Chapter 15 Tish
TISH
Carl and I sit at the little dinette in the RV with our laptops open as we resume travel, the fake Hawkthorn email glaring like a neon mistake between us.
Hakthorn.
One missing letter. One missing hour. One blown game.
“We make a list.” I pull a legal pad toward me. “Who benefits if we don’t show?”
Carl rubs his jaw, staring at the screen. “Start with the obvious.”
“The general manager who got fired?” I write it at the top. “He has motive, contacts, and he’s angry.”
“He also has an NDA,” Carl mutters.
“NDAs don’t stop sabotage. They just make lawyers rich after.”
His mouth twitches. “Disgruntled fans,” he adds. I write it down and underline it.
“Former players?” I don’t look at him. “Two were let go after the performance-enhancement suspensions. One swore he’d ‘make it right’ on his way out.”
“Yeah,” Carl says, voice flat.
“Rival teams. Hawkthorn themselves.” I tap my pen. “Or someone who wants the league looking at us instead of them.”
He drops his elbows to the table and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hell.”
When he lifts his head, his eyes find mine, and something electric snaps between us.
His gaze dips to my mouth and away, fast, like refusing to stare into the sun. My stomach flips.
“I’m hungry,” Becky says, appearing from the back. Krystal follows.
“Sit at the table and I’ll fix something,” I tell them.
Carl starts to rise. “I can help.”
I wave him off. “I’ve got this.”
The bus kitchen is closet-sized but stocked.
I find pasta, marinara, cheese, and garlic knots in the freezer. Boiling water as the RV moves requires balance, but I manage.
The aroma attracts Jake and Ash from the front. Jake’s eyes find mine and hold, quiet and steady. I feel that look in my stomach.
“That smells dangerous,” Ash says, reaching above me for the pasta strainer. His arm brushes mine and doesn’t move away. My body remembers last night’s kiss, pulse kicking. He tilts his head like he can hear it.
Jake sets plates on the table then sits next to Krystal. Whatever he says makes her giggle. Carl watches with a rare, fond smile.
I drain the pasta.
Ash steadies the bowl while I toss it with sauce.
His fingers graze mine, heat running up my arm. Intentional or accident?
His expression gives nothing away.
Ash eats fast, like he’s been running on fumes, then leans back with a look that appreciates more than dinner.
It lands low in my belly, my cheeks heating as I remember our kiss.
Jake eats slower.
When he lifts his eyes, he doesn’t look away.
He reaches for water and I pass it.
His fingers slide along my wrist as he takes the bottle. The touch is small, polite, somehow intimate, and my treacherous body reacts.
How can I have just kissed Ash yet get turned on by Jake’s innocent touch? I glance at Carl and our eyes meet. My stomach flip-flops. How can I be attracted to three different men?
Jake raises an eyebrow, seeing my confusion, then offers that dimpled smile. Heat curls through me again.
Jake is a spark under my skin. Ash is gravity, quiet and sure. Carl is stability and responsibility. This is dangerous.
Ash tells a story about a youth tournament where the Zamboni broke and dads shoveled ice with snow shovels while moms lit the stands with phone flashlights.
Jake remembers falling through pond ice because his cousin dared him to jump a crack. Carl listens quietly, finishing his food.
For a while, everything feels normal. The girls giggle, and stories flow around the small table.
The RV rocks gently down the road and I lean back, hands in my lap, and smile.
The next morning, I wake to my phone notifications.
Before coffee, shower, or anything, I tie my hair up, sit cross-legged on the bed, and work.
First, I call the local noon producer I sometimes have coffee with, tell her about our mechanical troubles, then throw the hook I know she‘ll bite.
“We’ve preserved evidence, and I’ll share updates when we get them.”
“Evidence?” she asks excitedly.
I smile though she can’t see it. “Later. I can’t say more now.”
I typed a generic press release last night, so I spend a few minutes sending those via email.
By noon, I’ve sent all releases, showered, got Becky ready, and we had a late breakfast.
After yesterday’s fiasco, I feel accomplished.
My phone rings and Carl’s name pops up on the caller ID.
“Hi Carl,” I answer with a grin.
“Come to my room, now,” he says, his tone suggesting he’s unhappy.
