Page 16

16

Jake

“Hey, Ice! You okay out there?”

Ethan’s voice bounces off the boards, yanking me out of my own head. The Cedar Creek Festival charity match is in full swing, and I need to keep my mind on the game—not on Penelope Darling's latest hit piece, and definitely not on the chestnut-haired spitfire I took to Rosario's.

Except I can’t stop thinking about her.

That dinner? It wrecked me. The way she laughed at my terrible Worcestershire joke, the surprise in her eyes when I told her something real, something about Violet, something no one else gets to hear.

And that kiss... Fuck. I’ve been kissed in locker rooms, bars, backseats, but nothing like that. Nothing that felt like it might undo me if I let it linger too long. Her lips were soft and hungry, like she wanted to bite back every word she’s ever written about me—but couldn’t. And the sound she made when I deepened it? I’ll take that to my grave.

She looked dazed after. Breathless. Like maybe she felt it too.

And I hate how much I want to believe that.

I draw in a sharp breath, flex my grip on the stick, and force my attention back to the ice. The rink is a blur of motion—my teammates weaving in and out of the opposing squad like dancers on a stage. The stands are packed with fans clapping, stomping, and shouting our names, while overhead, bright festival lights give everything a neon glow. This is my turf, my element, the place where I have total control—most of the time.

But tonight? My head’s crawling with static, courtesy of a certain blogger who goes by the name Penelope Darling. This morning, her latest post landed like a grenade: calling me "unnecessarily physical," "borderline reckless," and implying I'm some kind of two-faced phony putting on a "charm offensive" to hide my true nature. I'd say I've heard worse, but these words stick in my craw more than usual. She didn't just take cheap shots—she hammered my reputation until sponsors started calling with pointed questions. It's only a matter of time before management starts sniffing around, too.

I slam my stick against the ice in frustration and drop back to take a pass. The puck glides across the surface, and I snatch it deftly, pivoting around a defenseman who rushes too aggressively. My skates cut pristine arcs, spraying ice as I shift direction and break toward the goal.

Focus, Jake. Focus.

Penelope Darling can wait. So can everything else swirling in my head, including Piper Reed. Because for one hour, right here, I’m unstoppable.

I dig in hard and rocket up the right side, faking a pass to Nash before skating behind the net. The goalie scrambles, and I seize the chance: I backhand it out in front to Knox, who slaps it home. The light flashes red, and the crowd goes wild.

As the ref signals our goal, Knox skates over, hooking an arm around my neck. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

I manage a grin, tapping helmets with him. But even with a point on the board, I can’t kick that lingering edge of rage chewing at my nerves. That article got under my skin in ways I can’t even explain.

We finish the period a few minutes later, up 4-2. When the buzzer sounds, I coast toward the bench, chest heaving from the adrenaline. I feel a rush of cold air the second I step off the ice, welcome on my overheated skin.

“Man,” Nash mutters, pushing up his visor. “I’ve seen you angry before, but tonight’s something else. You’re in beast mode.”

I yank off my gloves, ignoring the sweat dripping down my forehead. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I grind out. “That new ‘exposé’ from Penelope Darling didn’t exactly brighten my day.”

Nash’s jaw tightens sympathetically. “Sponsors are freaking.”

Knox peels off his helmet, looking grim. “I heard some of them are reconsidering deals. This festival was supposed to be great PR for the team—and for you especially.”

A fresh wave of anger ripples through me. “She’s lying, exaggerating… She’s painting me as a one-dimensional monster. And the worst part is, I have no clue who she really is. I can’t even confront her face-to-face.”

Ethan nudges me with his shoulder. “One problem at a time, man. First, we crush this game. Then we’ll figure out how to do damage control.”

I nod curtly. “Damn straight.”

We clinch the charity match 6-3. The final buzzer triggers a wave of cheers from the stands, and I raise my stick in acknowledgment. But my celebratory fist pump lacks any real fire. All I can think about is that bullshit article.

In the locker room afterward, guys are peeling off their gear, joking around, but the mood sours whenever my name comes up. A few sponsor reps linger in the hallway, eyeing me warily, probably trying to gauge if I’m the hothead Penelope’s described. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing me sweat.

