Chapter 27 - Ash
ASH
The hotel room feels smaller with Tish hovering over me like I’m made of glass.
She’s rearranged my pillows three times, adjusted the curtains twice, and checked my ice pack every few minutes.
Christmas decorations around the mirror catch the afternoon sun, throwing cheerful patterns that contrast sharply with how hard I got hit during today’s game.
“Seriously, Tish, I’m fine,” I say for the dozenth time. “Minor concussion. The doc cleared me to recover here instead of the hospital.”
She gives me that skeptical look. “Minor or not, you’re staying put. The only time you’re leaving that bed is for emergencies.” Swimming in my Thunderwolves sweatshirt, sleeves rolled up, hair in a messy knot, she’s the most gorgeous, overprotective caregiver imaginable.
“Being bedridden with you as my personal nurse isn’t exactly torture.” I grin, patting the empty space beside me.
“Don’t even go there, Ash. You need rest, not whatever’s running through that concussed brain.” She settles carefully beside me, reaching for playing cards. “We’re sticking to brain-friendly games.”
The next hour passes in easy conversation and simple card games.
Tish wins most hands, though I suspect she’s letting me win some. Holiday music plays softly, creating an intimate bubble around us.
“Your deal,” she says, shuffling for Gin Rummy.
I gather my cards, struggling to concentrate through the fog. “This is nice. Just us, no chaos.”
“It really is.” She studies her cards, but her expression grows distant.
“What’s on your mind?”
She’s quiet for several beats. When she speaks, her voice carries unusual softness. “I was thinking about Becky. How terrified I felt when you got injured. It brought back memories of when fear was my constant companion.”
I lower my cards, focusing on her despite the dizziness. “What do you mean?”
She takes a deep breath. “I’ve never really told you about Mica. Becky’s biological father.”
The name echoes between us.
I know the basics but I’ve never pressured her for details. Trent never volunteered them either, so I figured the subject was taboo.
“You don’t need to—”
“I want to. It’s time.” She draws her knees up, arms wrapped around her shins. “I was nineteen when I met him. Magnetic, confident, everything I thought I wanted. We moved in together within six months, and it felt perfect. Then small things started changing.”
My hands clench involuntarily. I already sense where this is going.
“He became possessive if I talked to other men. Criticized my clothes, my friends. I thought it was love, protection. The changes happened slowly. The verbal abuse during fights, calling me worthless. Then physical intimidation. Nothing that left marks, nothing I couldn’t rationalize. At first.”
“Tish…” I want to comfort her, but her posture suggests she needs space to work through this.
“The first time he hit me, he broke down afterward. Flowers, apologies, promises.” She shrugs. “You know the deal. I believed him because I desperately wanted to.” Her laugh holds no warmth. “Textbook, right? I became exactly the kind of woman I used to judge.”
“It’s never that simple,” I say gently.
She nods. “It escalated over a year. Violence, manipulation, isolation. He destroyed my friendships, made keeping jobs impossible. I was trapped financially and emotionally. Too humiliated to tell Trent.”
I want to find this Mica and show him what it’s like to face someone his own size.
“What was the turning point?”
“I got pregnant.” Her hand moves to her abdomen.
“I was terrified to tell him. I hoped maybe it would change him. I only mentioned the possibility of children, testing his reaction. I ended up with a black eye and cracked ribs.” Her voice wavers.
“I was bleeding on the bathroom floor, thinking only about protecting the baby.”
I move closer on the bed, near enough for support without contact. “What did you do?”
“Waited until he left for work, packed two suitcases, and disappeared. I had hidden savings he didn’t know about. I never told him about the pregnancy. He doesn’t know Becky exists.”
“Good. You made the right choice.”
“I carried guilt for years. Like maybe I should have tried harder. But watching Becky with you and Trent and the guys…I see how men should treat people they care about. With respect, kindness, protection instead of intimidation.”
The weight of her trust settles on my shoulders. “Does Becky know?”
“She thinks her father was a hero firefighter who died saving a family. I’ll tell her the truth when she’s older. For now, she has Trent, and she has…” She trails off, blushing.
“She has me. She has all of us.”
“She does. More than I dared hope for when I left, alone and scared.”
We sit in comfortable silence, her confession settling between us. I understand now why she sometimes hesitates, why she withdraws when emotions intensify.
“Thank you for trusting me with this.”
“Thank you for not making me feel broken.”
“You’re not broken, Tish. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”
She smiles, and it’s like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. I lean toward her, wanting to kiss her gently, to show how much her trust means.
But she pulls back, hands on my shoulders. “No kissing. You have a concussion.”
“My lips are fine. Just a small kiss. Very healing.”
“I don’t think concussions work that way.” She laughs.
I try again, but she evades me grinning. “Come on, Tish. One kiss. For medical reasons.”
“You need rest, not an elevated heart rate.”
“My heart rate’s already elevated from being near you.”
She blushes but stands firm. “Sweet talk won’t work, hockey boy.”
I catch her off guard, managing to brush my lips against hers before she can retreat. Brief but sweet, tasting like peppermint lip balm.
“Ash!” she scolds, smiling.
“Totally worth it.”
We return to cards, but something has shifted.
There’s deeper intimacy now, understanding. I catch her studying me with tender curiosity, like she’s seeing me with fresh eyes.
After another hour, restlessness creeps in despite my headache. “I should check my phone. Team updates.”
“Five minutes, then you rest your eyes.”
I scroll through notifications. Teammate check-ins, family messages, social media alerts. But one stops me cold, my stomach plummeting.
“What’s wrong?” Tish notices my expression.
I stare at the screen, barely believing it. “Someone created a TikTok account. About the team.”
“Lots of teams have fan accounts.”
I turn the phone toward her: @ThunderwolvesSecrets. The profile shows a grainy photo of our team bus, with a bio that reads: “The REAL story behind your favorite hockey team. #HockeyDrama #ThunderwolvesExposed.”
“Oh,” Tish says quietly, grasping the implications.
I scroll through posted videos of brief, mysterious clips with dramatic music and text overlays suggesting “secrets” and “scandals.” Nothing specific yet, but the message is clear.
“How many followers?”
“Three thousand. The account was created yesterday.” I set the phone down, my headache intensifying. “This can’t be good.”
Tish moves closer, concussion concerns temporarily overshadowed. “What secrets could they have?”
I consider everything this season.
We’ve had relationship dynamics, media attention, enhancement drug use, our general manager caught stealing money, and personal dramas.
Any could be twisted into a bigger scandal.
“I don’t know. But I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”
The Christmas lights seem less festive now, our cozy atmosphere suddenly fragile.
Whatever storm is approaching will hit right during the holidays, when everything was beginning to feel perfect.
I look at Tish, seeing my concern reflected in her eyes, and realize our peaceful afternoon might be the calm before a very destructive storm.