Page 75 of Daddies on Ice
“Come in.” He steps aside, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as I pass. The contact sends electricity shooting up my spine. “Everything okay? You look…”
“Rattled?” The envelope crinkles as I set it on his desk. “That’s probably because I am.”
Carl closes the door and turns to face me, concern etching lines around his eyes. “What happened?”
Taking a deep breath, I explain about finding the photographs slipped under my door. Carl’s expression grows darker with each detail, his jaw tightening.
“Someone’s been following you.” His voice carries a dangerous edge that makes something primal stir in my chest. “Taking pictures without your knowledge.”
“The question is why.” I sink into the chair by the window, suddenly exhausted. Outside, snow continues to fall, coatingthe city in a pristine white blanket that feels at odds with the ugliness of the situation. “And who.”
Carl moves to the desk, carefully opening the envelope and spreading the photographs across the surface. His movements are controlled, deliberate, but tension radiates from every line of his body. “These are professional quality. Not some fan with a cell phone.”
“Look at this.” He points to one of the shots taken outside the restaurant where Jake and I had dinner. “See the angle? The photographer was positioned across the street, probably with a telephoto lens. This isn’t random. Someone planned this.”
A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the December weather. “You think it’s connected to what happened with the bus?”
“Maybe. Or maybe we’ve got a different problem entirely.” Carl’s fingers drum against the desk surface. “Either way, someone’s watching you. Following you. That’s not okay.”
The protective tone in his voice does things to my insides that I’m not prepared to analyze. Instead, I focus on the practical implications of the situation.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, standing and moving to the window. The view overlooks the town square, lit with Christmas lights. Small clusters of people walk the streets with coffee in hands as snow falls. “Maybe Jake and I should call off this whole fake relationship thing. If it’s making one of his fans angry enough to do something like this…”
“Trisha.” Carl’s voice stops me mid-sentence. “The problems started before you and Jake began this charade, remember? Theequipment malfunctions, the bus issues—those happened when you just started working with the Thunderwolves.”
He’s right, of course. The timeline doesn’t support my theory, but the alternative explanations are even more unsettling.
“So what are you saying? That someone has a problem with me specifically?” The thought makes my stomach clench.
“I’m saying we need to be careful about jumping to conclusions.” Carl moves closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and warm that makes me want to lean into him. “The bus troubles and these pictures might not be related at all.”
“But they might be.”
“They might be,” he agrees.
The admission hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication.
“I hate this,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. “I hate feeling like I’m being watched, like I can’t trust my own shadow.”
Carl’s reflection appears in the window behind mine, his presence solid and reassuring. “You’re not alone in this.”
“Aren’t I?” The question comes out more vulnerable than I intended. “Jake and Ash have their own careers to worry about, their own reputations. And you…you’re the coach. You’ve got an entire team depending on you.”
“And you’re part of that team.” His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady. “Which means you’re my responsibility too.”
The word “responsibility” should sting, should remind me of all the professional boundaries we’re dancing around. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my belly. There’s something in the way he says it, something possessive and protective that makes my breath catch.
“Carl…” I turn in his grip, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing. The space between us feels charged, electric with all the tension we’ve been building for weeks.
“I know we shouldn’t,” he says, but his hands don’t move from my shoulders. If anything, his grip tightens slightly. “I know all the reasons this is complicated.”
“Complicated doesn’t begin to cover it.” But even as I say the words, I’m leaning closer, drawn by the magnetic pull that seems to exist between us.
“The fake relationship with Jake, the team dynamics, the fact that I’m your boss…” His voice drops to a rough whisper. “I know all of it.”
“And yet here we are.” My hands find the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the soft fabric.
“Here we are,” he agrees.
