Page 21 of Daddies on Ice

That silky dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, those wide blue eyes that seemed to see straight through me.

The way she carried herself—nervous but determined—had thrown me off balance in a way I hadn’t expected.

I knew right then she’d be a distraction.

And in my world, distractions are dangerous.

What hit me hardest, though, was her age.

She’s young.

Too young.

Around the same age as my daughter, for Christ’s sake.

The realization had slammed into me like a puck to the ribs, cold and unyielding.

I told myself that alone was reason enough not to bring her on.

What kind of man notices a woman who could’ve gone to school with his own kid?

But she’d looked at me with that mix of fear and determination, chin tilted just high enough to tell me she wasn’t going to give up. And, against every ounce of good judgment I had, I hired her.

I expected to be disappointed. Instead, she surprised me at how she handled Jake’s mess.

Clean, sharp, effective.

I’d thought about the same plan myself and shelved it, afraid it would set off alarms in the media.

But when she laid it out, her confidence smoothed away the risks I’d seen.

For the first time in months, I felt like maybe our PR mess had a chance of being fixed.

Or maybe it’s wishful thinking.

That should have been the end of it. Business only.

But then there’s the way she’s sitting across from me now—one leg crossed, the smooth curve of her calf catching my eye before I force it back up to her face.

I’ve been around beautiful women before. They come with the territory—professional athletes attract them like moths to a flame.

But Trisha…there’s something about her that refuses to be ignored.

I hate admitting it, even in the privacy of my own thoughts, but part of the reason I hired her was this—her. And that’s also the problem.

I’m a widower, raising my six-year-old granddaughter because my own daughter can’t get her shit together. Coaching takes every ounce of my time.

I don’t have space for a relationship, and certainly not with a woman closer to my daughter’s age than mine.

But none of that stops the pull I feel every damn time she’s in my office.

I clear my throat, needing to ground myself, and slide a blue folder with the Thunderwolves’ logo on it across the desk. “Your paperwork. Contract and tax documents, but also yourChristmas schedule. You’ll be traveling with the team this month.”

Her head lifts, eyes catching mine. She’s not surprised—I can see that—but there’s a flicker of something else there.

Worry. Maybe hesitation.

“I figured I’d be going with the team.” Her voice is even, but I catch the way her fingers toy with the edge of her notebook. “I just wasn’t sure how…involved you expect me to be.”