Bea's eyebrow lifted. Dangerous. Knowing.
“Okay,” Freya said slowly.
I hated that tone immediately.
Her eyes narrowed. Then narrowed further. “Wait. You know him.”
“No.”
“That's a lie,” Freya giggled, tipping her coffee in my direction. “What was it? One-night stand? Did he ghost you or something?”
Bea stayed quiet.
I focused very carefully on my coffee. Cowardly and effective. Neither woman bought it. “Ty was my first boyfriend,” I said quietly.
The arena noise beyond the glass seemed to disappear.
Freya blinked. Then blinked again. “Buzz Burns?”
“There is only one in this building.”
Freya stared at me. Then at Bea. “You knew this?”
“I knew they dated in high school.” The smile that had appeared on Bea's face lingered for a second before she reached for another sticky bun. “Honestly,” she said, tearing off a piece, “this explains so much.”
My stomach immediately tightened. “Don't.”
“I'm not saying anything.”
Freya looked between us. “I feel like I'm missing so much context.”
“You are.”
“Rude.”
“Protective,” Bea corrected.
I shot her a look. She met it calmly. Just letting me know she understood the difference.
Outside the glass walls of my office, the executive corridor had become noticeably busier. Staff moved steadily between departments carrying laptops, game-day packets, clipboards, and radio headsets. Somewhere down the hall, someone was laughing loudly enough that it echoed.
The building felt different now. Closer to game time. Closer to becoming what it was built to be.
Freya brushed powdered sugar from her sleeve and glanced toward the arena bowl beyond the windows. “Who am I supposed to bully tonight if Alois is sitting in hockey jail?”
“He'll still be in the building,” Bea sighed.
“Which somehow feels unfair.”
“Alois would agree with you.” A genuine smile tugged at Bea's mouth.
Freya shook her head. “Hockey players are fascinating.”
“Hockey players are exhausting,” Bea corrected.
I raised my coffee in agreement. “Finally. Someone speaking the truth.”
“Excuse you,” Freya scoffed. “I spend my entire day treating these whining tough guys. I know exactly how exhausting they are.”
“Fair.”
“Liam threatened to ignore his recovery schedule this morning.”
I blinked. “What happened?”
Freya's expression flattened.
“He informed me that because he's thirty-three years old, nobody can tell him what to do.”
I laughed. “That sounds exactly like Liam.”
“Then he tried to convince me stretching was optional.”
Bea nearly choked on her tea. “No.”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
Freya smiled pleasantly. “I reminded him that I control whether he returns to full-contact drills.”
“That's evil.”
“That's healthcare.”
“Terrifying.”
“Thank you.”
The conversation drifted naturally after that.
Marco De Luca had apparently spent part of yesterday attempting to flirt with a local television reporter. Bea had shut it down before he accidentally created a media problem.
Kjell Larsson had somehow gotten trapped in an elevator with Frostbite and emerged visibly traumatized.
Zee Hendrix had nearly posted a draft social media video featuring strategy notes visible in the background.
The entire team, it seemed, required constant supervision.
Which was comforting in a strange way.
Because for several minutes, nobody mentioned Ty.
Nobody looked at me carefully.
Nobody asked questions.
The conversation settled into the easy rhythm that had slowly developed between us over the last few weeks.
Three women drinking coffee.
Stealing pastries.
Complaining about hockey players.
Pretending life was uncomplicated.
For the first time all morning, I felt myself relax. Enough to laugh. Enough to breathe. Enough to momentarily forget that my entire life had been quietly blown-up less than twenty-four hours ago.
Then Freya glanced at her watch. “Speaking of disasters, I have to go convince professional athletes that hydrating is not a sign of weakness.”
“Good luck,” I told her.
“Thank you. I'll need it.”
Bea laughed. “That's because you keep treating them like adults.”
“They're grown men.”
“Debatable.”
Freya opened her mouth to respond. Then stopped. Her eyes shifted somewhere over my shoulder. The smile disappeared from her face.
The kind that made every muscle in my body tighten.
Bea noticed it too.
I watched her expression change almost immediately.
Slowly, far too slowly, I turned toward the glass wall behind me and stopped breathing.
Ty stood in the executive corridor outside my office.
For a second, my brain refused to process what I was seeing.
The charcoal suit.
The open collar.
The coffee cup balanced casually in one hand.
The gym bag hanging from the other.
Every detail felt strangely familiar, like my memory had reached through years of distance and dropped him directly into the middle of my morning.
He looked older than the boy I remembered.
Broader.
Sharper around the edges.
More tired.
But somehow still unmistakably Ty.
He wasn't looking down the hallway.
Wasn't checking his phone.
Wasn't talking to anyone passing by.
The entire arena seemed to be moving around him while he stood perfectly still.
Waiting. For me.
My pulse stumbled so hard it hurt.
Outside the office, people continued moving through the executive corridor carrying laptops, game-day reports, coffee trays, and radio headsets.
Someone laughed near the elevators. A pair of coaches disappeared around the corner.
Somewhere below us, the sound of pucks striking the boards echoed faintly from the rink.
The building was alive.
Busy.
Loud.
And yet all of it seemed to fade into the background at once.
Because Ty was standing twenty feet away. Because after years of silence, years of distance, years spent convincing myself that chapter of my life was over, he was standing outside my office looking at me like he hadn't slept either.
The worst part was that I knew immediately why he was there.
Not Sarah.
Not Player Operations.
Not paperwork.
Me.
He hadn't wandered into this hallway by accident.
He hadn't gotten lost.
He hadn't happened to glance through the glass and notice me sitting there.
He had come looking for me.
And judging by the expression on his face, he hadn't come for a friendly conversation.