Page 119 of Daddies on Ice

The way she says my name—not Coach, not the casual nickname the guys use—sends heat straight through me.

There’s something intimate about it, like she’s claiming me in some small way.

“Morning, Trisha.”

Our eyes hold for a moment longer than necessary, and I can see the uncertainty there, the questions she’s not asking.

How do we navigate this? What happens now?

I wish I had answers, but I’m flying blind here.

Krystal runs off to join Becky and the other kids, and Trisha straightens, smoothing her hands down her jeans in a nervous gesture that makes me want to pull her against me and kiss away her worries.

“Walk with me to the lodge?” I ask, giving her what I hope is an encouraging smile.

She nods, and we step back out into the cold morning air. The lodge is only a few blocks away, but the silence between us feels charged, electric.

I want to reach for her hand, want to pull her close and breathe in that intoxicating scent of vanilla.

“Carl, about the other night,” she starts, but I cut her off.

“You don’t owe me any explanations, Trisha. We’re all adults here.”

She glances at me sideways, and I catch the flash of something—disappointment?—in her expression.

Maybe she wanted to talk about it.

Maybe she needs to process what happened between the four of us.

But I’ve never been good with emotional conversations, and I sure as hell don’t know how to navigate the complicated dynamics of sharing a woman with two other men.

The lodge dining room is nearly empty this early, just a few other guests scattered at tables near the windows.

We claim a corner booth, and I try not to notice how the morning light catches the maroon highlights in her hair, or how her lips look soft and inviting as she sips her coffee.

The TV in the corner plays softly, showing the weather report. More snow expected, roads closing, the usual winter chaos.

The reporter mentions that tonight’s game has been officially canceled due to the storm.

It’s a good thing this is just our promotional seasonal tour instead of the real season.

Trisha nods, but she seems distracted, her gaze drifting to the window where snow continues to fall in thick, lazy flakes.

I want to ask what she’s thinking, want to know if she’s having second thoughts about what happened between us.

I shouldn’t have shut her down when she tried to talk to me earlier.

But before I can work up the courage to bring up the subject again, the news program shifts gears.

“And now we have an exclusive breaking story,” the reporter announces, her voice bright with excitement.

The Thunderwolves logo flashes on screen, followed by footage I recognize from our promotional events.

There’s the team, and there’s Trisha, looking professional and beautiful as she handles the media.

My chest swells with pride watching her work.

But then the image changes, and my blood runs cold.