Page 42 of Daddies on Ice

She heads up the steps, boots clumping, ponytail twitching like a metronome.

When she’s out of earshot, I round on Ash. The wind flips his hair into his eyes and he shoves it back with the heel of his hand.

“What are you doing?” I keep my voice low, but there’s no mistaking the edge. “She’s our PR. We’re in a ditch on game day and you’re making out behind the bus?”

His jaw ticks. “Carl?—”

“I’m not your dad,” I say. “I’m not your keeper. But I am trying to keep this team together, and that includes not turning our media plan into a soap opera. You know the rules about staff.”

“There aren’t rules about staff,” Ash argues. “There are guidelines you made so we wouldn’t implode. I respect that.”

“You respect that so much you smash mouths with our new hire? The woman who’s supposed to fix our reputation?”

Color rises up his neck and he presses his lips together, refusing to say anything.

The flash of fury that hits me is fast and stupid.

It’s jealousy, I know it, but that doesn’t mean I can control it.

“Listen. Whatever this is…” I wave my hand aimlessly. “Keep it off the bus and out of camera lenses.”

“I don’t even know whatthisis, but I’ll be discrete—if it happens again.”

My nod is more of a jerk of my head, then I head to the RV.

I climb the bus steps and the familiar smell of coffee, leather, and old tape wraps around me.

The engine is off, so the quiet feels thick.

Most of the guys are outside stretching legs or making calls in the cold.

Up front, the little dinette table sits with a stack of media passes fanned out like cards.

Trisha is there, her fingers moving fast on her laptop with her phone open beside it.

I slide into the seat across from her. “Hey.”

She looks up and frowns.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“A bit of everything.” I fold my hands in front of me so I don’t fidget. “I just got off with the rink manager. According to him, the game starts in three hours, not five. Mandatory check-in is two hours before, but they were going to give us a grace windowuntil one hour before because of our bus.” I pause. “We’re not making it.”

Her mouth parts, then closes. “We had noon as puck drop on the run sheet.”

I lean back and the vinyl covering the chair squeaks. Outside, laughter spikes as someone tells a joke that turns into a coughing fit. “He says they sent an updated advisory last night. Another this morning.”

She’s already searching her email. “I don’t have it.”

“Could be the clubhouse Wi-Fi hanging by a thread,” I say. “Could be we went through the dead patch and missed the push.”

“Or,” she says slowly, “could be someone didn’t send it to us on purpose.”

I watch her eyes as she thinks it through.

She blows out a breath and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Okay. I’ll draft two statements. One internal to the league and Hawkthorn with the timeline of events. It will explain our car troubles, our location at the time of check-in, our attempts to get there. I’ll ask for a reschedule under extraordinary circumstances. The second will be a press release, but I won’t mention our concerns that it was sabotage, at least not until we have proof.”

We work side by side for a few minutes. She drafts, I pull up the team email account and sort by sender.