Chapter 21 Tish
TISH
The club pulses with citrus-scented air and the sharp bite of gin. Light flows along the bar in waves, shifting from ice blue to soft rose, while the bass makes the glassware vibrate in a gentle rhythm.
Jake sits across from me at our small table, forearms resting casually on the edge, wearing that effortless smile like he was born for moments like this.
For him, being on display is probably natural.
A photographer lurks near the entrance, pretending subtlety while angling for shots.
Two women at the neighboring table whisper and stare at us like we’re tonight’s entertainment.
“Just breathe,” Jake says, his voice pitched low for privacy. “We’re simply two people sharing drinks.”
“Two people pretending to be together,” I correct, my tone dry. The menu’s edges blur slightly before sharpening when our server approaches. “Club soda with lime, please.”
Jake orders the same, adding truffle fries to share.
His navy suit fits like it was tailored specifically for him, the crisp white shirt molded to his frame.
He’s left the top buttons undone—no tie—giving me glimpses of his chest that make my pulse quicken despite my better judgment.
“You look stunning,” he says with one of those trademark grins that makes women everywhere swoon.
Heat creeps into my cheeks before I can prevent it. “Thank you.”
I chose a black dress for tonight’s performance, with long sleeves, a clean neckline, and the hem hitting mid-thigh.
Black boots instead of heels keep me grounded, while my leather jacket hangs on my chair like armor I might need later.
“You don’t look terrible yourself,” I admit, and his grin widens. He knows exactly how good he looks and doesn’t need validation from me, regardless of how sincere it might be.
Our server delivers the club sodas, their lime scent cutting through the room’s sweetness. Jake slides the truffle fries closer and pushes a napkin toward me. After hesitating, I take one tentatively.
Jake raises his glass in a silent toast. “Our rookie insists on wearing mismatched socks every game day. Left black, right gray. Claims the puck knows when he cheats.”
“That’s completely illogical,” I say, though I’m smiling now. “What happens if laundry day destroys the gray one?”
“He panic-ordered a dozen singles from some questionable website.”
“At least he’s committed,” I concede.
Just as the tension in my chest begins loosening with our easy conversation, three Thunderwolves teammates materialize.
Rafe and Cam stride across the room like they own it, while Ash follows more quietly, his intense gaze fixed on us with uncomfortable scrutiny.
Rafe claims an empty chair without invitation. “Look at this,” he says, grinning between Jake and me. “Domesticated. Civilized. Absolutely tragic.”
“Don’t frighten her away,” Cam warns, settling into another seat. “We actually like her.”
Jake handles introductions smoothly. Rafe deploys charm that probably gets him out of speeding tickets, while Cam asks about the fries and steals two before I respond.
Ash doesn’t touch the food, folding into the remaining chair with stillness that makes our table feel cramped.
His stare moves between Jake and me, and I feel its weight beneath my skin.
“So, is this legitimate?” Rafe asks, pointing between us like a middle schooler asking if his friend really kissed someone behind the gym.
“It’s real,” Jake states simply. No qualifiers, no glance at me for confirmation.
Cam whistles low and raises his glass. “To miracles.”
We toast. Ash remains motionless.
Jake rests his hand on my chair’s back, his thumb brushing where my neck meets my shoulder and sending electric awareness through my entire body.
Rafe wipes salt from his fingers and leans forward conspiratorially. “Last year’s charity skate,” he begins. “The rink’s packed with kids. Our mascot decides on a victory lap with a flag the size of a small province but forgets to secure his head properly.”
Jake groans. “I remember this disaster.”
“He waves the flag heroically while the head starts wobbling,” Rafe continues. “I’m shouting ‘tighten the strap!’ and he gives me a thumbs-up like a bobblehead. He hits the corner, the head flies off, skids to the blue line, and spins like a roulette wheel.”
Cam chuckles and wiggles his eyebrows.
“Kids scream, others chase it,” Rafe says. “One tiny kid grabs the head like a beach ball.
Meanwhile, Mascot Guy keeps skating because he can’t stop in that suit, so now we have a headless bear doing laps while his face gets carried around by a five-year-old. Mothers start filming everything.”
Laughter escapes me before I can stop it. “How do you possibly fix that?”
“We didn’t,” Rafe admits. “Cam skates over, takes the head from the kid like he’s defusing a bomb, and jams it back on the mascot. It’s crooked though, so the bear’s eyes sit in his neck for the entire meet-and-greet.”
Cam points a fry at him. “You forgot the best part. The ref tries penalizing the mascot for too many men on ice because the head and body are in different zones.”
“That can’t be real,” I protest.
