Page 104 of Daddies on Ice
I did mention that, during one of our fake dates. I’m surprised she remembered, surprised she cared enough to act on it. “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it more than I should.
I hand her my gift, a small velvet box that makes her eyes widen. Inside is a delicate silver necklace with a small pendant shaped like a hockey puck.
It’s not expensive, but I spent way too much time picking it out.
“It’s perfect,” she breathes, lifting it from the box. “Will you put it on me?”
I move behind her on the couch, my fingers brushing against the soft skin of her neck as I fasten the clasp.
She smells like vanilla and something uniquely her, and I have to resist the urge to press my lips to the spot where her neck meets her shoulder.
The cameras capture every moment, every touch, every look that passes between us.
We’re giving them exactly what they want, a romantic Christmas scene between two people in love.
But somewhere along the way the line between performance and reality has become blurred.
We spend the next hour talking about family traditions, favorite Christmas movies, and childhood memories.
The conversation flows surprisingly easily. I find myself laughing at her stories, sharing memories I haven’t thought about in years.
But underneath it all, last night hovers between us like an unspoken secret.
Every time she shifts on the couch, every time her hand brushes mine, I’m reminded of how she felt in my arms, how she responded to my touch, how she looked at me in those moments when all pretenses fell away.
Finally, as the afternoon light begins to fade outside the frost-covered windows, Tish stands up and addresses the crew.
“That’s enough for today,” she says firmly, her voice carrying an authority I haven’t heard before. “The rest of Christmas is for me to spend with my daughter.”
There are some grumbles from the director, but Tish doesn’t budge.
She walks to the door and holds it open, making it clear that their time is up.
One by one, they pack up their equipment and file out into the snowy evening.
And then it’s just us.
The silence that follows their departure is deafening.
Without the cameras rolling, without the need to perform, we’re just two people sitting in a Christmas-decorated living room, surrounded by the remnants of our fake romantic dinner.
I’ve never been uncomfortable around women. I’ve built my entire adult life around being charming, confident, always knowing exactly what to say.
But right now, sitting here with Tish in the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights, I feel like a teenager on his first date.
She’s curled up on the opposite end of the couch now, her legs tucked beneath her, staring at the twinkling lights on the tree.
The silence stretches between us, filled with everything we’re not saying.
I should leave. I should make some excuse about having plans with the team. But I can’t seem to make myself move.
“Tish,” I finally say, my voice rougher than I intended. “About last night…”
She turns to look at me, and I see something flicker across her face. Anxiety, maybe, or regret. My stomach drops.
“Are you okay with what happened?” The words come out in a rush, and I realize I’m holding my breath waiting for her answer.
For a moment, she just stares at me, her dark blue eyes wide and unreadable. Then, to my absolute horror, her face crumples and she breaks down crying.
