She followed his gaze and laughed—a bright, unabashed sound that echoed off the lobby's high ceiling. "Right, sorry. Artist hazard." She wiped her palm on her already-ruined overalls and offered it again. "Slightly less dirty now. Probably."
He took her hand.
It was small and warm in his. Her grip was surprisingly firm, her fingers calloused in ways that suggested years of holding brushes and pencils and whatever else artists held. She pumped his hand twice, enthusiastically, before releasing him.
"You're Tarmek Stonefist," she said. "Captain. Center. Two-time league assist leader. Terrifying person." Her grin widened. "Sam warned me about you."
"She warned—" He stopped. Recalibrated. "What did she say?”
"That you're very serious and very organized and I should probably try not to leave my stuff everywhere." She gestured at the chaos surrounding them with a cheerful lack of shame. "So. How am I doing?"
He stared at her.
She was still smiling. It was doing something uncomfortable to his chest.
"You have paint samples taped to the walls," he said.
"Isn't it great? I'm testing how the colors look in natural light versus artificial. The lobby has like six different lighting zones—did you know that? The morning sun comes through thosewindows but it shifts throughout the day, and the overhead fixtures have this weird yellow cast that makes everything look slightly jaundiced. I need to account for all of it." She spun in a slow circle, arms spreading to encompass the whole space. "This is going to be gorgeous, Tarmek. Can I call you Tarmek? The whole lobby is going to tell a story. Community. Connection. The spirit of the team."
"The samples are crooked."
"They're experimental."
"There's a system for mounting displays. Standardized heights. Proper adhesive that won't damage the paint?—"
"It's going to be painted over anyway." She was already crouching back down, gathering her scattered papers into a pile that defied all known organizational principles. "That's the whole point. I'm here to transform this space. Give it life. Make people feel something when they walk through those doors."
His jaw tightened. "People feel plenty walking through those doors. They feel anticipation for the game."
"Sure, sure. But what about before the game? What about the families with kids who've never been to a hockey match before? What about the local businesses who rent the space for events? What about—" She looked up at him, charcoal smudged on one cheek, curls escaping in every direction. "What about the players themselves? Don't you want to feel something when you walk into your own arena?"
"I feel ready," he said. "Focused. Prepared."
"Those are states of being, not feelings."
"They're sufficient."
Her smile softened. She studied him for a long moment, brown eyes warm and curious, like she was seeing something he wasn't aware he was showing.
"You know," she said, "I've painted in a lot of arenas. Community centers. Schools. Once an actual castle in Scotland, which was amazing but also freezing. The people who work in these spaces stop seeing them. The walls become invisible, like background noise."
He said nothing.
"But art changes that." She gathered a handful of glitter pens, apparently unconcerned that half of them had no caps. "Art makes people look. Really look. And when you look—when you actually see your space—you start to feel like you belong in it. Like it's yours."
Something shifted in his chest that he couldn't name.
"I belong here," he said.
"Do you?" She tilted her head, studying him. "Or do you just... occupy the space?"
The question was too close to something he didn't want to examine.
"I have team breakfast," he said abruptly. "Seven-thirty."
"Right! Routine. Sam mentioned you're very routine-oriented." She was already turning back to her work, cramming supplies into tote bags with a haphazard energy that made his eye twitch. "I'll try to keep the chaos contained to this area. No promises though. Art is messy by nature."
"It doesn't have to be."
