16. Lucy #2
His gaze moved toward the untouched packet on the corner of my desk. “There is.”
I waited. He did not reach for it. My fingers tightened around my pen. “The doors open to participating families at nine,” I continued. “That gives us forty-five minutes for the player briefing, accessibility review, equipment checks, and a walkthrough of the rotation stations.”
“Forty-five minutes.” He tapped something against his screen.
“Yes.”
“Lot happening before breakfast.”
“You should eat before you arrive.”
“That seems demanding.”
“You are a professional athlete. I assume somebody has explained food to you.”
His mouth twitched without his eyes lifting from the screen. “I usually wait for a trained specialist.”
“I can add nutritional independence to your professional development plan.”
That brought his gaze up. The corner of his mouth pulled higher. “You’re making me a development plan?”
“I’m making myself a contingency plan.”
“Feels personal.”
“It is entirely personal.”
Ty stared at me for half a second. Then he laughed. Not the loud, attention-seeking laugh he used in hallways or locker rooms when he wanted everyone within hearing distance to join him. This one came out low and surprised, his head dipping slightly as the sound filled the small office.
Something inside me responded before I could prevent it. A laugh slipped out of me too. Brief. Soft.
Ty looked up. The amusement remained on his face, but the sound disappeared between us as quickly as it had come. His blue eyes held mine across the desk, and the air changed again.
I became aware of everything at once. The open office door.
The soft hum beneath the floor. Dottie’s warm weight pressed against my knee.
The way Ty’s shoulders nearly filled the chair.
The hotel room in New York hovering at the farthest edge of my memory, waiting for one wrong breath to become real again.
I lowered my eyes first. “The event is being held in partnership with the Northbend Mighty Blades,” I managed, turning the page with more force than necessary. “They’re a local adaptive hockey organization serving children between five and twelve.”
“Right.” His voice still carried the ghost of that laugh.
I kept my attention on the packet. “We currently have twenty-eight participating children registered. Once parents, siblings, caregivers, volunteers, and staff are included, we’re expecting somewhere between seventy-five and eighty people in the secondary rink area.”
“Okay.”
The chair creaked faintly as he shifted. I looked up. It was balanced on two legs again. His phone remained in his hand, his thumb moving across the screen.
The brief warmth in my chest vanished beneath a familiar flare of irritation.
I had spent most of the afternoon dismantling someone else’s negligence piece by piece.
Tracking down missing communications. Reconfirming vendors.
Apologizing to families who should never have been left waiting.
Firing the woman responsible while she looked me in the eyes and suggested I was arrogant enough to believe competence would protect me.
And now Ty sat across from me appearing to give this meeting roughly half the attention he would have devoted to choosing a playlist.
I straightened the top page. “The event was originally scheduled as three primary rotations,” I went on. “On-ice instruction, family photographs, and a player meet-and-greet. We’ve adjusted that because not every child will be participating on the ice.”
“Got it.”
“Some of the children will use adaptive sleds. Some will skate with additional physical support. Others will participate rinkside because the ice environment is not appropriate or comfortable for them.”
“Okay.” The word came too easily. Too casually.
My jaw tightened. “We also have several children with developmental or sensory needs, so the schedule cannot be treated as rigid. Transitions may take longer than anticipated. The music volume will remain low, the overhead announcements will be limited, and there will be a quiet room available beside the family lounge if anyone becomes overwhelmed.”
Ty nodded once. At his screen.
I set my pen down carefully. The sound of plastic against wood was small, but his gaze lifted.
“Have I lost you?”
His eyebrows pulled together. “What?”
“You appear extremely busy.”
“I’m listening.”
“You have given every indication otherwise.”
His expression changed slightly. “Lucy—”
“I understand this disrupted your free morning,” I said, my voice sharpening despite my attempt to control it.
“But these families have been planning for this event for months. Several of these children have never met professional players before. Some have never been inside an NHL arena. They are not a sponsor obligation or a convenient foundation photograph, and I need to know you understand that before I put you in front of them.”
