Chapter 10 Tish
TISH
I don’t breathe until my eyes find Carl.
He’s across the room near the autograph tables, scanning the line like he’s running a penalty kill with clipboards and Sharpies.
I flick my gaze toward the back and give the smallest head tilt I can manage without looking like I’m having a neck spasm.
His eyes cut to the door where Krista stands—petite, dark hair tucked behind her ears, palm on her stomach as if to underline her point.
Carl doesn’t miss a beat.
He lifts one finger, crooks it at our event security, and points once.
The guard nods and makes his way, unnoticed by others, to the woman.
Krista glances at him, then past him to the kids. She says something I can’t hear.
He shakes his head and indicates the hall.
She hesitates, chin tipping higher, then looks toward the autograph tables again.
My heart climbs into my throat. Jake is signing a program for a little boy in a Thunderwolves hat.
He hasn’t noticed. Good.
Another guard steps in and stands off to the side.
A librarian appears at the guard’s elbow like magic, expression firm in that way only librarians can pull off.
The three of them form a small, polite wall. Krista swallows, jaw working, and then lets herself be steered out into the corridor.
The door shuts. I exhale so slowly I get lightheaded.
I move to the side to help funnel the autograph line. Ash meets my eyes as he steps behind the table and his brows lift a fraction in question.
He must have noticed the guards. I give him a small, bland smile to tell him everything is under control.
He nods once, then turns back to a little girl who wants him to sign her paper crown.
The next forty minutes hum like a well-tuned machine. Becky reaches the front with her new best friend glued to her side. “Mom!” she stage whispers. “This is Krystal. Like crystal, but with a K.” She looks proud of the spelling, like she invented it.
Krystal peeks at me from under a fringe of curly red hair. Her green eyes are earnest and a little overwhelmed. She holds a book tight against her chest.
“Hi again, Krystal,” I say.
She nods, then takes Becky’s hand like they’ve been best friends all their live. They go to Ash to get his autograph.
“What’s your name?” he asks Krystal, grinning conspiratorially. He’s mentioned to me before that one of the team’s kids is sweet on him, and I’m betting it’s Krystal.
“K-r-y-s-t-a-l,” she spells, barely above a whisper. Red floods her small cheeks.
He writes carefully, tongue caught between his teeth like he’s drawing a diagram for a play: To Krystal—Keep reading, keep brave. —Ash.
He adds a tiny wolf paw print in the corner and Krystal bites her lip like she’s trying not to squeal. Becky practically vibrates.
They get Carl’s signature last. Krystal grows still and lifts the book just so. “Grandpa,” she whispers, like it’s both a greeting and a spell.
Carl’s whole face changes.
It’s subtle if you don’t know what to look for, but I’m learning.
The hard lines soften, the jaw unclenches, and something like sunlight touches the blue of his eyes. “You like this one?” he asks, tapping the cover.
“She loves it,” Becky supplies. “We’re gonna read it tonight at our sleepover.”
My head snaps up. “We are?”
“Please?” Krystal asks, suddenly brave. “Can I stay at her house? Becky has a bunk bed. She said I can have the top because I’m the guest.”
I blink at Carl. He blinks at me. There’s an early call tomorrow for the team bus and a lot to do to get ready for the tour.
Carl looks at me, a question hitching in the corner of his mouth. I nod. He makes a small approving sound and addresses the girls.
“Bedtime is early,” he says. “You’re up at five.” He looks at me. “Is that right?”
“Yep,” I say. “We’re wheels up by seven. If you two promise to brush teeth on the first try and put on pajamas without complaining, we’ll try it.”
“Promise!” Becky crows.
“Promise,” Krystal echoes, soft but firm.
We say our goodbyes to Ms. Harper and the volunteers.
I snag the banner and the tape and my clipboard and somehow also Becky, who has turned into a live wire of sleepover joy.
We follow Carl and Krystal to the parking lot, our breath fogging hosting in the cold.
Carl buckles Krystal in the backseat with competent grandpa hands.
“She’s got a book and spare clothes in her backpack,” he says through the open window. “Sorry, no pjs.”
I grin. “She can borrow Becky’s. They should fit fine. We’ve got spare toothbrushes too.”
He nods. Watching me then the girls in the back. “She sleeps with the night-light on.”
“Got it.” My stomach clenches, my heart pounding at this new soft side to him.
He looks like he has more to say then thinks better of it. “Text if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
He shuts the door and goes to his car.
Krystal waves with both hands like she’s signaling a plane. Becky waves back so hard she hits herself in the forehead and giggles.
