Chapter 9 Tish
TISH
I stand at the back of the Little Learners room with a smile spreading across my face.
It smells like washable markers and apple juice in here, the comforting perfume of childhood and sticky fingers.
The county library’s kids’ wing is all light and color: a mural of clouds and kites, cubbies labeled with cartoon owls, and a green carpet printed with storybook characters.
The Little Learners room itself is bigger than I expected, almost like a community hall with its own unique world.
The front section dips down a step into a wide, soft square where the kids sit cross-legged, shoulder to shoulder, and the back half is for grown-ups and strollers and camera tripods.
My Thunderwolves banner is taped to the far wall—blue and gold, the silver wolf mid-howl with lightning behind it:
Thunderwolves Story Time—Hear the Howl, Share a Story. All proceeds benefit the County Library.
I pulled this off in three days. Three. Days.
I keep repeating that to myself, in awe of my own accomplishment. Because tomorrow the team leaves on tour, and if we were going to do something public and wholesome and unmistakably not a scandal, it had to be now.
Half the city has an opinion about the Thunderwolves at the moment, and I’m shameless enough to use that to our benefit—hopefully.
“Tish, you’re a magician.” Ms. Harper, the head librarian, whispers at my elbow.
She’s tiny, with pin-straight gray hair and a never-ending supply of energy. “We sold out the first hour you posted. We had to add a second slot. I can’t remember the last time we had a waitlist for story time that wasn’t dinosaur-themed.”
I swallow a laugh. “You did the work. We just brought the wolf pack.”
“And the media.” Her eyes sparkle as she nods toward the back, where a local morning show set up a small camera on a tripod.
That’s the point. The media is here to report on something good about the hockey team, for a nice change.
I glance at the back table—paper cups, little napkins, stacks of gold and blue plates.
A volunteer mom is cutting apple slices.
Another is taping a hand-lettered Thank You, Thunderwolves!
sign to the wall. Beside the table sits an upright foam board where I lettered, “Autographs after Story Time—Suggested Donation $10” and “Photo Op—Suggested Donation $15.” Two cash boxes lie out, a basket for swipes and tap-to-pay on a tablet the library provided.
I breathe. It’s working.
“Mom!” Becky’s voice rings like a bell and I crane my neck to see her.
She’s down in the sea of kids, near the front, sitting next to a little girl with shoulder-length curly red hair and the biggest green eyes I’ve ever seen.
Becky’s curls tumble around her face as she waves a paper crown at me. “Mom, look! We’re queens!”
“You’re always a queen,” I mouth back. She beams so brightly, I could power the lights with it.
The red-haired girl glances up shyly, then darts her eyes away.
Becky leans in and whispers something and the girl’s lips twitch into a half smile. My heart warms.
A tall shadow moves in the doorway. Carl steps in—Coach Zoren—with the posture of a man born to carry responsibility.
His silver hair catches the overhead lights, his blue eyes sweeping the room once, quick and thorough.
He’s dressed casual today in a pair of blue jeans and boots, and he still somehow looks like he could eject nonsense from a thousand feet away.
He’s carrying a small backpack with a wolf keychain.
He scans the front row, and when his eyes land on the red-haired girl, his jaw loosens.
“Grandpa,” the little girls says excitedly, her eyes dancing with pleasure.
He kneels and kisses the top of her head. “Are you having a good time, Krystal?” His smooth, deep voice carries over to where I am.
She nods, cheeks pink.
He touches her shoulder and stands.
His gaze lifts and hooks mine. Then he walks over to where I’m hiding behind my clipboard.
“Trisha.” He always says my name like that, full and careful, like it’s on a roster. “You pulled this together well.”
“Barely,” I say with a nervous laugh that holds a hint of pride. I glance back at the girls. “She’s your granddaughter?” He nods. “She’s adorable.”
“She’s six,” he says with a small smile. “She reads a lot.” The faintest pride edges his tone, and it turns my insides to jelly. “Krystal already knows all the players, so seeing them isn’t that big of a deal. But being around other kids, like your daughter, is what she really wanted—and needs.”
“This is good for Becky, too,” I admit as we walk over to the group of players still huddled at the back of the room. “It looks like they are becoming fast friends.”
“That will make it nice for them as we travel,” Carl says. “At least they will have each other and not have to be around adults all the time.”
“If you can call half of these players adults,” I laugh.
We reach the group of players and stand before them.
“Okay,” I say briskly, lifting my clipboard like a talisman.
“We’ve got four readers for this slot. If we run long, we’ll cut the Q&A.
Keep voices gentle. No jokes about monsters under beds.
