Page 62 of Daddies on Ice

The jumbotron.

Big as life, there it is—Jake kissing Trisha. Over and over, the clip loops.

And splashed across the screen in bold, taunting letters reads:Could this be serious?

The fans go wild. Some cheer, some boo, everyone’s talking.

My jaw locks and my chest burns.

This is what we wanted.

This is what Jake needed.

Trisha played her part.

But as I sit here, staring up at that screen, it doesn’t feel like a win. It feels like I’m losing something I didn’t even know I had a claim to.

The players line up, ready for the third period, and I force myself back into the role of coach. I have to. The game isn’t over. There’s work to do.

But the thought gnaws at me, sharp and relentless.

Did I just make the biggest mistake of my life?

21

TISH

The club pulses with citrus-scented air and the sharp bite of gin. Light flows along the bar in waves, shifting from ice blue to soft rose, while the bass makes the glassware vibrate in a gentle rhythm.

Jake sits across from me at our small table, forearms resting casually on the edge, wearing that effortless smile like he was born for moments like this.

For him, being on display is probably natural.

A photographer lurks near the entrance, pretending subtlety while angling for shots.

Two women at the neighboring table whisper and stare at us like we’re tonight’s entertainment.

“Just breathe,” Jake says, his voice pitched low for privacy. “We’re simply two people sharing drinks.”

“Two people pretending to be together,” I correct, my tone dry. The menu’s edges blur slightly before sharpening when our server approaches. “Club soda with lime, please.”

Jake orders the same, adding truffle fries to share.

His navy suit fits like it was tailored specifically for him, the crisp white shirt molded to his frame.

He’s left the top buttons undone—no tie—giving me glimpses of his chest that make my pulse quicken despite my better judgment.

“You look stunning,” he says with one of those trademark grins that makes women everywhere swoon.

Heat creeps into my cheeks before I can prevent it. “Thank you.”

I chose a black dress for tonight’s performance, with long sleeves, a clean neckline, and the hem hitting mid-thigh.

Black boots instead of heels keep me grounded, while my leather jacket hangs on my chair like armor I might need later.

“You don’t look terrible yourself,” I admit, and his grin widens. He knows exactly how good he looks and doesn’t need validation from me, regardless of how sincere it might be.

Our server delivers the club sodas, their lime scent cutting through the room’s sweetness. Jake slides the truffle fries closer and pushes a napkin toward me. After hesitating, I take one tentatively.