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Jake

The Ice Ranch's Pre- Blades & Boots festival bonfire is in full swing, the sprawling event space between the luxury lodge and the historic barn transformed into a festival ground. String lights crisscross overhead between ancient oak trees, casting a warm glow over everything below. The bonfire itself blazes at the center, but it's just one part of the scene.

A local country band plays from the barn's converted stage area, their cover of Luke Combs' latest hit drawing couples to the wooden dance floor. Some of the resort's guests—a mix of Chicago socialites and Milwaukee's elite who paid premium for this week—mingle with local ranchers and college kids, creating this weird but perfect blend of designer boots and authentic cowboys.

I'm posted with my teammates near the barn's stone patio, where high-top tables and leather lounges create intimate gathering spots. The air smells like burning oak mixed with whatever fancy BBQ the resort's chef is grilling at one of the food stations.

"All I'm saying," Knox announces, gesturing with his beer, "is that Anderson's flow is tragic. Man looks like he stuck his dick in a light socket."

"Speaking of tragic," Nash cuts in, "remember when Ethan tried to grow a playoff beard?"

"Hey!" Ethan protests. "It wasn't that bad."

"Bro." Knox shakes his head solemnly. "My balls have better coverage than your face did."

"At least I have a girlfriend," Ethan says. "Unlike Mr. 'I thought WAP was a wrestling move' over here."

I take another pull from my beer, fighting a grin as Nash sputters. Beyond our group, the party's hitting its stride. Dad's talking with some NFL player who booked the resort for his upcoming wedding, while my brother Blaze, his fiancée Savannah, and their friends have claimed the s'mores station near the vintage Airstream bar. The whole scene screams money, but for me it's home.

"You know what else was tragic?" Nash leans in, eyes gleaming. "Knox trying to explain to that girl what a slapshot was."

"She asked if it was a type of tequila!" Knox protests. "What was I supposed to say?"

"Definitely not 'baby, I can show you how hard I can shoot,'" Nash wheezes. "That chick would have dumped her drink on you."

"Better than Jake's pickup line last season," Ethan says. "What was it again? Something about checking her against the boards?"

"That wasn't a pickup line, asshole. I literally checked her—she was from the other team."

"Yeah, and then you asked for her number in the penalty box."

"Did not."

"Did too. Coach made us do wall-sits for an hour because you were 'fraternizing with the enemy.'"

The guys burst into another round of laughter, but I need a break from their energy. Between the music, the crowd, and their non-stop chirping, it's getting to be too much.

"I'm gonna get some air," I say, pushing off from the wall.

Knox follows, because of course he does, with two beers. "Air? Bro, there's plenty right here." He grins, falling into step beside me. "Or are you just trying to get a better view of the chicks in the s'mores station?" He waggles his eyebrows. "You know how dangerous fire can be." He offers me one beer, and I take it without looking away from the group across the flames.

"Speaking of trouble..." Knox follows my gaze.

"We were not speaking of trouble."

"That's okay. Still—your sister's hanging with the older college crowd again."

Emma's laughing with her sorority sisters. She fits right in despite being barely seventeen, at least four years younger than the other girls. Pride swells in my chest. " Yeah, well, not much of a shock when you're a genius who tested out of half your high school classes and landed early admission to University of Wisconsin-Madison."

"Heard she's doing some program with MIT now too."

"Dad's over the moon about it." I can't help grinning. "Finally got someone in the family using their brain instead of their body to get ahead."

"I wouldn't mind using my body to get ahead."

"Don't bet on that working for you."

"You're just jealous, dude. Bring your measuring tape and I'll make you eat your words."

"No, seriously, dude, between me and my three older brothers, the Ice name's been all about hockey. Nice to see Emma breaking the mold."

"Like growing up with four hockey-obsessed brothers wasn't enough testosterone—she had to go and pick computer science," Knox says. "Bruh, something’s definitely wrong with your sis."

"Says the guy who still thinks a motherboard is a new category on PornHub," I shoot back. "And she's kicking ass at it," I add. "Way more than you ever will."

Doesn’t matter how grown-up she acts, or the fact that she’s less than a year away from being an official adult—she’ll always be my kid sister, and I’ll always be on the lookout.

