Chapter 25 - Tish
TISH
The hotel hallway feels endless as I make my way to Carl’s room, the manila envelope containing those disturbing photographs clutched against my chest like a shield.
Christmas garland drapes along the corridor walls, twinkling with warm white lights that should feel festive but instead cast eerie shadows in my current state of mind.
The scent of pine from the decorations mingles with the hotel’s generic air freshener, creating an oddly comforting backdrop to my anxiety.
My knuckles rap against Carl’s door three times, sharp and urgent. The sound echoes down the empty hallway. The sound of footsteps approach from the other side.
“Trisha?” Carl’s voice carries through the door, surprised but pleased.
“Yeah, it’s me. Can we talk?”
The door swings open to reveal Carl in a fitted gray henley and dark jeans, his hair slightly mussed as if he’s been running his hands through it.
The sight of him sends that familiar flutter through my stomach, the one that’s been growing stronger each day despite my best efforts to ignore it.
His room mirrors mine in layout, but it somehow feels more lived-in already. A laptop sits open on the desk with papers scattered around it, and his jacket hangs over the back of a chair.
Krystal lined up her two stuffed animals with the neat pillows on her bed, and her favorite blanket is tossed on the covers instead of folded.
“Come in.” He steps aside, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as I pass. The contact sends electricity shooting up my spine. “Everything okay? You look…”
“Rattled?” The envelope crinkles as I set it on his desk. “That’s probably because I am.”
Carl closes the door and turns to face me, concern etching lines around his eyes. “What happened?”
Taking a deep breath, I explain about finding the photographs slipped under my door. Carl’s expression grows darker with each detail, his jaw tightening.
“Someone’s been following you.” His voice carries a dangerous edge that makes something primal stir in my chest. “Taking pictures without your knowledge.”
“The question is why.” I sink into the chair by the window, suddenly exhausted. Outside, snow continues to fall, coating the city in a pristine white blanket that feels at odds with the ugliness of the situation. “And who.”
Carl moves to the desk, carefully opening the envelope and spreading the photographs across the surface. His movements are controlled, deliberate, but tension radiates from every line of his body. “These are professional quality. Not some fan with a cell phone.”
“Look at this.” He points to one of the shots taken outside the restaurant where Jake and I had dinner. “See the angle? The photographer was positioned across the street, probably with a telephoto lens. This isn’t random. Someone planned this.”
A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the December weather. “You think it’s connected to what happened with the bus?”
“Maybe. Or maybe we’ve got a different problem entirely.” Carl’s fingers drum against the desk surface. “Either way, someone’s watching you. Following you. That’s not okay.”
The protective tone in his voice does things to my insides that I’m not prepared to analyze. Instead, I focus on the practical implications of the situation.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, standing and moving to the window.
The view overlooks the town square, lit with Christmas lights.
Small clusters of people walk the streets with coffee in hands as snow falls.
“Maybe Jake and I should call off this whole fake relationship thing. If it’s making one of his fans angry enough to do something like this… ”
“Trisha.” Carl’s voice stops me mid-sentence. “The problems started before you and Jake began this charade, remember? The equipment malfunctions, the bus issues—those happened when you just started working with the Thunderwolves.”
He’s right, of course. The timeline doesn’t support my theory, but the alternative explanations are even more unsettling.
“So what are you saying? That someone has a problem with me specifically?” The thought makes my stomach clench.
“I’m saying we need to be careful about jumping to conclusions.” Carl moves closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and warm that makes me want to lean into him. “The bus troubles and these pictures might not be related at all.”
“But they might be.”
“They might be,” he agrees.
The admission hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication.
“I hate this,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. “I hate feeling like I’m being watched, like I can’t trust my own shadow.”
Carl’s reflection appears in the window behind mine, his presence solid and reassuring. “You’re not alone in this.”
“Aren’t I?” The question comes out more vulnerable than I intended. “Jake and Ash have their own careers to worry about, their own reputations. And you…you’re the coach. You’ve got an entire team depending on you.”
“And you’re part of that team.” His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady. “Which means you’re my responsibility too.”