Ty stared at me. The chair came down onto all four legs with a quiet, solid thump. He placed his phone face down on my desk. Then he leaned forward, resting his forearms against his thighs. Every trace of casual distraction disappeared. “What do you mean, some of them won’t be going on the ice?”
The change was so immediate that it took me a minute to answer.
“Not all of the children are participating players,” I said.
“The Mighty Blades serve children with a broad range of disabilities. Some children are still acclimating to the arena environment. For some, the available equipment may not meet their access needs. Others prefer to watch from the boards or take part in the off-ice stations.”
“How many sleds do we have?”
I glanced down at the inventory sheet. “Twelve are confirmed through the organization. The arena has four additional training sleds available, but two need to be inspected tonight.”
“Is sixteen enough?”
“We believe so. The children are divided into smaller groups, and not every on-ice participant uses one.”
“What about sticks?”
“The Mighty Blades bring their own equipment.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I looked at him again.
His attention did not waver. “Do we have extras?” he asked. “Shorter ones. Different grips. Anything they can use if theirs breaks or doesn’t feel right once they’re here?”
“I would have to confirm with equipment services.”
He nodded immediately. “And the kids who need more help physically, are we supposed to assist them onto the sleds, or do caregivers handle that?”
“Caregivers and trained volunteers will manage all transfers. Players should not lift or physically reposition a child.”
“Good.” The answer came quickly. Seriously.
Not because he disliked the responsibility.
Because he understood that enthusiasm did not equal permission.
His gaze dropped to the packet between us for the first time since he had entered.
He reached for it and pulled it closer. “Where are the accessibility notes?”
“Green tab.”
He found it immediately and began reading.
The shift should not have surprised me as much as it did.
Ty had always been capable of focusing when something mattered to him.
On the ice, that restless energy narrowed into something precise and instinctive.
He noticed openings before they appeared.
Read bodies and momentum like everyone else was moving a fraction slower than he was.
But this was not hockey. Not exactly. There were no goals to score. No crowd to impress. No camera currently pointed in his direction. He read the page anyway.
“There are sensory profiles in here?” he asked.
“General considerations,” I clarified. “No unnecessary identifying information. Some families provided specific information about noise sensitivity, touch preferences, communication styles, or transitions that may require additional time.”
He scanned farther down the page. “So we don’t come in loud.”
“Correct.”
“No surprise touching.”
“Correct.”
“And if a kid doesn’t want to talk to us, we don’t keep trying because we think we’re being friendly.”
Something in my chest loosened by a degree. “Correct.”
He nodded, eyes still on the page. “Are there specific kids who need one-on-one support?”
“Four have dedicated volunteers assigned. Two others may need additional support depending on how they respond once they arrive.”
“Can I know who they are?”
“You’ll receive the group briefing tomorrow morning.”
“I’d rather know before they’re standing in front of me.” The words were quiet. Practical.
I watched him for a moment before turning to another section of my packet.
“I can send you the player-facing support notes tonight,” I said.
“They won’t include private medical information, but you’ll know the children’s names, preferred communication methods, and any interaction guidance the families approved. ”
“Perfect.” He turned another page. “What about pictures?”
“All registered families completed media permissions. Some selected foundation photography only. Others approved individual photographs with players. The lanyards will be color-coded so nobody has to ask a family publicly.”
His eyes flicked toward mine. “Who came up with that?”
“Bea.”
“Of course she did.” There was something like respect in his voice. He looked back at the packet. “Can families take their own pictures too?”
“Yes, unless photography creates a disruption during an activity. We want this to feel relaxed, but the children’s experience takes priority over creating content.”
“Good.” He said it again like he meant it.
My irritation had nowhere to go now. It remained inside me, fully assembled but suddenly unsupported by the man sitting across from me.
Ty turned another page, scanning the schedule with the same concentration he brought to a coach’s board during a timeout. “Can we get here earlier?”
The question caught me off guard. “Earlier than eight fifteen?”
“Yeah.”
“How much earlier?”
“Whatever helps.”
“You have morning recovery requirements.”
“I can move them.”
“You cannot independently rearrange medical scheduling.”