Page 37

37

Jake

There’s something sacred about fresh ice.

The second my blades carve into that untouched sheet, everything else disappears—the noise, the headlines, the endless dance with Piper between real and fake. Out here, there’s just the ice and what you do with it.

Coach’s whistle shrieks through the rink like a war cry.

The puck drops. Instinct kicks in.

I drive my shoulder into Derek Haines’s side, low and legal, stealing just enough edge to win the faceoff. The puck glances off my stick, and I flick a backhand pass toward Blaze, who’s already streaking up the wing like a damn meteor.

Pink grip tape flashes like a warning— brace yourself, this guy doesn’t brake —and he snipes it bar down before Haines can even turn his hips.

Blaze throws his arms up like he just won the Cup. “Top shelf Tuesday, boys!”

“It’s Thursday, genius,” I mutter, still grinning as I skate backward.

Doesn’t matter. It feels good . No— right . Last month was a hurricane of press junkets, choreographed couple shots, and pretending I wasn’t falling for the woman I was supposed to be fake-dating. The only thing more exhausting than lying to the public was trying to keep the truth from Piper.

But this? This is oxygen. Clean. Brutal. Honest.

Coach splits us into groups and we start three-circle passing. The sound of sticks tapping for the puck mixes with the hollow clack of skate blades digging into the corners. Emma’s perched in the bleachers, camera in hand, probably updating the youth league’s socials.

Blake’s at the bench, frowning at his iPad. Dad stands behind him, arms crossed in his “I’m not crying, you’re crying” posture.

I catch a rim-around off the glass and pivot hard, sending a saucer pass through a narrow slot. It lands perfectly on Nash’s blade, and he hammers it—post, in, no mercy.

Coach shouts, “Nice look, Ice!”

We keep moving, working systems, refining positioning. Heart rates spike. Air turns foggy with breath. The rink is cold enough to bite your skin if you stop moving—but nobody’s stopping.

We run the last rep of a breakout sequence. I take a hard wrist shot that clangs off the crossbar and ricochets back to center. Close, but no cigar.

Three sharp blasts from Coach’s whistle end the session. My legs burn. My jersey clings to me with sweat. And still, I want another shift.

That’s how I know I’m alive.

After we’re done, I glide toward the bench, stick blade dragging behind me like a shadow. I lean it against the boards, flip off my helmet, and swipe my towel over my face.

Buzz.

My phone’s lighting up inside my glove. Unknown number. Milwaukee area code. Probably another endorsement pitch.

Still breathing heavy, I accept the call. “Jake Ice.”

“Mr. Ice, this is Candace Fowler from the law offices of Pratt & Heller. I represent Ms. Marnie Price.”

The cold that skitters through my body has nothing to do with the damn rink.

“Okay,” I say slowly, already on edge.

“We’re reaching out as a professional courtesy. Ms. Price intends to petition the court to modify the current custody arrangement. She’s seeking primary physical custody of Violet.”

My heart stops, then slams back into rhythm—hard and fast. “On what grounds?” I demand, fingers clenching around the phone like it might bite.

“Ms. Price believes this shift would offer Violet greater stability. There are concerns regarding your temperament and emotional suitability, highlighted by certain… online materials.”

Online materials?

A drumbeat of dread starts pounding in my ears.

Fowler’s voice is crisp, emotionless. “A particular sports blog has cited what they term a ‘pattern of volatility’ in your recent behavior.”

Penelope Darling. That trash blog that called me a glorified frat boy with a bad temper. The one that tore me apart during the festival.

At the time, I brushed it off. Hell, even made a few jokes about it with the team.

Now it’s being cited in a custody case.

“Ms. Fowler,” I grit out, “I have no criminal record. No restraining orders. No drug use, no DUIs. Violet is healthy, happy, and thriving. This is retaliation, plain and simple.”

“You’ll have the opportunity to respond,” she says smoothly. “This is simply notice of intent. You’ll receive formal paperwork tomorrow. As I said, we wanted to give you a heads-up as a courtesy.”

Her tone makes it sound like she’s doing me a favor. Then the line clicks off, and I’m left staring at my phone like it just betrayed me.

Blood roars in my ears. That blog was anonymous. Piper told me she hated Penelope Darling’s work—said she hated gossip writers. And yet… those posts about me weren’t vague. They weren’t impersonal. They knew too much. They hit too hard.

Who the hell is Penelope?

And why the hell is she trying to take my daughter from me?

I tap Piper’s name on my screen, jaw clenched tight enough to crack enamel. The call rings. No answer. Voicemail. I try again. Still nothing.

She always answers.

This time, she doesn’t.

I’m out of my skates in under a minute, tearing gear off like it’s on fire. Pads thud into my duffel, the sharp tang of sweat rising off everything. Blaze tries to intercept me between the bench and locker room tunnel.

“Bro, where’s the fire?”

“Custody threat.” I slam the locker shut. “Marnie’s lawyer just called.”