I shower quickly, throw on a pair of jeans and a fitted tee, and head out with Nash, Knox, and Ethan in tow. The festival’s still going strong—live music echoes across the fairgrounds, the smell of funnel cakes and barbecue fills the air, and strings of lights drape from every stall. Usually, this festival is my favorite time of year. Right now, it feels like a battlefield.

We duck into a private tent set aside for players and VIPs, a space filled with chatter about the match and the usual fundraising gossip. The minute I step in, I notice eyes flicking in my direction—some curious, some cautious. I plaster on my best don’t mess with me smirk and shoulder past them, heading for a tall table at the back.

Ethan, one of the guys on my line, gestures me over. “Ice, got a second?”

I plant my hands on the table, bracing myself. “What’s up?”

He leans in, voice low. “Any idea who this Penelope Darling is? She’s been stirring up trouble for months, but the new article is brutal.”

I clench my jaw. “If I had an idea, trust me, I’d deal with her myself. I’ve got half a mind to drag her into an interview and make her eat those words.”

Ethan gives a dry laugh. “Well, if you find out who she is, call me. I’ll hold the camera.”

Beside me, Ethan speaks up. "Let's be strategic. If you blow your fuse, it'll just prove her point. She's insinuating you're a rage-fueled maniac, remember?"

He’s got a point. Damn it. I exhale, forcing calm into my veins. “Yeah. I’ll handle this smart. That’s part of what’s pissing me off—I have to be careful about how I fight back. And if she’s picking on me because she thinks I’m an easy target, she’s about to learn otherwise.”

Knox arches a brow, glancing around. “You should speak publicly, maybe tomorrow. Let the festival crowd see the real Jake Ice—devoted dad, hometown star, not some out-of-control jerk.”

I grunt, swirling a bottle of water in my hand. “I’m on it. Already planned to address the crowd before we start the next game. I’ll do a short statement, deny every accusation, and keep it classy. Show the sponsors I’m not the ticking time bomb she says I am.”

Nash pats my shoulder. “Sounds good. Want us up there with you?”

I shoot him a faint grin. “Nah, I’ll do it solo. More genuine that way. But I appreciate it.”

He nods, stepping aside to answer a text. Meanwhile, I catch myself scanning the tent, searching for a head of chestnut hair and a pair of sharp green eyes. My pulse jumps just thinking about Piper, remembering her parted lips the night she won the auction. The sweet hint of nervousness in her gaze when I kissed her. That moment still replays in my mind, no matter how hard I try to bury it.

“Dude, you’re zoning again,” Ethan drawls, snapping his fingers. “Who’re you looking for?”

I jerk my focus back, scowling. “No one. Just making sure no reporters are lurking around.”

“Uh-huh,” he replies, not buying it.

Ignoring his smirk, I set my water down. “I’m stepping outside for some air.”

I exit the tent and cut across the fairgrounds. Music drifts on the breeze, and the Ferris wheel stands tall against the night sky, lights blinking in a steady rhythm. In the distance, I spot a few families strolling hand in hand, kids licking ice cream cones. Normally, I’d have Violet with me—she loves the festival games—but tonight, she’s with Annie, our neighbor, so I can focus on hockey…and apparently, damage control.

I should be thinking about sponsors, strategy, the next PR move. But my brain keeps short-circuiting to her.

Piper.

As I pass a row of vendors, I can't help glancing around for her. Part of me wonders if she'll pop up with that sharp tongue and quick wit of hers. Maybe the banter would ease some of the tension I'm feeling. Or maybe I just want to see her face again, watch that spark in her eyes flare when she challenges me.

I saw it the other night—the way she looked at me across that tiny restaurant table, like I might actually surprise her. Like she didn’t know whether to kiss me or run.

And then she did kiss me. Hell, I kissed her. Hard. And for a second, when her lips parted and she melted into me, I forgot every grudge, every article, every damn reason I should’ve stayed away.

She tasted like red wine and defiance. And something about the way she trembled just slightly—just enough to make my cock throb—has been branded into me ever since.

I can still feel her fingers fisting my shirt. Still hear the soft gasp she made right before I let her go.

A kiss like that doesn't just end. It lingers. It fucks with your head.

And yeah, maybe I’ve been thinking about it more than I should. But Piper Reed is a complication I can't afford to want.