Chapter 11 Tish
TISH
The roses sit on my kitchen counter like a red siren.
Twelve long stems in a glass pitcher because I don’t own a vase big enough.
The petals are so dark they’re almost the color of wine.
I keep telling myself to stop staring at them and finish zipping Becky’s suitcase, but my eyes keep drifting back to the tiny card I finally found tucked under the ribbon.
No words.
No florists’ logo.
Just a hand-drawn wolf—pointy ears, round eyes, all teeth.
It’s crude, almost childlike, and unmistakably meant to be the Thunderwolves’ mascot.
My heart taps faster. Did one of the players send them?
I flip the card over again like words might magically appear if I check enough times.
Nothing.
Just that wolf, the lines pressed hard enough to dent the cardstock.
Ash? He’d never…would he?
He’d sign his name with a flourish and a wink.
Carl? He’s the coach and doesn’t have time for such nonsense.
I tuck the card into my tote, smack a label on Becky’s suitcase, and herd two small children into coats and boots.
It’s barely light outside, and the frosty air makes our breaths look like speech bubbles. I lock the door and check it twice.
The clubhouse parking lot is busy with men in black parkas carrying duffel bags, staff wrangling clipboards and coffee, and our equipment guys moving like a pit crew.
Behind the building, the “bus” waits.
Calling it a bus is like calling a rose a weed.
It’s a rolling apartment, a gleaming RV dressed in Thunderwolves blue and gold, and a wolf head on the side caught in mid-howl.
Becky inhales excitedly like she’s at Disneyland. “We get to ride in that?”
“Yes,” I say. “But we use inside voices and please don’t press buttons.”
Krystal nods sagely, her experience poking through.
“What if the button is big and red?” Jake’s voice slides in from my left as he shoulders past with a garment bag.
He looks better than a man has any right to at 6:30 a.m. He tips a knuckle to Becky’s knit hat. “Morning, Your Majesty.”
Becky narrows her eyes. “It’s Queen Becky.”
“My mistake.” He bows and makes Krystal snort a small laugh behind her mitten. “And your Highness?”
“Just Krystal,” she decides.
He nods solemnly. “Your loyal center at your service.” He moves on with a wink that annoys me twice as much than it should.
There’s a security SUV idling near the gate and an actual team bus parked farther back for second- and third-line players.
“Trisha,” a voice calls, and a shiver of awareness dances down my spine.
Carl crosses the lot toward us with those even strides. He’s got Krystal’s overnight bag slung over one shoulder and a coffee in his free hand.
“Grandpa!” Krystal breaks away then stops midway, checking herself like she isn’t sure if running is allowed on team property.
He crouches and she folds into him for a quick, fierce hug. My chest twists.
He straightens. “Morning, Trisha.”
“Morning.” My voice is too bright as flashes of my dream swarm through my mind. “We’re ready.”
Becky bounces on her toes. “Do we get snacks on the RV?”
“Only if you share with the captain,” Ash says as he appears beside us, carrying two coffees and his duffle bag slung over one shoulder. He holds one cup out to me. “You look like you might need this more than I do.”
I take it, trying not to blush. It’s hard though, as memories of the dream still torment me, especially, the way he kissed me and how his hands felt on my body.
The travel coordinator calls our names, saving me from my lusty thoughts, and I hustle the girls up the RV steps. Inside is ridiculous in the best way.
There are two rows of soft captain’s chairs that swivel to face a small table, a compact galley with a sink and coffeemaker, and a narrow hallway with sliding doors that hide bunk beds.
Someone’s already stacked coloring books and a little box of markers on the table opposite the galley.
Becky and Krystal rush to the table and get settled, exclaiming over the color variety of the markers.
I stash our bags, take the seat across the aisle, and pretend my heart isn’t doing a tap dance.
The little card with the wolf is hot in my tote.
I’m ridiculous. It’s probably a fan.
I scoff.
Like I have any fans!
Or some staffer trying to be cute.
Or—my brain offers helpfully—Mica, with a marker and a cruel sense of humor.
I shove that thought into a box and sit on the lid.
