Page 29 of Daddies on Ice
The girls polish off their soup and race to the bathroom to brush their teeth with synchronized screaming because apparently that’s how queens prepare for battle.
I zip Becky’s suitcase and tuck Krystal’s backpack beside it. When I peek into the bathroom, Becky is showing Krystal how to make a spit waterfall into the sink.
“Pajamas,” I announce. “Top bunk for the guest of honor.”
They finish dressing with lots of giggles, Becky’s pajamas fitting Krystal mostly fine.
Krystal looks at the ladder like it’s Mount Everest then climbs like she’s been doing it all her life.
Becky follows into her bed, rotating fifteen stuffed animals into required positions, including the tiny wolf I won for her at the county fair.
I turn on the night-light, check the window latch, and pull the blanket up to armpits.
“Rule review,” I say, trying to sound stern and failing. “We get up early, we eat breakfast quickly, and we don’t hide in the suitcase. Deal?”
“Deal,” they chorus. Becky adds, “Can we read our book?”
“Two pages,” I concede. “Three, if the queens close their eyes when the castle bell rings.” I set my phone timer to chime softly in ten minutes and read to them about a stubborn capybara who figures out how to ask for help.
When the bell rings, both girls close their eyes obediently, like I’m some sort of bedtime wizard and not a single mom with a bag of tricks.
I back out of the room like I’m handling a bomb and collapse on the couch with my own book.
It’s a romance with a dog on the cover and a hero who doesn’t exist. I read the same page twice because my brain is a streamer with a bad Wi-Fi connection.
I turn off the lamp and let the quiet come.
A gate creaks. Ash steps out first, the hush of him settling over the rink. His blond hair is damp like he just came off a hard skate, the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth catching light. He glides without skates, impossible and effortless, and stops close enough that I can count his lashes.
“You’re not afraid,” he says, calm as ever.
“Not with you,” I hear myself answer.
His mouth tips, not quite a smile, and he lifts my hand.
His palm is warm and wide, callused. He sets my fingers over his chest where his heartbeat drums steadily, and I feel my own answer it.
He leans in and the world narrows to his breath, clean and cold, the press of his lips at my temple—patient, reverent.
He smells like soap and ice and a hint of cedar. His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, slow, and the rink hums through me like a song only we can hear.
A low laugh echoes from the tunnel. Jake leans on the dasher, dimples out, green eyes wicked with fond mischief. “Careful, Captain,” he says, his voice velvet-soft. “She might forget the rest of us exist.”
“Not likely,” I say, and Jake grins. He steps down and the boards cool against my back when he cages me there with a hand on either side. He doesn’t crowd; he teases the space.
“Hi, Tish,” he murmurs, and the way he says my name feels like a stolen kiss.
His nose skims my cheek, not quite touching, and my skin sparks.
He switches to the other side, doing the same, and my breath catches.
When his mouth finally finds mine, it’s playful first—testing, tasting—then deeper when I fist a hand in his sweater and pull.
Heat rolls through me. He breaks away with that slow smile, thumb tracing my lower lip.
“Good girl,” he whispers, just for me, nothing mocking in it. Heat pools low in my belly.
“Trisha.” I turn.