My smile slips. “Okay. Let me drop Becky with Ash, then I’ll come by.”
The line goes dead. Great, now what?
Carl has propped the hotel door open with a shoe, so I push the door open and step inside.
He wears a black T-shirt showing muscular arms and chest, and track pants highlighting thick thigh muscles.
His hair is damp from a recent shower. A laptop lies open on his bed alongside a legal notepad with scribbled notes.
He grins at me and the tension I’d been holding eases. “They caved.”
“Who caved?” I ask with raised eyebrows.
“Hawkthorn. We’ve got a rematch.”
“That’s great news!”
He nods. “Since we have a game tomorrow and still need to travel, the rematch is scheduled for the end of our tour.”
He crosses to me in two strides, then stops suddenly, as if thinking better of getting too close.
“It was your press release that did it.” Pride gleams in his eyes. “That noon broadcast from your contact really worked. The media isn’t talking about us forfeiting, they’re sensationalizing it with the hint of sabotage. Perfect.”
My smile spreads into a grin. “Thank you. I’m glad it worked in our favor.”
Silence spreads between us and a look comes into Carl’s blue eyes.
When his gaze roams over my body head to toe, I realize what it is.
Hunger. Desire.
My breath catches, heat zinging through my body. Despite everything, despite wanting to keep things professional, I’m still attracted to this older man.
I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
Would his beard tickle?
How would it feel pressed against that wide chest while his lips devour mine so thoroughly my legs couldn’t hold me?
“Let’s get to the rink,” he says, breaking through my dangerous thoughts. His voice is gruff and I get more pleasure than I should knowing I’m affecting him too.
I nod, and we leave for the rink where players will practice before we head out again.
The rink is like a white cathedral, cold enough to make my breath puff clouds.
A babysitter hired to help during the tour has the girls bundled in the corner with hot chocolates and markers, excitedly paging through their coloring books to see what they want to color first.
I kiss their heads and leave them to it.
The guys are already circling when I climb the bleachers.
Carl steps through the bench gate onto ice, his voice carrying as he barks out orders.
Ash loops past the blue line with the easy stride of someone born to ice.
Jake does a controlled stop at the hash marks, throwing ice like confetti from his skates.
He loves showing off for fans, and there are quite a few in the stands watching practice.
Jake tosses me a wink then speeds off. My hungry eyes go to his broad shoulders, enhanced by safety gear. My treacherous brain conjures an image of grabbing his jersey and pulling him down while I ravish his mouth.
Get a grip, Tish!
I blink hard and look for safety, but instead find Carl, which is the opposite of safe.
Again I wonder what it would be like in his arms, feeling his lips on mine, his hands firmly holding my waist.
It feels disloyal, like trying to skate three shifts at once with lungs that refuse to fill.
What is wrong with me?
I stand so fast the metal bleachers boom under my feet.
A couple in the next aisle looks over with surprise, and I smile apologetically, heat climbing into my cheeks.
Cold water. That’s what I need.
A splash, a reset, a reminder that I’m a professional with a job, not a teenager at her first varsity game.
The ladies’ room is warm and echoey, with stalls that have old metal locks you have to jiggle twice.
I hurry to the corner sink and let the tap run until it goes from ice to tolerable, then splash my face and press cool palms to my cheeks.
In the mirror, I wince at my flushed cheeks, then breathe deeply through my nose, out through my mouth.
Gradually, my breathing normalizes and the hot pink dulls.
Feeling better, I go into a stall and close the door.
A stall door clicks open. I didn’t realize anyone else was here. Another clicks. I don’t pay attention until their conversation filters into my brain.
“No, are you serious? Jake, the Boomer, Sorenson?” one woman says, voice raised with excitement.
I freeze, holding my breath as the other responds.
“My cousin works at the diner by the hotel. She said the woman was there last night and had sonogram pictures of her baby.”
“And she said it was Jake’s?” the first woman asks.
“Yeah, Jake. She says he won’t even acknowledge it’s his. He’s just…ignoring her.”
The first woman scoffs. “Hockey players! They always think they can skate away from anything.”
I grimace. Great. The word is already spreading. I’m going to have to get on this fast.