Page 88 of Daddies on Ice
She leans against me, and I wrap my arms around her, holding her close.
A sharp knock at the cabin door startles both of us.
I step back, giving her space, my body still thrumming.
She moves to the door, her hand hesitating on the handle for just a moment before she pulls it open.
Standing on the other side, his face dark with anger, is Trent.
30
TISH
The tension in the small cabin is suffocating as I stare at my brother’s furious face.
Carl clears his throat behind me, and I feel his hand briefly touch my shoulder.
“I should give you two some privacy, Trisha,” Carl says quietly, his voice carrying that gravelly tone that always sends shivers down my spine. His hand brushes against mine as he walks past me, and the brief contact sends electricity through my entire body.
The way he says my full name, with such care and protection, makes my chest tighten with emotion.
I watch as he walks away, admiring the confident way he carries himself, the way his shoulders fill out his sweater.
The moment Carl closes the door behind him, the atmosphere in the living room shifts dramatically.
The cozy Christmas ambiance—the twinkling lights, the garland draped along the mantle—suddenly feels suffocating rather than comforting.
Trent’s face is a mask of barely controlled fury, his light blue eyes blazing with an anger I haven’t seen since we were teenagers.
His dark hair has escaped from its usual ponytail, strands falling around his face in a way that makes him look wild, dangerous.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Tish?” he explodes, his voice echoing off the walls.
The sudden volume makes me flinch, and I’m grateful that Becky is safely tucked away at the babysitter’s cabin with Krystal, probably building snowmen or decorating cookies, blissfully unaware of this confrontation.
Before I can even form a response, Trent reaches into his jacket and pulls out a manila envelope.
He tosses it at me so quickly I don’t catch it, and it falls to the floor. Photographs spill out across the hardwood.
My blood turns to ice as I see them. Two crystal-clear images that make my stomach drop to my feet.
The first shows me kissing Jake outside the hotel, his hands tangled in my hair, my body pressed against his in a way that leaves no doubt about the passion between us.
The second captures the moment Ash kissed me in behind the RV when we were broken down, his strong arms wrapped around me, my face tilted up to his with obvious desire.
“Care to explain these?” Trent’s voice is deadly quiet now, which is somehow worse than his shouting. He’s standing over me like an avenging angel, his muscular frame tense with rage.
I scramble to pick up the photos, my hands shaking as I try to process what I’m seeing.
The person watching me is sending the photos to my brother? The new violation feels like a physical blow, making it hard to breathe.
“Trent, I can explain?—”
“Explain what?” he cuts me off, his voice rising again. “That you’re sleeping with my best friend? That you’re also apparently screwing around with that playboy Jake? Jesus Christ, Tish, what are you thinking?”
The accusation in his tone makes my own anger flare to life. I stand up, clutching the photos to my chest, and face him head-on. “I’m thinking that I’m a grown woman who can make her own choices!”
“Grown woman?” Trent laughs bitterly, the sound harsh and mocking. “A grown woman doesn’t sleep around with multiple guys on the same team. A grown woman thinks about her daughter before she acts like a?—”
