Page 33 of Daddies on Ice

He looks better than a man has any right to at 6:30 a.m. He tips a knuckle to Becky’s knit hat. “Morning, Your Majesty.”

Becky narrows her eyes. “It’s Queen Becky.”

“My mistake.” He bows and makes Krystal snort a small laugh behind her mitten. “And your Highness?”

“Just Krystal,” she decides.

He nods solemnly. “Your loyal center at your service.” He moves on with a wink that annoys me twice as much than it should.

There’s a security SUV idling near the gate and an actual team bus parked farther back for second- and third-line players.

“Trisha,” a voice calls, and a shiver of awareness dances down my spine.

Carl crosses the lot toward us with those even strides. He’s got Krystal’s overnight bag slung over one shoulder and a coffee in his free hand.

“Grandpa!” Krystal breaks away then stops midway, checking herself like she isn’t sure if running is allowed on team property.

He crouches and she folds into him for a quick, fierce hug. My chest twists.

He straightens. “Morning, Trisha.”

“Morning.” My voice is too bright as flashes of my dream swarm through my mind. “We’re ready.”

Becky bounces on her toes. “Do we get snacks on the RV?”

“Only if you share with the captain,” Ash says as he appears beside us, carrying two coffees and his duffle bag slung over oneshoulder. He holds one cup out to me. “You look like you might need this more than I do.”

I take it, trying not to blush. It’s hard though, as memories of the dream still torment me, especially, the way he kissed me and how his hands felt on my body.

The travel coordinator calls our names, saving me from my lusty thoughts, and I hustle the girls up the RV steps. Inside is ridiculous in the best way.

There are two rows of soft captain’s chairs that swivel to face a small table, a compact galley with a sink and coffeemaker, and a narrow hallway with sliding doors that hide bunk beds.

Someone’s already stacked coloring books and a little box of markers on the table opposite the galley.

Becky and Krystal rush to the table and get settled, exclaiming over the color variety of the markers.

I stash our bags, take the seat across the aisle, and pretend my heart isn’t doing a tap dance.

The little card with the wolf is hot in my tote.

I’m ridiculous. It’s probably a fan.

I scoff.

Like I have any fans!

Or some staffer trying to be cute.

Or—my brain offers helpfully—Mica, with a marker and a cruel sense of humor.

I shove that thought into a box and sit on the lid.

Jake slides into a seat by the galley and starts a loud argument with the toaster oven, which he inevitably wins by charming a staffer into doing it for him.

Ash takes the chair beside the girls and starts asking important questions about which marker shade qualifies as “wolf blue.”

I glance down the aisle and catch Carl studying the seating like it’s a play he’s designing.