Page 10 of Wild Card 13

“I just need to figure out what comes next,” I told them, taking a sip of water. “Something bigger. Something that isn’t me babysitting a founder who thinks operational strategy means buying more whiteboards.”

Bea leaned back slightly in her chair. “Whiteboards are where ideas go to pretend they have structure.”

I pointed at her immediately. “I’m stealing that.”

Dad tapped one finger lightly against his glass. “Quit.”

I blinked at him. “What?”

“Quit,” he repeated, like the word had not just entered theconversation carrying a weapon. “Come work for the team until something better comes along.”

The room went still for half a second. Not the kind movies used before someone announced a murder. Enough quiet for my nervous system to recognize danger before my brain caught up.

Then Bea sat up straighter.

Lo’s eyes flicked toward my father over the rim of her wine glass.

“No,” I blurted out without hesitation. And I laughed because, what else was I supposed to do when the man who accidentally gave me lifelong hockey-related emotional issues suggested I solve my professional burnout by walking directly into the center of the problem?

Dad’s mouth twitched slightly. “That was fast.”

“That was generous. I could’ve started laughing sooner.”

Bea angled toward me. “It’s not the worst idea.”

I looked at her in betrayal. “You work there. You have Stockholm syndrome with a media badge and a fake relationship.”

“I have direct deposit and health insurance.” She lifted both hands, but she was already smiling. “I’m just saying it would be nice to have someone in the office I actually like.”

The warmth that moved through me was immediate and deeply inconvenient.

When she first entered my father’s world, I’d expected to like her politely. Respect her professionally. Exchange composed conversations at family dinners while she navigated yet another public relations disaster caused by professional athletes discovering Instagram stories and alcohol simultaneously.

Instead, she’d become real. Coffee shop meetings before work. Late-night texts. Shared looks across rooms whenever my father slipped into owner mode and started speaking like everybody in the organization was part of an elaborate spreadsheet instead of a person with blood pressure.

Bea understood pressure without making a performance out of surviving it. She understood ambition too.

Not the glossy LinkedIn version people posted beside photos of laptops and airport terminals. The kind that sat in your chest like asecond heartbeat and whispered constantly that being useful was not the same thing as becoming something.

“I love you,” I told her honestly. “But absolutely not.”

Dad rested his forearms against the table. “You don’t even know what the job would be.”

“I know where the job would be.”

“Talon Arena has excellent coffee now.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Because Alois bullied somebody into fixing it.”

Bea examined her nails. “I prefer the word advocated.”

“He threatened to bring his espresso machine and expense it to the organization.”

“And now the coffee is better,” she replied smoothly. “Advocacy.”

Lo smiled faintly into her wine glass.

I shook my head. “I’m serious. I don’t want to work in hockey.”