Jake slides into a seat by the galley and starts a loud argument with the toaster oven, which he inevitably wins by charming a staffer into doing it for him.
Ash takes the chair beside the girls and starts asking important questions about which marker shade qualifies as “wolf blue.”
I glance down the aisle and catch Carl studying the seating like it’s a play he’s designing.
His gaze lands on me, flickers to the girls, then to the empty chair at my side.
He looks away first, gives a small nod to the driver, and disappears toward the back to sign off on something with our equipment manager.
A weight dips the seat next to mine.
Ash drops into it like he’s been doing it for a decade, one arm stretching along the back of my chair.
Which he has been, but today my body reacts like he just flipped a switch. Heat slides across my shoulders.
I hate how aware I am of the line of his arm, the clean smell of his sweatshirt, the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth I’m desperate to touch with my thumb.
Or my lips.
The RV engine hums to life and we pull out of the parking lot.
The Thunderwolves bus pulls out behind us, then the staff van.
Through the tinted window, the practice rink shrinks. We’re really doing this.
Ash drops his voice. “You okay?”
“I’m good.” But am I? In theory, this job and the road trip sounded like a grand plan, a great vacation for Becky.
But now?
I didn’t know at the time that I’d be drowning in hormone overload and the three guys I’m hot for are on this bus with me.
Then there’s the flowers. They really bother me because I can’t figure out who would send them.
I exhale slowly. “Someone left roses on my doorstep this morning.”
His brow lifts. “Roses?”
“With a card,” I add. The words feel ridiculous. I’m thirty seconds from blushing. “Well. Not a card. A drawing. A wolf. Like the mascot.”
He processes that fast. “From who?”
“No signature.”
He frowns but doesn’t seem too worried about it. “Creepy.”
“Maybe romantic.”
Our travel coordinator stands, rattles off the day’s plan, and reminds us what time we have to be at the arena for morning skate.
I open my laptop on the little armrest table and schedule posts—library fundraiser thank-you, photos of books and wolves and kids’ paper crowns, donation totals, and a small video clip of Ash asking the goose about apologies.
I tag the library, add the team’s slogan, and triple-check that we didn’t accidentally capture Krista in a corner of a frame.
That would be a nightmare!
All the while, I feel the heat of Ash’s body next to me.
My own body tenses and it’s all I can do not to scoot closer to him, to feel his body pressed against mine.
He glances at me and our gazes lock.
Is that desire shining in his eyes? It can’t be.
He thinks of me as a little sister, but he looks at me as if I’m a juicy steak he wants to devour.
I shiver and break eye contact. I can’t let my imagination, fueled by that sexy dream, get the best of me.
Becky and Krystal argue amicably over whether wolves would prefer blueberry or grape markers.
Jake finally secures toast from an adult and sits backward in his seat to talk to the girls, who inform him that paper crowns are now mandatory on game days.
He agrees solemnly, then looks at me and gives a salute I pretend not to find amusing.
Carl ends up standing beside the driver with a hand on the seatback, talking low.
The RV’s windows frame him in gray morning light. He turns just enough to look down the aisle and his gaze catches on mine.
For a second it’s like we’re the only two people in a moving room. He nods once, something like approval or reassurance.
I check the girls’ seatbelts again because I need to do something with my hands. Ash’s arm—still there, damn him—draws a line of heat across my back.
I tell myself it’s just proximity and then immediately remember my dream and my body starts a slow burn.
The city drifts away behind us, replaced by bare trees dusted with frost and a pale strip of river.
Buckling in, I go back to my laptop and schedule a behind-the-scenes story: “Wheels up! First line rolling out, second line right behind us. Hear the howl—see you on the road.” I add a shot of the girls’ coloring (hands only), and the edge of a coffee cup with the wolf logo.
Clean. Professional. Warm.
Hopefully trolls won’t find a way to spin it into a scandal of some sort.
“Hey,” Jake calls from two rows back, voice light. “Anyone else hear—”
The sound comes like a gunshot.
The RV lurches hard to the right, a violent shudder that snaps my seatbelt tight across my ribs. Coffee goes airborne. Becky squeals.