We head home with the radio low and the heat up, the two girls narrating their friendship in the back seat like a podcast series, and my heart finally calms.
By the time I park in front of our apartment, they’ve decided they’re both queens, and both allergic to bedtime.
I let them race up the stairs with strict instructions not to touch the railing with their tongues because children are eternal science experiments.
Inside, the apartment looks like a luggage explosion. Two suitcases sit open my bed. Half my closet is on the chair.
Becky’s tiny Thunderwolves hoodie hangs on the closet knob like a mascot.
I have a list on the kitchen counter: passes, chargers, snacks, meds, Becky’s headphones, glitter crayons (non-negotiable), backup story time props. I add Krystal’s toothbrush? and underline it three times.
The girls make a fort out of couch cushions and blankets and immediately become queens of Blanketland.
I heat up leftover soup, hand out crackers and apple slices, and listen to them invent rules about who is allowed in the blanket.
My phone lights up on the counter, the ID showing it’s from an unknown caller.
Every muscle in my neck tenses. I answer anyway. “Hello?”
Silence. A breath, maybe. Nothing else.
“Hello?” I repeat.
Nothing. Then the call is disconnected.
Probably spam.
Could be a reporter with a hidden number.
I set the phone down and make a note to put unknown numbers straight to voicemail.
The girls polish off their soup and race to the bathroom to brush their teeth with synchronized screaming because apparently that’s how queens prepare for battle.
I zip Becky’s suitcase and tuck Krystal’s backpack beside it. When I peek into the bathroom, Becky is showing Krystal how to make a spit waterfall into the sink.
“Pajamas,” I announce. “Top bunk for the guest of honor.”
They finish dressing with lots of giggles, Becky’s pajamas fitting Krystal mostly fine.
Krystal looks at the ladder like it’s Mount Everest then climbs like she’s been doing it all her life.
Becky follows into her bed, rotating fifteen stuffed animals into required positions, including the tiny wolf I won for her at the county fair.
I turn on the night-light, check the window latch, and pull the blanket up to armpits.
“Rule review,” I say, trying to sound stern and failing. “We get up early, we eat breakfast quickly, and we don’t hide in the suitcase. Deal?”
“Deal,” they chorus. Becky adds, “Can we read our book?”
“Two pages,” I concede. “Three, if the queens close their eyes when the castle bell rings.” I set my phone timer to chime softly in ten minutes and read to them about a stubborn capybara who figures out how to ask for help.
When the bell rings, both girls close their eyes obediently, like I’m some sort of bedtime wizard and not a single mom with a bag of tricks.
I back out of the room like I’m handling a bomb and collapse on the couch with my own book.
It’s a romance with a dog on the cover and a hero who doesn’t exist. I read the same page twice because my brain is a streamer with a bad Wi-Fi connection.
I turn off the lamp and let the quiet come.
A gate creaks. Ash steps out first, the hush of him settling over the rink. His blond hair is damp like he just came off a hard skate, the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth catching light. He glides without skates, impossible and effortless, and stops close enough that I can count his lashes.
“You’re not afraid,” he says, calm as ever.
“Not with you,” I hear myself answer.
His mouth tips, not quite a smile, and he lifts my hand.
His palm is warm and wide, callused. He sets my fingers over his chest where his heartbeat drums steadily, and I feel my own answer it.
He leans in and the world narrows to his breath, clean and cold, the press of his lips at my temple—patient, reverent.
He smells like soap and ice and a hint of cedar. His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, slow, and the rink hums through me like a song only we can hear.
A low laugh echoes from the tunnel. Jake leans on the dasher, dimples out, green eyes wicked with fond mischief. “Careful, Captain,” he says, his voice velvet-soft. “She might forget the rest of us exist.”
“Not likely,” I say, and Jake grins. He steps down and the boards cool against my back when he cages me there with a hand on either side. He doesn’t crowd; he teases the space.
“Hi, Tish,” he murmurs, and the way he says my name feels like a stolen kiss.
His nose skims my cheek, not quite touching, and my skin sparks.
He switches to the other side, doing the same, and my breath catches.
When his mouth finally finds mine, it’s playful first—testing, tasting—then deeper when I fist a hand in his sweater and pull.
Heat rolls through me. He breaks away with that slow smile, thumb tracing my lower lip.
“Good girl,” he whispers, just for me, nothing mocking in it. Heat pools low in my belly.
“Trisha.” I turn.
Carl stands at the gate to the bench, silver hair catching the blue light, eyes so blue they almost glow.
He doesn’t move right away.
He simply looks, and the look alone steals my balance.