Page 41 of Daddies on Ice

I swallow. Forfeit?

We can’t afford to just hand over a game, especially right now. “Send me the info again.”

“I’ve sent it twice. Once last night. Once an hour ago. It’s on the league dashboard.”

I keep my voice level. “We lost cell service through a stretch. We’re not ignoring you.”

“I understand,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he does. “We’re doing what we can on our end. But I can’t move the clock.”

I hang up and stare at the empty road stretching between pale fields. Cold December air bites my lungs.

Somewhere far off, a dog barks. Our Ubers are little blue dots crawling across a map on my phone, still twenty-five minutes out, and even if they were teleporters it wouldn’t matter.

We’re over two hours from Hawkthorn on a good day, and today isn’t that.

I turn and catch Trisha and Ash in my periphery.

Ash stands at the rear wheel well with a wrench in his hand, talking low.

Trisha leans near him, hands tucked under her armpits for warmth, cheeks flushed pink from the wind.

They keep glancing at each other, those quick little looks like stolen passes, and when Trisha tips her head I get a clear view of her mouth.

Her lips are a little swollen.

My gaze focuses on the curve of color there and heat hits my chest in a tight, stupid punch.

She’s our PR. He’s team captain.

We’re stranded on the side of a county road with a game clock already running against us, and I know, without a doubt, that they’ve been kissing.

Later, I tell myself.

I’ll deal with it later.

“What do you mean, sabotaged?” I ask instead, stepping up to the blown tire.

The tread is chewed and the rim is filthy, but that’s not what Ash is showing me.

He angles the flashlight beam. “Here.” The light slides over a neat, clean slice at the base of the valve stem. “Someone shaved the stem with a razor blade and plugged it with a short piece of black rubber. Looked normal until the plug worked loose. That’s why we heard the slow hiss, then boom.”

My stomach drops. “You’re certain?”

“I’ve changed more tires than I’ve scored goals,” he says. “Road debris doesn’t do that. Also…” He points to the lug nuts on the neighboring wheel. “Two were finger-loose. You don’t get that by accident.”

Of all the ways I pictured today going, this wasn’t on the list. “Who the hell would do that?”

Ash only lifts a shoulder. “Someone who wanted us on the shoulder instead of at a morning skate.”

I stare at the app, then at the horizon, then back at the RV. “Cancel the Ubers,” I say, and it feels like eating metal. “Even if those cars get here on time, we still miss check-in. I’m not going to drain our budget to show up for a forfeit.”

Ash nods and starts tapping his phone. “Canceled.”

“We wait for the tire to be fixed, and then drive the rest of the way together,” I say. “If we’re late, we’re late. At least we’ll file as a team.”

Then to Trisha, “Can you meet me in the bus? Two minutes.”

“Sure,” she says, cautious now, maybe at my tone, maybe because she knows I noticed more than the tire.