Page 118 of Daddies on Ice
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.”
