Page 63 of Daddies on Ice
Jake raises his glass in a silent toast. “Our rookie insists on wearing mismatched socks every game day. Left black, right gray. Claims the puck knows when he cheats.”
“That’s completely illogical,” I say, though I’m smiling now. “What happens if laundry day destroys the gray one?”
“He panic-ordered a dozen singles from some questionable website.”
“At least he’s committed,” I concede.
Just as the tension in my chest begins loosening with our easy conversation, three Thunderwolves teammates materialize.
Rafe and Cam stride across the room like they own it, while Ash follows more quietly, his intense gaze fixed on us with uncomfortable scrutiny.
Rafe claims an empty chair without invitation. “Look at this,” he says, grinning between Jake and me. “Domesticated. Civilized. Absolutely tragic.”
“Don’t frighten her away,” Cam warns, settling into another seat. “We actually like her.”
Jake handles introductions smoothly. Rafe deploys charm that probably gets him out of speeding tickets, while Cam asks about the fries and steals two before I respond.
Ash doesn’t touch the food, folding into the remaining chair with stillness that makes our table feel cramped.
His stare moves between Jake and me, and I feel its weight beneath my skin.
“So, is this legitimate?” Rafe asks, pointing between us like a middle schooler asking if his friend really kissed someone behind the gym.
“It’s real,” Jake states simply. No qualifiers, no glance at me for confirmation.
Cam whistles low and raises his glass. “To miracles.”
We toast. Ash remains motionless.
Jake rests his hand on my chair’s back, his thumb brushing where my neck meets my shoulder and sending electric awareness through my entire body.
Rafe wipes salt from his fingers and leans forward conspiratorially. “Last year’s charity skate,” he begins. “The rink’s packed with kids. Our mascot decides on a victory lap with a flag the size of a small province but forgets to secure his head properly.”
Jake groans. “I remember this disaster.”
“He waves the flag heroically while the head starts wobbling,” Rafe continues. “I’m shouting ‘tighten the strap!’ and he gives me a thumbs-up like a bobblehead. He hits the corner, the head flies off, skids to the blue line, and spins like a roulette wheel.”
Cam chuckles and wiggles his eyebrows.
“Kids scream, others chase it,” Rafe says. “One tiny kid grabs the head like a beach ball.
Meanwhile, Mascot Guy keeps skating because he can’t stop in that suit, so now we have a headless bear doing laps while his face gets carried around by a five-year-old. Mothers start filming everything.”
Laughter escapes me before I can stop it. “How do you possibly fix that?”
“We didn’t,” Rafe admits. “Cam skates over, takes the head from the kid like he’s defusing a bomb, and jams it back on the mascot. It’s crooked though, so the bear’s eyes sit in his neck for the entire meet-and-greet.”
Cam points a fry at him. “You forgot the best part. The ref tries penalizing the mascot for too many men on ice because the head and body are in different zones.”
“That can’t be real,” I protest.
Cam raises his hand solemnly. “I swear it happened. There’s video evidence.”
Rafe stands and stretches. “We’re bribing the DJ for ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ to ruin everyone’s evening.”
“Please don’t,” Cam says, already following. “People don’t deserve that torture.”
“Coming?” Rafe asks Ash.
