Page 46 of Daddies on Ice

My breath catches, heat zinging through my body. Despite everything, despite wanting to keep things professional, I’m still attracted to this older man.

I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.

Would his beard tickle?

How would it feel pressed against that wide chest while his lips devour mine so thoroughly my legs couldn’t hold me?

“Let’s get to the rink,” he says, breaking through my dangerous thoughts. His voice is gruff and I get more pleasure than I should knowing I’m affecting him too.

I nod, and we leave for the rink where players will practice before we head out again.

The rink is like a white cathedral, cold enough to make my breath puff clouds.

A babysitter hired to help during the tour has the girls bundled in the corner with hot chocolates and markers, excitedly paging through their coloring books to see what they want to color first.

I kiss their heads and leave them to it.

The guys are already circling when I climb the bleachers.

Carl steps through the bench gate onto ice, his voice carrying as he barks out orders.

Ash loops past the blue line with the easy stride of someone born to ice.

Jake does a controlled stop at the hash marks, throwing ice like confetti from his skates.

He loves showing off for fans, and there are quite a few in the stands watching practice.

Jake tosses me a wink then speeds off. My hungry eyes go to his broad shoulders, enhanced by safety gear. My treacherous brain conjures an image of grabbing his jersey and pulling him down while I ravish his mouth.

Get a grip, Tish!

I blink hard and look for safety, but instead find Carl, which is the opposite of safe.

Again I wonder what it would be like in his arms, feeling his lips on mine, his hands firmly holding my waist.

It feels disloyal, like trying to skate three shifts at once with lungs that refuse to fill.

What is wrong with me?

I stand so fast the metal bleachers boom under my feet.

A couple in the next aisle looks over with surprise, and I smile apologetically, heat climbing into my cheeks.

Cold water. That’s what I need.

A splash, a reset, a reminder that I’m a professional with a job, not a teenager at her first varsity game.

The ladies’ room is warm and echoey, with stalls that have old metal locks you have to jiggle twice.

I hurry to the corner sink and let the tap run until it goes from ice to tolerable, then splash my face and press cool palms to my cheeks.

In the mirror, I wince at my flushed cheeks, then breathe deeply through my nose, out through my mouth.

Gradually, my breathing normalizes and the hot pink dulls.

Feeling better, I go into a stall and close the door.

A stall door clicks open. I didn’t realize anyone else was here. Another clicks. I don’t pay attention until their conversation filters into my brain.