Chapter 41 Carl
CARL
The insistent buzz of my phone cuts through the early morning quiet, dragging me from the depths of sleep.
I crack one eye open, squinting at the harsh glow of the screen.
The caller ID shows a number I don’t recognize, and I swipe to dismiss it without a second thought.
Probably another reporter trying to dig up dirt on the team.
I roll over, burying my face in the pillow that still carries the faintest trace of Trisha’s perfume from two nights ago.
The memory hits me like a body check against the boards.
Her soft skin beneath my hands, the way she whispered my name, how perfectly she fit between Jake, Ash, and me.
My body responds instantly, and I curse under my breath.
What the hell am I doing?
I’m forty-eight years old, for Christ’s sake. I should know better than to get tangled up with a woman half my age, especially one who’s already got two other men wrapped around her finger.
But damn if I can bring myself to regret a single second.
The shower does little to clear my head.
The hot water cascades over my shoulders, but all I can think about is how Trisha looked in the dim light of that hotel room, the way her dark hair spread across the pillow, those deep blue eyes heavy with desire.
The way she responded to my touch, like she’d been waiting for me specifically, not just any man.
I’ve been with other women since my wife died. Casual encounters that meant nothing, just physical release when the loneliness became too much to bear.
But this…this is different.
Trisha makes me feel things I thought died with my wife. Makes me want things I have no business wanting at my age.
My phone buzzes again as I’m getting dressed, the same unknown number flashing on the screen.
I decline the call and shove the device into my pocket. Whatever they’re selling, I’m not buying.
“Grandpa, are you ready?” Krystal’s voice carries down the hallway, sweet and patient as always.
“Coming, sweetheart.”
The walk to the babysitter’s is quiet, our boots crunching through the fresh snow that fell overnight.
Krystal’s small hand is warm in mine, and I find myself thinking about family, about the future.
About whether there’s room in our little world for someone like Trisha and her daughter.
My phone vibrates again—that same damn number. I ignore it. They can leave a voicemail if they’re that desperate.
The babysitter’s house is warm and welcoming, filled with the scent of coffee and bacon.
Trisha is already there, kneeling beside Becky as she helps the little girl out of her bright pink jacket.
The sight stops me in my tracks.
She’s wearing dark jeans that hug her curves in all the right places and a soft blue sweater that brings out her eyes.
Her long black hair falls in waves over one shoulder, and when she looks up at me, her smile is hesitant, almost shy.
“Good morning, Carl.”
The way she says my name—not Coach, not the casual nickname the guys use—sends heat straight through me.
There’s something intimate about it, like she’s claiming me in some small way.
“Morning, Trisha.”
Our eyes hold for a moment longer than necessary, and I can see the uncertainty there, the questions she’s not asking.
How do we navigate this? What happens now?
I wish I had answers, but I’m flying blind here.
Krystal runs off to join Becky and the other kids, and Trisha straightens, smoothing her hands down her jeans in a nervous gesture that makes me want to pull her against me and kiss away her worries.
“Walk with me to the lodge?” I ask, giving her what I hope is an encouraging smile.
She nods, and we step back out into the cold morning air. The lodge is only a few blocks away, but the silence between us feels charged, electric.
I want to reach for her hand, want to pull her close and breathe in that intoxicating scent of vanilla.
“Carl, about the other night,” she starts, but I cut her off.
“You don’t owe me any explanations, Trisha. We’re all adults here.”
She glances at me sideways, and I catch the flash of something—disappointment?—in her expression.
Maybe she wanted to talk about it.
Maybe she needs to process what happened between the four of us.
But I’ve never been good with emotional conversations, and I sure as hell don’t know how to navigate the complicated dynamics of sharing a woman with two other men.
The lodge dining room is nearly empty this early, just a few other guests scattered at tables near the windows.
We claim a corner booth, and I try not to notice how the morning light catches the maroon highlights in her hair, or how her lips look soft and inviting as she sips her coffee.
The TV in the corner plays softly, showing the weather report. More snow expected, roads closing, the usual winter chaos.
The reporter mentions that tonight’s game has been officially canceled due to the storm.
It’s a good thing this is just our promotional seasonal tour instead of the real season.
Trisha nods, but she seems distracted, her gaze drifting to the window where snow continues to fall in thick, lazy flakes.
I want to ask what she’s thinking, want to know if she’s having second thoughts about what happened between us.
I shouldn’t have shut her down when she tried to talk to me earlier.
But before I can work up the courage to bring up the subject again, the news program shifts gears.
“And now we have an exclusive breaking story,” the reporter announces, her voice bright with excitement.
The Thunderwolves logo flashes on screen, followed by footage I recognize from our promotional events.
There’s the team, and there’s Trisha, looking professional and beautiful as she handles the media.
My chest swells with pride watching her work.
But then the image changes, and my blood runs cold.
A mug shot fills the screen, a man with short blonde hair and cold blue eyes.
The reporter’s voice continues, but the words seem to come from far away.
“This is Mica Torrino, currently serving time in state prison, and according to our sources, he’s the real boyfriend of Thunderwolves PR representative Trisha Johnston…”
The coffee cup slips from Tish’s fingers, shattering against the table.