40. Buzz #2
Lucy’s whole face changed. I had seen her happy. I had seen her amused. I had seen her devastatingly sharp and devastatingly hurt. But the way she lit up at Dottie’s name was something else. “Did she?”
“She made three new friends, ignored two dogs who were trying very hard to impress her, and became emotionally attached to one of our senior staff members.”
A door opened behind the counter, and then Dottie came around the corner at full speed, ears flying, bandana crooked, body wiggling so hard she almost drifted sideways on the polished floor.
Lucy dropped to a crouch. “Hi, baby.”
Dottie slammed into her like she had returned from war.
Lucy laughed, both hands going into Dottie’s ears and jowls while Dottie tried to climb directly into her lap. I stood there holding Lucy’s purse because she had shoved it at me without thinking before she crouched, and the stupid domestic perfection of it nearly took me out at the knees.
I lifted a hand. “Hey, Dot.”
Dottie’s ears went up. Then she launched herself at me. I barely had time to brace before sixty pounds of happy basset crashed into my shins and made a sound like I had personally rescued her from a terrible injustice involving luxury bedding and frozen treats.
Lucy stood slowly. “Well,” she said.
Dottie put both front paws on my thigh and wagged hard enough to shake her whole body.
I scratched behind her ears. “Good to see you too.”
The receptionist handed over a little report card with Dottie’s name printed at the top and a list of weekend activities. Lucy took it with the seriousness of someone receiving a scouting report.
“She had a blueberry facial,” Lucy said once we were outside.
I opened the passenger door for Dottie. “That dog has better skincare than the entire locker room.”
“Low bar.”
Dottie hopped into the back seat of my truck like she had done it a hundred times. She turned in a circle, then flopped down with a dramatic sigh.
We spent the rest of Sunday at the lake.
It happened so easily that I almost did not trust it.
Lucy sent one quick text to confirm she had Dottie back.
I grilled sandwiches because my culinary range was impressive and I needed to show off a little.
Lucy changed back into my shirt after lunch because she said lake houses required soft clothes, and I pretended that sentence did not rewrite several things inside me.
Dottie slept in a patch of sun on the deck.
Lucy sat with her legs tucked under her on one end of the outdoor couch, her glasses on, reading Dottie’s pet resort report card aloud in a dramatic voice. “‘Dottie enjoyed gentle group play and showed leadership qualities during snack time.’”
“Leadership qualities?”
“She also ‘preferred individualized affection during rest period.’”
“She wanted someone to rub her tummy.”
Lucy laughed, and the sound drifted out over the water.
Later, she sat beside me on the dock with her bare feet over the edge, our shoulders touching. Neither of us said much. We did not need to. The quiet did not feel empty.
It felt like the kind of quiet that had been waiting for us to grow up enough to sit inside it.
Once, her hand found mine between us.
I did not ask what we were.
I did not ask if she would come back tomorrow.
I did not ask if the toothbrush mattered, or the shirt, or the fact that she had let me come with her to get Dottie.
I just kept the day.
One whole day with Lucy Thomas and no one taking score.
By Monday morning, real life had teeth again.
We drove separately to the arena because Lucy said it with a face that made arguing feel both unwise and deeply unattractive.
“We are not arriving together,” she said in my kitchen while tightening the lid on her travel mug.
I leaned against the counter. “Good morning to you too.”
“It is a practical rule.”
“Sure.”
“And you are not going to look at me like that at work.”
I widened my eyes. “Like what?”
“Like you have seen me without pants.”
I choked on my coffee.
“And no touching.”
I set my mug down. “At all?”
“At work.”
“Right.”
“No nicknames.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do not make that weird either.”
“I’m a professional.”
She picked up her bag. “Dinner tonight?” she asked.
My heart kicked.
It was not the first time we had eaten together. It was not even the first plan we had made in the last forty-eight hours.
But this was Monday morning. This was after. This was a plan made with the world turned back on.
“At your place?” I asked.
She hesitated. Then nodded. “After work. I’ll cook.”
“I’ll see you at work, Ms. Thomas.”
Lucy’s blush came fast. She pointed at me again. “Less of that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smiled.
She tried to glare, but Monday morning Lucy in my kitchen, holding coffee and making rules about how I was allowed to look at her, did not have the power she thought it did. Or maybe she had too much.
She left first. I gave her ten minutes, because I was respectful and also because she texted me three separate warning messages before I made it out of the driveway. I sat in my truck and laughed like an idiot.
The arena felt different in the off-season.
During the season, Talon Arena had a pulse. Fans, skates, media, music, bodies moving with purpose, the constant pressure of wins and losses and whether your line was producing enough to keep people from talking.
In late June, the building breathed slower.
The ice was still there, bright and cold under the lights, but the hallways were quieter.
Staff moved in clusters with binders and tablets.
Equipment carts sat outside storage rooms. The big screens were dark.
The air smelled like cold concrete, coffee, and whatever cleaner the operations crew used when the building had a chance to recover from us.
I made it thirty-two minutes before I touched Lucy without thinking.
In my defense, she was standing too close to a rolling equipment case in the hallway outside the conference room, and Rusty’s assistant pushed it around the corner faster than expected.
Lucy stepped back at the same time. I put my hand on her waist and moved her out of the way. Something I would have done before I remembered I was not supposed to be the man who knew exactly how her waist felt under my hand.
The case rolled by.
My hand stayed there for one catastrophic second too long.
Then I snatched it back like the wall had shocked me. “Sorry, Ms. Thomas.”
Lucy’s cheeks went red. I stared at a random point over her shoulder and tried to look like a normal man who had not woken up with his face in her hair.
“Thank you,” she said. “Conference room.”
“Yes, Ms. Thomas.”
“Buzz.” She glanced around the hallway, then lowered her voice. “Less.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “I’ll try.”
“Try harder.”
“Yes, Ms. Thomas.” She closed her eyes for one second.
I walked into the conference room before I ruined both of our lives.
The meeting itself should have helped.
There were spreadsheets involved. Roster projections. Development camp schedules. Off-season physical reports. Charity obligations. Front office calendars. Things that usually put a man safely back into the part of his brain reserved for being a professional.
Except Lucy was at the front of the room.
Lucy, in a navy dress and emerald glasses, hair pinned back, tablet in hand, looking like the most competent person in Minnesota.
She moved through the agenda with calm precision.
She answered questions from staff. She corrected two dates without checking her notes.
She shut down a scheduling conflict with the phrase, “That will not be possible,” in a tone that made an assistant GM thank her.
I had known Lucy was good at her job.
I had watched it for months.
But knowing someone in bed and then watching her own a room the next morning did something to a man.
Alois kicked my ankle under the table.
I looked over.
He did not look at me. He faced forward, massive arms crossed, expression blank.
I looked back at Lucy. Then immediately looked down at the packet in front of me like it contained nuclear codes.
Across the table, Oliver whispered, “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re reading the sponsorship calendar upside down.”
I turned the packet around.
Zee snorted.
For eight whole minutes, I did not look at Lucy.
Then she said, “Buzz, can you confirm your availability for the youth clinic on the twelfth?”
My head snapped up. She was looking directly at me. Professional. Calm. Director of Player Operations. Except her cheeks went pink again the second our eyes met.
I forgot the question.
Alois’s head turned deliberately in my peripheral vision.
“Yes,” I said. I cleared my throat. “I mean, yes, Ms. Thomas. I’m available.”