Page 200 of Wild Card 13

“She is excellent company. She is also not going to tell you to stop using work as a buffer.”

I leaned back in my chair and looked toward the office door. The corridor beyond it was dimmed for the night, only the lower security lights glowing along the baseboards. During the day, this level moved constantly. Staff, players, assistants, trainers, phones ringing, radios crackling, the occasional burst of laughter from someone who should have been somewhere else five minutes ago.

“I don’t know what else to do,” I admitted. The words came out before I could dress them properly.

Naomi did not rush into the space. That was one of the reasons I had called her, even when I pretended otherwise. She could be blunt enough to bruise and gentle enough not to touch a wound directly. “With Charlotte?” she asked.

“With any of it.”

My gaze drifted to the printed travel report beside my keyboard. Player return confirmations. Morning recovery adjustments. Notes for medical staff. A reminder to review an access list that could have waited. Another reminder to confirm a meeting Sarah had already confirmed. Proof that I was not behind if I just kept moving.

Northbend was not supposed to get inside me this easily.

It had already been there once.

I knew what it cost to belong to a place full of people who could leave.

“Maybe tonight you don’t have to solve anything,” Naomi said. “Maybe tonight you just go home.”

“I will.”

“When?”

“After I finish this access audit.”

“How many lines are in the access audit?”

I looked at the spreadsheet.

Too many.

“It’s already half done.”

I smiled faintly and clicked to the next row. Charlotte’s old office access. Disabled. Executive conference level. Disabled. Sponsor credential portal. Disabled. Shared comms archive. Password reset completed. External forwarding permissions revoked.

That was the mercy of systems. They had rules. They had boxes. They had places to put things that otherwise sprawled everywhere.

People were much less cooperative.

A soft chime sounded from my inbox. I glanced over automatically.

No new email from Charlotte. Just the final travel notification confirming the last player transport had cleared.

My stomach tightened before I could stop it.

I knew he was back.

That did not mean anything.

Players returned from away games all the time. Buzz had a truck in the secured lot like half the team. He had recovery in the morning. He had a life that existed entirely outside my office and my overlit little corner of Talon Arena. He had just played a game in Denver, recorded two assists, and probably spent the last several hours surrounded by teammates, staff, trainers, airport handlers, and the strange insulated momentum of a road win.

“Interesting,” Naomi said.

I frowned. “What?”

“You got quiet.”

“You need a hobby.”