And please—no swearing if someone spills a juice box on your shoes. ”
Ash stands with his hands in his pockets, looking much calmer than the others.
His blond hair is shorter than usual, and the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth pulls when he almost smiles. He catches me looking and nods once.
Jake lounges beside Ash. His dark hair falls just to his collar, the blond streaks catching light, his green eyes bright with mischief or hunger or both.
He laughs at something a teammate says and dimples appear.
Two moms notice that devastating smile and straighten their posture, whispering to each other. I roll my eyes.
“Okay, wolves,” I call, clapping once to focus them. “Let’s hear the howl.”
The first player—I don’t remember his name—takes his place, perching on the child-size chair and opens the book he plans to read, but it’s upside down.
The kids notice immediately and start laughing and pointing. He blushes scarlet and flips it right-side up and starts reading.
Ash is next.
He moves the little chair aside and drops to the carpet so he’s eye level with the kids and opens a book about a stubborn goose who refuses to fly south.
His voice is low and calm.
When he reads the part about the goose who refuses the flock, he tilts his head, amused.
When the goose gets stuck in an early snow, he slows, softer, until the whole room leans forward with anticipation of what happens next.
He looks like he’s built for this—protective without being patronizing, solid without trying to solve.
Of course he is. He’s been like this with Becky since the first time they met.
“Should the goose apologize?” he asks, and a resounding “yes” from the kids fills the room.
He finishes and everyone claps, including the mothers, and I’m almost grateful when Jake elbows Ash aside with a grin because at least my heart can switch from safe and steady to do not fall for this guy.
And then Jake does voices. Damn, be still my heart!
He chooses a book with a mischievous raccoon, a worried duck, and a grumpy old beaver, and proceeds to give each of them a personality.
He modulates just enough to keep the small ones with him, throws asides to the parents that make them snort quietly, and uses silences like a pro.
He’s good. He’s really good.
I’m not surprised to be drawn to Ash. That’s been a slow boil for a long time.
With Jake it hits sideways, ridiculous and irritating and undeniable: attraction igniting where I’ve planted warning signs and electric fences and a whole line of do not step here tape.
A tug at my sleeve jerks me out of my inappropriate thoughts. Krystal cheeks pink, eyes bright, looks up at me and holds out half a cookie.
“For Becky’s mom,” she whispers shyly.
“Why, thank you, Krystal. That was very thoughtful of you.”
“Becky said you didn’t have one,” Krystal adds. “And she said you always share with her, so I should share with you.”
I glance over her head. Becky is watching, trying to look casual and failing.
I wink and she grins before turning back to the front where Jake is making the beaver grumble about raccoon footprints. Krystal bounces back to her place next to Becky.
“Nice crowd,” a low voice says behind me. I don’t need to turn to know it’s Carl. “Good press.”
“So far,” I say. “I’m not counting any chickens until the last autograph is signed and everyone’s home with the correct parents.”
“You and me both.”
We stand for a moment in companionable silence while Jake gives the duck a nervous cough and the raccoon a sigh that is somehow a full comedic sentence.
Carl’s shoulder brushes mine and the small touch zings through me like it forgot whose team it was playing for. I step half an inch to the right.
Keep this professional!
“After this,” he says, low enough so that only I can hear him, “we’ll have your tour credentials and the rooming list ready. You and Becky will have your own room.”
“Thank you.”
He dips his chin. “Autographs?”
“Front tables,” I say. “We’ll funnel the kids and guardians row by row. Staff will stick wristband stickers on pictures and books so we don’t have to ask every time. Suggested donation only, but Ms. Harper thinks we’ll beat their summer reading fundraiser by a mile.”
“Good,” he says. “Let’s beat it by two.”
Jake reaches the last page. The raccoon has learned his lesson, the beaver grudgingly approves, the duck claps his wings.
The room claps with him. Jake gives an exaggerated bow that somehow doesn’t come off as obnoxious, and the kids lose their minds.
I head toward the front to start the transition to autographs and I’m halfway there when the door opens behind the media cluster and a latecomer slips in.
I clock her without meaning to.
Petite.
Straight dark brown hair tucked behind her ears.
Big dark eyes in a heart-shaped face.
Coat unzipped, hand on her stomach in that unconscious gesture that might be habit or might be for show.
She looks younger than she probably is.
I’ve seen this face. My stomach drops as the woman slides along the wall toward the back, eyes scanning the room.
She’s aiming herself with slow, careful intent at the front where the kids are folding their paper crowns and the players are standing to move to the tables.
Her gaze hits Jake and locks.
It’s Krista. The woman accusing Jake of being her unborn baby’s daddy.