She’s with Sadie—my cousin—and two other girls: Madison, who I vaguely recognize from campus, and Piper.

“That tall one in the tank top,” I mutter. “You recognize her?”

Piper’s tall enough to stand out from the crowd—long chestnut hair in a loose braid down her back, sharp brown eyes that don’t miss much, and a body that’s pure distraction, whether I fucking like it or not. She’s got the kind of effortless pull that hits before your brain catches up. I tell myself I’m just scanning Emma’s companions, but my gaze catches, lingers—on the curve of her hips in those tight jeans, the way her white tank top clings just enough to hint at her curves, the soft dip of cleavage when she leans in to talk with Sadie, the way the firelight flickers over her skin, making my fingers twitch with the worst kind of impulse.

Fuck. I need to look away. But my dick is already ahead of me, responding to the way she moves—slow, sinfully confident, like she knows exactly how much control she has over any man watching.

I hate that I notice how her breasts fill out that damn top. It’s infuriating how I can’t tear my eyes away, even though I know exactly how manipulative she could be.

We’ve crossed paths a couple times, but it’s never gone well. I’ve got zero respect for someone who fronts as an unbiased blogger then twists the narrative for clicks and drama.

Knox squints through the firelight. "Wait... is that Piper Reed?"

"Yeah." The word comes out like gravel. "The one who wrote I was 'throwing tantrums on ice like a toddler who missed his nap.'"

"Fuck, that’s right. She called me ‘a role model for brainless brutes in college sports’ last season." Knox snorts. "All because I checked that asshole harassing the female ref."

"Her whole blog's like that. Piper on the Ice ." I huff. "More like Ice Queen . Pretty ironic name for someone who's never even been on the ice ."

"Probably thinks a hat trick is something magicians do," Knox adds with a laugh.

"And a power play is when a guy has her pinned, breathless, and begging for the penalty to last longer"

"Says the guy who probably knows nothing about lasting longer."

"Shut up," I growl.

"And a five-hole is not the sweet spot between a goalie's legs, but her bringing four girlfriends to 'dinner' at your place?" He waggles his eyebrows.

"Why four? One friend's enough," I mutter, my eyes tracking a particular one across the fire.

"Bet she thinks icing is what goes on a cake."

"I wouldn't mind showing her what a real body check feels like," I mutter, watching her move to whatever country song's playing, her hips swaying as she tries to teach Emma some dance steps. "Pin her against the boards until she can't breathe, while I check all of her body."

"And I bet you'd let her handle your stick too," Knox smirks. "Though from the way you're staring, looks like you're the one who wants to score."

I shoot him a glare, but my fingers tighten around my beer bottle. "Everything's an angle with her. She takes one incident, twists it, and suddenly good guys like you and me are the villains of college hockey."

"It's just a blog, man. Who even reads that shit?" He pulls out his phone, typing quickly. "Look, Piper on the Ice only gets like twenty thousand views a month. That's nothing in the hockey world."

"Apparently enough people read it." The memory hits me like a sucker punch—reading her post while Violet napped on my chest, my little girl's peaceful breathing a stark contrast to the rage building inside me. "But her blog wasn't even the worst of it. You hear about Penelope Darling?"

Knox's brow furrows, thumbs moving over his phone again. His eyebrows shoot up. "Half a million monthly readers? And her stories get picked up by major sports networks..."

"Yeah. Piper wrote about that fight during the Minnesota game—said I had 'anger management issues' and needed to 'check my temper.' But this Penelope person?" I clench my jaw. "She must've read that and ran with it. Turned one fight into this whole exposé about me being a misogynistic pig, the poster child for toxic masculinity in hockey."

I drag a hand down my face. "After that hit piece, the Chicago Wolves' scout stopped coming to my games. Two endorsement deals vanished. I had a real shot with them before all this—their scout had been to three games, was talking about a tryout after graduation." I take a long pull from my beer, the bitter fizz hitting my tongue, grounding me for half a second before my thoughts spiral again. "Playing that close to home would've been perfect with Violet..."