Cam raises his hand solemnly. “I swear it happened. There’s video evidence.”
Rafe stands and stretches. “We’re bribing the DJ for ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ to ruin everyone’s evening.”
“Please don’t,” Cam says, already following. “People don’t deserve that torture.”
“Coming?” Rafe asks Ash.
“In a moment,” Ash replies.
The crowd swallows them. The photographer near the bar pretends interest in hanging plants and fails miserably. Ash’s attention sharpens in a way that makes my spine prickle.
“Need something?” Jake’s tone stays polite, but his jaw muscle tightens.
Ash’s gaze shifts to me. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, my words emerging steadier than my pulse feels.
Ash nods at me with something resembling respect, gives Jake a look that’s neither friendly nor unfriendly, then tells me, “Text if you need anything,” before vanishing into the crowd.
“Finally alone.”
My eyes snap to Jake’s face, catching his smile. “You don’t need to perform for the audience,” I say, gesturing around the club. “They can’t hear us.”
“Maybe I want to be alone with you.” When I raise my eyebrows, he chuckles and shakes his head. “Nobody will believe we’re together if you don’t relax and smile occasionally. This should be enjoyable, but you look like you’ve swallowed something sour.”
He reaches across the table for my hand, pulling it toward the center.
It becomes a brief tug-of-war because this entire setup makes me uncomfortable, but I let him draw my hand closer and don’t resist when he holds it.
Minutes later, his thumb begins tracing idle circles on my wrist.
Jake might consider this innocent, but his warm thumb on my sensitive skin builds heat throughout my body.
“Dance with me.”
My gaze snaps back to his face, eyes widening. He chuckles, shaking his head.
“One dance, then we leave,” Jake promises. When I look suspicious, he grins. “That way, we came, had drinks, danced, then left to be alone. At least that’s how it’ll appear.”
He’s right, but I still hesitate. My reluctance stems from fear of getting too close to him, fear of how my body will respond. Especially when it’s already going haywire over just his thumb stroking my wrist.
Jake stands and extends his hand. I place mine in his, noticing how much smaller mine is. Countless eyes follow us to the dance floor, making me feel exposed and scrutinized.
If I want to succeed in PR, I need to get comfortable with audiences.
As we reach the dance floor, the music shifts to something slow with a pulsing bass line. Couples sway with drinks in hand.
Perfect timing.
Jake’s grin turns wolfish as he takes me in his arms, palm pressed hot against my lower back.
I wrap my arms around his neck, trying not to melt at the sensation of his hard body pressed close to mine.
He moves with the same confidence he shows in games, sure and graceful, like dancing is instinctive.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” I grumble half-heartedly.
His smile brushes my temple. We sway together.
The edge of his thigh finds mine, fabric sliding against fabric, sending heat up my spine.
His hand climbs slightly higher, steady and possessive.
Just as I begin relaxing, camera flashes assault my eyes. I blink rapidly, taking in the crowd of people capturing photos and videos with their phones.
This was the entire point, right?
Our eyes meet and my heart stutters. Jake really is devastatingly handsome.
Tiny gold specks shine in his green eyes, and I find myself mesmerized as he leans forward slowly.
Time seems suspended, but he doesn’t kiss me. Just before our lips touch, he changes course, his cheek brushing mine, mouth close to my ear.
“Ready to leave, Tish?” he asks.
No! I want to stay here, in his arms, feeling his body against mine. B
ut I can’t say that.
I can’t speak at all with my mouth dry and throat constricting. Instead, I just nod.
We leave the dance floor and Jake settles our tab, then we exit the club. We’re stopped repeatedly by fans wanting autographs or conversation with Jake, plus some persistent reporters.
Jake proves the perfect gentleman when we reach the rental car. He opens my door first, waits until I’m settled and buckled in, then goes to the driver’s side.
Our hotel drive passes quietly and thankfully short. I’m grateful he doesn’t attempt conversation because I need time to regain control.
I can’t blame myself for reacting to him. Jake is physically stunning. What woman wouldn’t want him?
His quirky, good-natured, and easy-going personality makes him even more appealing.
But this is work, and regardless of my attraction, I need to remember that.
We reach the hotel and head to our floor.
The entire Thunderwolves team is staying on the same level, so he leads me down the hallway toward my room.
But Jake’s room comes first, and I’m surprised when we stop there.
I expected him to continue being gentlemanly and escort me to my door. Instead, he stops and looks at me.
“The performance isn’t finished yet, Tish,” he says.
I frown up at him, confused.
A slow smile spreads across his handsome face. “You need to come into my room. You know, to make it look authentic.”