Page 17

17

Jake

God, I’m an idiot. The woman is trouble with a capital T. We’re in this bizarre push-and-pull game neither of us wants to name, so she’s the last person I should be thinking about, especially with my reputation on the line.But then, a memory hits me again: Piper’s flush after our date, the way she let out that tiny gasp when I pinned her against her car for a kiss. I stifle a low groan. If I don’t keep a lid on these thoughts, they’re gonna drag me under.

I’m so caught up in my own head that I barely notice Maddie until I almost bump into her. “Whoa, watch it,” she exclaims, stepping back.

“Sorry,” I mutter, clearing my throat. “You seen Piper?” The words are out before I can stop them.

Maddie gives me a knowing look. “Maybe. Why?”

“Just want a word with her,” I say, forcing a casual shrug.

She arches an eyebrow. “She’s… around. Probably at the Airbnb by now. She left the tent a while ago.”

I grunt my thanks and walk off, not even sure what I’ll say if I do run into her. Hey, Piper, can’t stop fantasizing about you, but also I hate your guts? Not exactly the smoothest approach.

When I get back to the ranch later—showered, changed, and still seething about that article—I find Nash, Knox, and Ethan hanging around the wide porch that overlooks rolling hills. Sean, my eldest brother, is out there too, fiddling with a microphone for his hockey podcast setup.

Ethan tilts his chin in my direction. “So, big talk tomorrow?”

I nod. “Morning, right before the next charity match. Press, sponsors, plenty of townsfolk—perfect stage. I’m setting the record straight.”

Sean overhears and raises a brow. “You sure that’s wise, Jake? You know how the rumor mill works—if you give it too much oxygen, it’ll catch fire again.”

“I’m counting on it,” I reply, crossing my arms. “Because while they’re busy watching, I’m going to shred that blog post line by line.”

A smile tugs at Sean’s mouth. “All right. You want me to record it for Puck Talk ?”

“Wouldn’t hurt. The bigger the audience, the better.” Then a thought occurs to me. “Or maybe I take it to Tiktok, handle it on my own.”

“Just keep it civil,” he warns. “If Penelope Darling’s accusing you of being a ticking time bomb, you can’t come out swinging like a madman.”

I hold his gaze. “I’m aware. Trust me, I’ll be calm as a saint.”

Nash snorts. “Saint Jake Ice—that’s a headline I’d pay to see.”

I shoot him a dirty look, but it breaks into a grin. “Laugh all you want.”

We hang around on the porch for a while, the night quiet except for the distant pulse of festival music. Eventually, the guys peel off to crash. I linger, arms braced on the wooden railing, staring out at the moonlit fields. Part of me wants to text Piper, demand to know where she’s hiding. The rest of me reminds myself it’s better I don’t.

Because if there’s one person who can see through my cocky facade right now, it’s her. And if I let her in—even an inch—she’ll discover how rattled I actually am.

***

The following morning dawns bright and brisk, a perfect day for hockey if you ignore the swirl of controversy. By the time I get to the festival grounds, the stands are already filling up for the midmorning charity match. Vendors hawk coffee and breakfast burritos, kids chase each other wearing homemade jerseys, and the local radio station blasts upbeat tunes from giant speakers.

I’m in the players’ tent—technically just the old equipment barn repurposed with benches and gear hooks—still sweaty from warm-ups and scrolling through the latest storm of comments on my phone. Penelope Darling’s article is everywhere. Clips of commentators debating whether I’m “too aggressive for modern hockey” are making the rounds. My name is trending—for all the wrong damn reasons.

My jaw flexes as I exhale sharply, gripping my phone tighter. I need to shut this down now , before it spirals into something that messes with my contract negotiations.

Knox, sitting on the bench across from me, tosses his gloves into his bag and glances up. “You look like you’re about to kill someone, man.”

“I should,” I mutter, clicking out of yet another headline calling me reckless and arrogant.

Nash quirks a brow. “Press conference?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Not gonna give them that much power over my time. We’re doing this on my turf.” I unlock my phone and pull up the camera app. “I’ll handle this with a TikTok.”

Knox whistles. “Bold move. You sure you don’t wanna run this by PR first?”

I scoff. “I am PR. This is my reputation we’re talking about, and I know exactly what I want to say.”

Ethan leans over, clearly entertained. “Oh, this is gonna be good. ”

I flip the camera to selfie mode, angling it so the rink is visible behind me. My expression is relaxed, controlled. But my voice? That’s got just enough bite to make people pay attention.

I press record.

"Hey everyone, Jake Ice here. If you're online, you've probably seen some hot garbage floating around about me. Some gossip blogger— Penelope Darling , if we're naming names—decided to take a swing at me, calling me 'borderline reckless' and suggesting I'm putting on some kind of act." I shake my head with a dry chuckle. "Strong words from someone hiding behind anonymity."

Ethan snickers beside me, but I don't break focus.

"I get it. Drama sells. People love a villain, and hey, I do play a physical game. But let's set the record straight—" I lean in slightly, my voice dropping lower, sharper. "Hockey is a contact sport. Body checks, physical play—that's part of the game, not some anger management issue. There's a difference between playing hard and playing dirty, and anyone who's actually watched me knows which side I'm on."

I pause for effect, then continue. "I'm not reckless. I'm not fake. And I sure as hell don't have a 'PR machine' polishing my image. I'm the same guy on and off the ice—someone who plays hard and lives honestly. The people in this town know who I am, and it sure as hell isn't the two-faced phony she's painting in that post."

I pause for effect, scanning my own reflection in the screen before continuing.

“You don’t have to like me. Hell, you don’t even have to root for me. But if you want the truth? Come see for yourself. My door’s open. My phone’s on. I’m not running, and I’m not hiding. What I won’t do is let some faceless blogger decide who I am for me.”

I hold the stare for another beat, then smirk and add, “See you on the ice.”

I end the recording and immediately start uploading it. “And… post.”

Knox shakes his head with a low whistle. “Damn. That was good. ”

Ethan claps me on the back, grinning. “You made it sound controlled, but there was just enough edge in there to let her know you’re gunning for her.”

“Exactly.” I set my phone on the bench beside me. “Let’s see if she’s got the nerve to respond.”

The post goes live, and within minutes, the notifications start rolling in. Hundreds of likes. Comments flooding in by the second. My name back in the trending tab—but this time, it’s different.

‘Okay but Jake Ice makes some points.’ ‘Kinda bold for Penelope to come at him like that and then NOT show her face.’ ‘Not gonna lie, this is a PR masterclass.’

Nash glances at my phone as another round of notifications lights it up. “Well, you just flipped the script.”

I smirk, leaning back against the wall of the old barn, stretching my arms over the back of the bench. “Damn right, I did.”

I nod once. “Yeah, let’s see how she responds. In the meantime…” I glance toward the makeshift rink outside, the crowd already buzzing. “Game on.”