The word “responsibility” should sting, should remind me of all the professional boundaries we’re dancing around. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my belly. There’s something in the way he says it, something possessive and protective that makes my breath catch.
“Carl…” I turn in his grip, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing. The space between us feels charged, electric with all the tension we’ve been building for weeks.
“I know we shouldn’t,” he says, but his hands don’t move from my shoulders. If anything, his grip tightens slightly. “I know all the reasons this is complicated.”
“Complicated doesn’t begin to cover it.” But even as I say the words, I’m leaning closer, drawn by the magnetic pull that seems to exist between us.
“The fake relationship with Jake, the team dynamics, the fact that I’m your boss…” His voice drops to a rough whisper. “I know all of it.”
“And yet here we are.” My hands find the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the soft fabric.
“Here we are,” he agrees.
The first kiss is tentative, questioning. His lips brush against mine softly, giving me every opportunity to pull away. Instead, I press closer, answering his unspoken question with the tilt of my head and the soft sigh that escapes my throat.
The second kiss is anything but tentative.
Carl’s arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against his chest as his mouth claims mine with a hunger that steals my breath.
The taste of him—coffee and something uniquely male—floods my senses as his tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance that I grant without hesitation.
The kiss deepens, becomes something desperate and consuming.
All the days of stolen glances and careful distance, all the professional restraint and unspoken desire, pours out in the connection of our mouths.
Carl’s hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head to give him better access, and I melt into him completely.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rests against mine.
“This is dangerous,” he murmurs, but his hands are already trailing down my sides, leaving fire in their wake.
“I know.” My fingers slip under the hem of his shirt, needing to feel skin against skin. “I don’t care.”
“Trisha…” My name sounds like a prayer on his lips as I push the fabric up and press my palms against the warm expanse of his chest. His muscles jump under my touch, and the sharp intake of his breath sends satisfaction coursing through me.
“Don’t think,” I whisper against his throat, tasting the salt of his skin. “Just feel.”
His response is to spin us around, pressing my back against the window as his mouth finds mine again.
He quickly closes the curtains to keep us from prying eyes, then melts his mouth to mine again.
This kiss is hungrier, more demanding, and I meet it with equal fervor.
The cool glass through the curtains against my back contrasts sharply with the heat of Carl’s body pressed against my front, creating a delicious tension that makes me arch into him.
His hands roam my body with reverent touches, mapping every curve through the fabric of my sweater.
When his thumbs brush across my ribs, just below my breasts, I gasp into his mouth and feel him smile against my lips.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, trailing kisses along my jaw to the sensitive spot just below my ear. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
The confession sends heat spiraling through me, and I tug him closer, needing more contact, more of everything he’s offering. My hands explore the planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his shoulders, memorizing every detail.
Carl’s mouth works its way down my throat, finding the pulse point at the base of my neck and lavishing attention there until I’m trembling in his arms.
The Christmas lights from outside cast a warm glow through the window, painting our reflection in golden hues that make the moment feel almost dreamlike.
“Carl,” I whisper his name like a plea, and he responds by lifting me slightly, pressing me more firmly against the glass as his hips align with mine.
The evidence of his desire is unmistakable, and it sends a thrill of power through me to know I affect him as much as he affects me.
Just as his hands begin to work at the hem of my sweater, his phone buzzes insistently on the desk. We both freeze, the spell momentarily broken by the intrusion of reality.
“Ignore it,” I breathe against his ear, but the phone buzzes again, more urgently.
Carl pulls back slightly, conflict clear in his eyes. “It might be important. Game night and all…”
Reluctantly, I nod, understanding even as every cell in my body protests the interruption.
Carl moves to the desk, his shirt still hanging open, and checks his phone.
The sight of him—hair mussed from my fingers, lips swollen from our kisses, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths—makes me want to drag him back to me and forget about whatever message awaits.
“Shit,” he mutters, reading the screen.
“What is it?”
Carl’s expression grows serious as he turns the phone toward me. “Text from the arena manager. Tonight’s show is sold out, and there are already crowds gathering outside the rink. All wanting to get a look at the woman who was able to steal Jake Sorenson’s heart.”