I look at Piper, laughing, with no care in the world. Even as my cock reacts to her curves, my jaw tightens at the memory. I’m not sure Piper fed Darling those lies, but I’m bitter enough to suspect it.

Yeah, she’s hot as hell. And yeah, some traitorous part of me stirs when I see the sway of her hips or the flash of that overconfident smile. But that just pisses me off more—because no amount of physical attraction will change the fact that she’s toxic for my life and my career.

"Wolves would've been perfect, man," Knox says, his voice low. "Hour and a half drive isn't bad."

Could've made most of Violet's bedtimes, been there for breakfast." I clench the bottle, jaw tight. "Dad and Annie are amazing with her, and having my sister-in-law, Aubrey, next door is a gift when I've got late practices, but..."

"But it's not the same as being there."

"Yeah." The word comes out rough.

"Wait—Annie? The neighbor?"

"Yeah." A smile tugs at my mouth despite everything. "Wanna hear something funny? She's had this massive crush on my dad for years. Everyone knows it except him. She brings him fresh-baked bread every Sunday after church, and he still thinks she's 'just being neighborly.'"

Knox snorts. "No way he's that blind."

"Trust me. The man can run a resort empire but can't spot a woman flirting if she wore a neon sign." I grab another beer, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary. "At least Milwaukee's still showing interest. Just hope this Penelope chick doesn't decide to write another shit piece before I get my shot with them."

One more headline, one more so-called exposé, and my career—and Violet's future—goes up in flames.

***

Knox spots a group of girls heading toward the s'mores station. "Think I'm gonna go see if anyone needs help roasting marshmallows." He waggles his eyebrows. "You know how dangerous fire can be."

I wave him off, lost in thoughts of Violet, of missed bedtimes and morning goodbyes. My gaze drifts back to Emma's group across the fire, but I notice she and Madison have stepped away, leaving just Piper and Sadie by the—

A snippet of conversation carries over the music and crowd noise—my name. I freeze, beer halfway to my lips.

Through the flames, I catch their profiles. What the hell are they up to? Something in Sadie's posture—the way she's leaning in, all calculated intensity—sets off warning bells.

Before I can think better of it, I'm moving. The oak trees surrounding the bonfire area provide perfect cover as I edge closer, staying in the shadows. Childish? Maybe. But I've learned the hard way that when people talk about me behind my back, it usually means trouble.

I strain to hear over the crackle of burning wood and the country music drifting from the barn.

"Get Jake Ice to fall head over skates for you."

My fingers tighten around the bottle.

The hell?

"I'm not interested in babysitting some cocky puck-chaser."

A muscle ticks in my jaw. The music drowns out Sadie's response, but then Piper's voice cuts through again, clear as ice:

"Fine, I'm in. Though I'd rather eat nails than deal with him, I'll do it."

Then Sadie leans in, voice dropping low, but the words still carry: "'Speaking of shutting people up… I know your little secret. Your alter ego."

A drunk couple stumbles past, laughing loudly, and I miss whatever comes next. But I've heard enough.

My first instinct is to walk away. Let her try her pathetic little game—I'll just ice her out. But something about her arrogance, the way she thinks she can just handle me, like I'm some puck bunny's practice target...

The bottle nearly cracks in my grip. This woman thinks she can just manipulate me for... what? Some dare? A game? Another notch on her belt?

The rage building in my chest threatens to explode. But underneath it, something darker stirs—something I don't want to acknowledge. I picture her beneath me, those defiant eyes finally surrendering as I pin her wrists above her head. I'd take my time, make her beg, watch that smart mouth of hers fall open in a gasp as I push inside her. I'd make her admit how badly she wants me while she comes apart.

Fuck. My cock stiffens painfully against my jeans, and I shift to adjust myself. This is exactly what she wants—to get under my skin, to make me lose control.

A slow, dangerous smile tugs at my lips. Because now? Now I know exactly what she's up to. She thinks she's playing me, but she has no idea what she's getting herself into.

She has no fucking clue that I'm about to turn her little game completely upside down.

Oh no, sweetheart. You want to play games? Let's play. But this time, I'm making the rules.

Piper Reed is about to learn what happens when you try to play a player.