Page 66 of Daddies on Ice

“Always showing off for you.” That earns the faintest smile. I fix her drink and hand her a glass.

She sips and glances toward the window. City lights paint her cheekbone gold. “So what now? Small talk for a few minutes, then I leave?”

I settle onto the couch where she’s still leaning. “Why not? Got somewhere better to be?”

She moves to the opposite end, maintaining distance. Smart woman. She surprises me by nodding.

“Research.”

“Oh? Into what?”

Tish shrugs off her leather jacket, draping it carefully over the couch back.

That black dress is devastating, fitted perfectly to her curves, making my pulse quicken.

Her crossed legs catch my attention as her boot swings nervously.

“Trying to figure out who’s sabotaging the Thunderwolves.”

Her words snap me back to focus. “Any leads?”

She shakes her head, sighing. “Nothing solid.”

The weight of responsibility shows in her shoulders, the tension in her jaw.

I reach over, covering her hand with mine. Her skin feels cool but warms under my touch. Her fingers tense then relax.

“This isn’t all on you,” I say.

“I’m PR. Of course it’s on me.” She stares out at the city, Christmas lights twinkling through the falling snow. “I keep running through suspects, but the list is endless.”

I slide closer, inch by careful inch, until I’m beside her. My hands find her shoulders, working at the knots of stress there. She’s wound tight as a spring.

“Makes sense,” I say, kneading her shoulders. “We’ve got plenty of enemies, rival teams, mostly.”

She nods then lets out a soft moan as she relaxes into my touch. “God, that feels good. But this seems personal. These incidents don’t feel like standard competition sabotage.”

Her mouth tightens again, and I hate seeing that worry on her face. I squeeze the back of her neck gently.

“You’re not alone in this. I’m here. Coach and Ash too. We’ll figure it out together.”

Her eyes find mine, something warm sparking there, gratitude mixed with something deeper that settles low in my stomach.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

The room falls quiet except for the heater’s hum and muffled city sounds. Her lips part slightly, like she’s weighing whether to speak.

“You keep staring at my legs,” she says, amused rather than annoyed.

“They’re exceptional legs.” I grin.

“Figured boots were smarter than heels with your height,” she says. “Didn’t want to trip and become a meme.”

“Smart and gorgeous. Dangerous combination.”

Her fingers toy with the lime wedge before she sets the glass aside. She turns toward me, one hand on the cushion between us, the other at her throat. The movement draws my eyes to the hollow there, where her pulse beats quick and steady.

“You keep saying the right things,” she says. “Experience or instinct?”