Page 32 of Daddies on Ice
Bending at the waist, I pick it up and search for a card.
Nothing.
No hint as to who they’re from.
11
TISH
The roses sit on my kitchen counter like a red siren.
Twelve long stems in a glass pitcher because I don’t own a vase big enough.
The petals are so dark they’re almost the color of wine.
I keep telling myself to stop staring at them and finish zipping Becky’s suitcase, but my eyes keep drifting back to the tiny card I finally found tucked under the ribbon.
No words.
No florists’ logo.
Just a hand-drawn wolf—pointy ears, round eyes, all teeth.
It’s crude, almost childlike, and unmistakably meant to be the Thunderwolves’ mascot.
My heart taps faster. Did one of the players send them?
I flip the card over again like words might magically appear if I check enough times.
Nothing.
Just that wolf, the lines pressed hard enough to dent the cardstock.
Ash? He’d never…would he?
He’d sign his name with a flourish and a wink.
Carl? He’s the coach and doesn’t have time for such nonsense.
I tuck the card into my tote, smack a label on Becky’s suitcase, and herd two small children into coats and boots.
It’s barely light outside, and the frosty air makes our breaths look like speech bubbles. I lock the door and check it twice.
The clubhouse parking lot is busy with men in black parkas carrying duffel bags, staff wrangling clipboards and coffee, and our equipment guys moving like a pit crew.
Behind the building, the “bus” waits.
Calling it a bus is like calling a rose a weed.
It’s a rolling apartment, a gleaming RV dressed in Thunderwolves blue and gold, and a wolf head on the side caught in mid-howl.
Becky inhales excitedly like she’s at Disneyland. “We get to ride inthat?”
“Yes,” I say. “But we use inside voices and please don’t press buttons.”
Krystal nods sagely, her experience poking through.
“What if the button is big and red?” Jake’s voice slides in from my left as he shoulders past with a garment bag.
