Page 93 of Daddies on Ice

The cameras are rolling, capturing every detail of this moment.

Ash with his split lip and bruised jaw, Trent with his disheveled hair and furious expression, my own mortified face as I realize that this private family crisis is about to become very, very public.

The documentary crew pushes further into the room, their equipment trained on the three of us like predators scenting blood in the water.

32

JAKE

The sound of raised voices and something crashing carries across the snow-covered campground, cutting through the peaceful December evening like a blade.

I drop the firewood I’ve been stacking and sprint toward Tish’s cabin, my boots crunching through the fresh powder that fell this afternoon.

The Christmas lights strung between the pine trees cast an eerie glow on the scene unfolding ahead of me.

A crowd has already gathered at Tish’s open door. Half the team is here, craning their necks to see inside like they’re watching some twisted holiday entertainment.

My stomach drops when I spot the docuseries crew pushing through the group, their camera already rolling as they capture whatever disaster is happening inside.

“Move,” I bark, shouldering past a couple of the younger guys. “Get back.”

Through the doorway, I can see Trent and Ash locked together, grappling like a couple of amateurs who’ve never been in a real fight.

Trent’s face is flushed red with rage, his usually perfect hair disheveled, while Ash looks more controlled but equally pissed.

They’re knocking into Tish’s carefully arranged Christmas decorations. A small tree in the corner tilts dangerously, its silver and gold ornaments jangling with each impact.

“Turn that fucking camera off,” I snarl at the crew, stepping directly in front of their lens and spreading my arms wide to block their shot. “This is private property.”

The cameraman tries to sidestep me, but I mirror his movement. “I said turn it off.”

“We have permission to film?—”

“Not this you don’t.” My voice carries the authority I’ve rarely ever used, and something in my tone must convince him because he finally lowers the camera.

Inside the cabin, Tish is gawking in horror at the camera crew, and Trent and Ash, who had just broken apart, go at it again.

“That’s enough,” I growl, grabbing Trent to pull him away. “Both of you, knock it off.”

Ash steps back immediately, his hands raised, but Trent struggles against my grip like a wild animal. His elbow catches me in the ribs, and I grunt but don’t let go.

“Let me go, Jake! You don’t understand?—”

“I don’t need to.” I tighten my hold on him. “What I don’t understand is why you’re acting like a complete jackass in yoursister’s cabin, with a film crew eating up every fucking second of it!”

Tish rushes past us to slam the door shut, her face pale but her eyes blazing with fury.

She’s wearing a red sweater that brings out the fire in her hair, and even in the middle of this mess, I can’t help but notice how beautiful she looks when she’s angry.

The way her chest rises and falls with each heated breath, the flush spreading across her cheeks—Christ, I need to focus.

“Everyone out,” she shouts at the lingering players visible through her windows. “This isn’t a show.”

I can hear them grumbling and shuffling away, their voices fading as they head back to their own cabins.

The docuseries crew lingers for a moment longer before finally retreating, probably hoping to catch some audio through the thin walls.

Trent has stopped struggling, but I can feel the tension coiled in his muscles like a spring ready to snap. “You can let me go now,” he says through gritted teeth.