"A what?"
"A mural artist." Sam's tone turned defensive. "You know, someone who paints murals? Large-scale art on walls? It's going to be gorgeous, Tarmek. She's going to transform the main entrance lobby—something with community imagery, local landmarks, team spirit. The whole thing will be interactive. Families can take photos in front of it, kids can?—"
"You're puttingartin the arena."
"I'm investing in our brand experience." She jabbed her tablet towards him. "Look, I've seen her portfolio. She's done incredible work. She's a traveling artist who goes from town to town doing commissions for community projects. Very bohemian. The aesthetic is perfect for what we need."
He resumed walking, his strides longer now, and Sam had to jog slightly to keep up.
"As long as it doesn't interfere with practice schedules."
"It won't."
"Or game days."
"Tarmek—"
"Or team operations in any capacity."
Sam grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. She was a tall woman, but her head barely reached his shoulder. She craned her neck to meet his eyes, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
"This is happening whether you like it or not. My father approved the budget. The artist is already here. She started this morning, actually. I just wanted you to know because you're..." She gestured at him generally. "You. And I'd rather you hear it from me than have a meltdown when you see someone touching your precious walls."
"I don't have meltdowns."
"You once benched Grimshaw for ten minutes because he reorganized the equipment closet without telling you."
His jaw tightened. "The system was working."
"The system required alphabetizing protein powders, Tarmek."
"There was a logic to it."
She patted his arm with exaggerated patience. "Anyway. Mural artist. Lobby. Probably here for a few weeks. Her name is Edie Anderson. Try not to terrorize her."
She peeled away towards the administrative offices before he could respond, her heels resuming their rhythmic click-click-click down the side corridor. He stood alone in the hallway, his fists clenched at his sides.
Art.
In his arena.
Some stranger wandering around with paintbrushes and easels and whatever else artists carried, disrupting the carefully maintained environment he'd worked years to optimize. Strangers meant unpredictability. Unpredictability meant variables. And variables meant things that could go wrong.
He forced himself to exhale.
It's just a mural,he told himself.She'll paint her pictures, leave, and everything will return to normal.
The team didn't need community outreach. They needed wins. They needed discipline. They needed players who showed up early and stayed late and understood that success was built on ten thousand repetitions of the same movement until muscle memory replaced conscious thought.
But arguing with Sam was pointless. She had her father's stubbornness and her own particular brand of relentless optimism that seemed immune to logic. If she wanted a mural, she'd get a mural.
As long as this Edie Anderson stayed out of his way.
He turned towards the main lobby, taking the long route to the locker room. He told himself he was just varying his cooldown walk and stretching his legs. The variation had nothing to do with curiosity.
The Emerald Enforcers Arena had been built in the seventies, back when Greenwood Hollow was still hoping to host a major human hockey league. That dream had died somewhere around 1987, but the arena remained—a sprawling complex of concrete and determination that had housed everything from hockeygames to monster truck rallies to the occasional pixie music festival. The main entrance lobby was the first thing visitors saw. A cavernous space with high ceilings and terrazzo floors, the walls had been painted the same shade of institutional beige for longer than he had been alive.
He pushed through the swinging doors into the lobby, and stopped dead.
