Page 43 of Daddies on Ice
She taps a few keys, then angles her screen so I can see the draft statement. Clean. Calm. No adding fuel on the fire. I nod. “That works.”
Her phone buzzes. She glances at the screen and grimaces. “My editor friend. He heard rumors already.”
“Of course he did.”
“I’ll stall.” She types.
I scroll through the team email, my fingers freezing when I see the notification.
It was sent last evening, when we were at the clubhouse, cramming protein and pasta, ignoring our phones. I click.
The message is short:
Coach,
Start time remains at 12:00 today. Please ensure check-in no later than 11:00.
— Operations, Hawkthorn Ice
I feel a wash of relief so strong it makes me light-headed. “Wait,” I say. “Here. This is what I saw. Noon start, eleven check-in. That’s what I told the guys.”
“Forward it to me,” Trisha says, already opening her inbox. I send it and slide my laptop over so she can read off my screen too.”
Her eyes flick across the screen. She pauses, goes back, and leans in. “Carl.”
“What?”
She points to the header. “Look at the address.”
I squint. At first glance it looks right. But something is off by a hair. Trisha leans forward and points to the email.
“Look at the address,” she says, her tastefully painted fingernail pointing just under the address. “This has @hakthronice. It should be from @hawkthornice. The address is missing the ‘W’.”
I lean in and squint at the screen, as if that will help. “Shit,” I snarl. “Someone spoofed Hawkthorn’s address.”
Trisha nods, mouth set. “And sent you a time that would make us late.”
15
TISH
Carl and I sit at the little dinette in the RV with our laptops open as we resume travel, the fake Hawkthorn email glaring like a neon mistake between us.
Hakthorn.
One missing letter. One missing hour. One blown game.
“We make a list.” I pull a legal pad toward me. “Who benefits if we don’t show?”
Carl rubs his jaw, staring at the screen. “Start with the obvious.”
“The general manager who got fired?” I write it at the top. “He has motive, contacts, and he’s angry.”
“He also has an NDA,” Carl mutters.
“NDAs don’t stop sabotage. They just make lawyers rich after.”
His mouth twitches. “Disgruntled fans,” he adds. I write it down and underline it.
