Page 37 of Daddies on Ice
She stands with the wind in her hair and both girls tucked against her sides, a hand resting on each hood like she is anchoring them to the earth.
Her cheeks are pink from the cold. My beanie sits low on her forehead and it looks better on her than it ever did on me, anyway.
Jake drops down from the RV and strolls toward her. He angles his body so he blocks the wind for Tish and dips his head to speak close to her ear.
I can’t hear the words, but I recognize the cadence he uses when he wants someone to smile. It works. The corners of Tish’s mouth soften then lift.
It hits me like a shoulder to the sternum. I even recognize the feeling—jealousy.
That I’m feeling such an emotion is another blow.
I don’t think I’ve ever been jealous over a woman before.
I’ve always felt that if she’s mine, then no man can take her from me. But that doesn’t work with Tish because she isn’t mine.
I take two steps toward Tish and Jake before I realize what I’m doing. Shit!
I can’t just walk over there and drag Jake away like every muscle in my body wants me to do.
But seeing her laugh, all carefree and shining eyes, with Jake of all guys, makes me want to forget my control.
Forget that I’m the captain of the team and have to set an example for the others. Forget that Tish is not my girl.
Coach crosses the gravel and heads toward me, his face red with frustration. He holds his cell phone and shakes it once.
“Idiots!” he gripes. “They can’t get any mechanics out here for at least an hour.” He glances at his watch. “At this rate, I don’t know that we’re going to make the game.”
My mouth tightens.
This won’t look good for the Thunderwolves.
With the amount of bad press we already have, missing a game on tour will just whip the reporters into a frenzy, each coming up with their own suspicions about why we didn’t make it.
None of it will likely be true, but when it comes to the press, headlines are what matters.
They can always bury a correction later if they need to, on the bottom of page twelve where no one will read it.
“They should be able to delay the game if necessary since this is out of our control,” I tell Coach.
He shrugs with uncertainty then walks away, making another phone call, presumably to the other team or maybe to try and find a mechanic that can make it out here.
I step down off the shoulder and circle the front of the RV to get a look at the blowout.
The tire is a wreck, which is what I expected after the wild ride we had after it blew.
The rubber is shredded and the sidewall is blown out.
There’s no way to repair it, not when the sidewall is damaged, so we will definitely need a new tire.
The valve stem catches my attention. It’s not torn; it’s sliced.
The cut is too clean to be caused by road damage, a neat little nick that would hold at low speed and fail when pressure and heat did the rest.
My stomach tightens.
I angle closer and study the lug nuts.
Three of them show bright, fresh threads, the kind you see when a nut has been loosened and spun back on by fingers, not a wrench.
