Page 38 of Daddies on Ice

Cold climbs slowly from my knees to my throat.

This was not bad luck.

This was sabotage.

13

TISH

I circle the RV snapping pictures left and right. Every photo I take has a purpose. It may look like I’m just taking a bunch of pictures for social media, but they’re designed to show that we’re broken down on the side of the road but not broken as a team.

Jake suddenly appears and takes the phone out of my hands. I reach for it, but he pulls it back and grins at me. “You’re taking all the boring shots,” he says and stands next to me, dropping an arm around my shoulder.

“What are you doing?” I demand with a chuckle.

He waggles his eyebrows at me. “Giving you the best picture yet.” Jake holds the phone out in front of us and takes a selfie of the two of us together. “There,” he says, showing me the picture. “Now you’ll get a million hits on it.”

I have to admit, silently, that it is a good picture of us.

Jake is used to posing and his picture is, as always, great.

But Iamsurprised at how I look.

I don’t always take very good photos. My pictures usually come out with a goofy face or half-closed eyes.

But in this one, my eyes are shining with laughter and I have a nice smile.

Jake and I look like a couple enjoying themselves on some outing with the field of snow in the background. It looks…romantic, and my heart squeezes a little.

“Shit, it’s cold,” Jake says, briskly rubbing his arms.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “You make a living on ice. How can you be so cold?”

“I’m active on the ice.” He raises his eyebrows and gives me a mischievous grin. “You wanna help me workout and warm up?”

Hell yeah I do!

But instead of saying what I’m really thinking, I shake my head at him like he’s a misbehaving child. “You’re hopeless,” I laugh.

“Hey, it was worth a try.”

I glance at Becky to see that she and Krystal are playing quietly by the RV.

Several team players are around the girls, making sure they don’t get into trouble.

I’ve taken plenty of pictures around the bus, now I want to get a picture of the blown tire.

Walking around the front bumper, I almost stumble over Ash who is kneeling on the grown next to the damaged tire.

Ash glances up at me and my eyes drop to the streak of road dust across his cheekbone.

He stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. It’s ridiculous how much I want to touch him, and my hand is already moving before common sense can stop me.

I step close and wipe the smear away with my thumb. I mean to make it quick, a simple practical thing, but the moment stretches.

He doesn’t step back and my hand stills. His hands lift like it’s the most natural motion in the world and settle at my waist.

Heat slides through me so fast I almost sway from the impact. It isn’t the polite warmth of gratitude or friendship. It is a live wire, and the charge bounces between us.