Page 116 of Wild Card 13

That was possibly the worst thing about Alois Müller. He said very little. And then, when he finally did speak, he had an irritating habit of being impossible to argue with.

I looked back down at the folder. The title sat there, waiting.

Every day since walking into my position, I had told myself I was keeping everything organized until someone permanent stepped in. I had built systems for someone else to inherit. Learned routines so I could explain them. Solved problems so the next person wouldn't have to walk into chaos.

But there was no next person sitting in this room. There was only me. And everyone else had apparently figured that out before I had.

My fingers slid over the edge of the folder, not pulling it toward me yet. Just touching it. Testing the reality of it through paper and ink. "I don't want special treatment," I said.

Dad nodded. "Then don't accept any." His mouth curved faintly. "Accept the job."

I looked at Bea first. Her eyes were still tired. Still red at the edges. Still carrying the weight of what had happened downstairs. But underneath it, there was something steady now. Something anchored by the folder in front of her and the man beside her and the truth my father had put on the table.

She belonged here. Maybe I did too.

"Okay," I said.

Dad's gaze sharpened. "Okay?"

I nodded once. Then again, because the first one didn't feel convincing enough. "Okay. Drop acting from the title."

Sarah's tablet made a faint sound as her fingers moved across the screen immediately. "Already updated," she said.

I stared at her. She didn't look remotely sorry. Dad smiled. Bea let out a soft laugh under her breath. And Alois, of all people, gave me a single approving nod like I had just survived a shift on the penalty kill. Maybe I had.

By the timeI made it home, Northbend had gone quiet under a fresh layer of January cold. Snow lined the edges of the sidewalks in uneven ridges, gray where the plows had shoved it aside, clean and silver where the streetlights touched the tops. My apartment building rose from the old warehouse district in dark brick and black-framed windows, warm light glowing in scattered rectangles against the night.

Dottie dragged me through the lobby like she had been personally responsible for getting us home. Her nails clicked across the floor. Her leash pulled tight in my hand. The second the elevator opened, she trotted inside with all the confidence of a creature who had never questioned whether she belonged anywhere. I envied that about her.

Inside my apartment, the quiet wrapped around me differently than the arena had. The exposed brick held the amber glow from the floor lamp near the couch. Books sat stacked in too many places because I kept pretending shelves would magically install themselves if I ignored the problem long enough. A half-unpacked box leaned against the wall near the window, its flaps folded inward, the word OFFICE written across the side in black marker from when I'd moved in and insisted this place was temporary.

That word had followed me around all night.

Temporary.

Acting.

Almost.

Not quite.

I kicked off my heels by the door and shrugged out of my blazer, hanging it over the back of a chair instead of putting it away. Dottie was already on the couch before I made it across the room, circling twice before collapsing into the corner with a dramatic sigh thatmade it clear she had also endured a very difficult evening of sleeping peacefully in my office.

"Yes," I murmured, plugging my laptop in on the coffee table. "Your bravery has been noted."

Her tail thumped once against the cushion.

I changed into soft pants and an old sweatshirt, washed the arena off my face, then returned to the couch with a blanket, my laptop, and the strange, unsettled awareness that my life had shifted while I was still inside it.

Dottie pressed against my side immediately, warm and heavy and unquestioning.

I opened my email settings.

For a moment, I just stared at the signature block.

Lucy Thomas

Acting Director of Player Operations