His easy grin vanishes. “Wait—what? I thought all that crap was buried.”

“It was.” I yank my hoodie over my head and shove my feet into sneakers. “Someone dug it up and handed it to her wrapped in a bow. Blog stuff, online rumors. They’re calling me unstable.”

Blaze winces. “That’s low. You think it’s Davidson again?”

“Maybe.” I swipe my phone off the bench. My thumb hovers over Piper’s name. My pulse is still jacked from practice, but now it’s morphing into something else—tight, hot, anxious. If anyone knows how to sniff out dirt in the gossip world, it’s her.

I hit call. It rings once. Twice. Four times.

“Hey, it’s Piper, leave it!” Beep.

I hang up without leaving a message and hit redial. Straight to voicemail.

Dammit.

“Still not answering?” Blaze asks, grabbing his own bag.

I grip the phone tighter. “Something’s off. If this blog stuff started recently, she might know where it came from.”

“You think she’s behind it?”

“No,” I snap—too fast. “I think she knows something. But if she is—if even a fraction of this leads back to her...”

Blaze quiets. “Then what?”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. My silence says it all.

***

It’s nearly dark when I pull into the ranch drive, the sky brushed in streaks of purple and steel. The porch lights glow warm against the gravel. The screen door creaks open before I’ve even cut the engine.

“She’s inside,” Annie says, stepping out with a Tupperware container in one hand. “Chicken and dumplings. You look like you could eat a cow.”

I muster a tired smile. “Thanks. Just the chicken’ll do.”

Inside, Violet’s perched sideways on the couch, little socked feet kicking the air, surrounded by her favorite stuffed animals. When she spots me, her whole face lights up. She wobbles to her feet and throws her arms up.

“Daddy!” she squeals.

“Hey, peanut.” I scoop her up and hold her tight, letting the feel of her settle my rattled nerves. She wraps her arms around my neck and lays her cheek on my shoulder with a happy sigh. Just that, and the world feels less like it’s falling apart.

Annie hums behind us, tidying toys. “She was good. Helped me in the kitchen—sort of.”

“I stir,” Violet adds proudly, pulling back to grin at me. “Cookies!”

“Oh yeah?” I kiss her cheek. “Lucky Annie.”

“Hair,” she babbles, grabbing a fistful of her own curls. “Braids!”

“You braided Annie’s hair?” I ask.

She nods solemnly. “Unicorn.”

I chuckle. “That tracks.”

Later, after Annie heads out and I see Dad’s truck rumble past the window—probably doing one last fence check—I carry Violet’s backpack to her room. She’s already on the rug, plopping her plush dragon on a pillow and mumbling to herself in her own little toddler language.

I lower myself beside her. “V? Can Daddy ask you something?”

She looks up from her toy, eyes wide and curious. “Uh-huh.”

“Do you like living here? At the ranch?”

She blinks slowly, then nods. “Like horsies. And cowsies.”

“Yeah,” I smile. “We do have horsies and cowsies.”

“Blaze make ‘cakes,” she adds, serious as ever.

“Right. Funny pancakes.” I pause. “What if Mama wanted you to stay at her house more? A lot more?”

Violet’s brows pinch together. “No cowsies.”

“No cowsies,” I agree softly.

She looks at me for a long beat, then presses her forehead to mine. “Miss Daddy.”

That cracks something open inside me. I pull her into my lap and hug her tight.

“I bad?” she whispers.

“No, baby. Never. You’re perfect,” I murmur, voice rough. “You’re my best thing.”

She pats my cheek and squints. "Skwishy.”

I laugh through the lump in my throat. “Thanks, peanut.”

She yawns and curls into my chest like a kitten. “P’cakes ‘morrow?”

“Yeah,” I whisper, brushing her hair back. “We’ll have pancakes.”

After Violet’s tucked in, her dragon clutched tight in one hand and her cheek pressed to the pillow, I drift out to the porch. The air’s cool, but I don’t notice. I’m too busy staring across the moonlit pasture, where the shadows of fence posts stretch long and lean. My thoughts are louder than the crickets.

A boot heel scuffs the wood behind me. Dad steps out with a slow, easy gait, his typical late-night coffee in hand. He doesn’t say anything right away—just leans on the rail beside me.

“Heard about it,” he says finally, voice low.

“Of course you did.” I scrub a hand down my face, exhaustion threading through me. “Marnie’s lawyer called today. Said she’s filing for primary custody. They’re using stuff from online—blog garbage. Some Penelope Darling crap calling me volatile.”

Dad doesn’t flinch. He just listens.

“And Piper?” he asks after a long moment.

“Radio silence. I’ve called a dozen times.” My voice sounds ragged, like gravel in a blender. “She’s not picking up.”

He shifts, thumb brushing the brim of his hat. “You think she’s behind it?”

“No.” The word comes out fast. Honest. “But I think she knows where it came from.”

Dad nods, like that sounds right. Then he glances at me sideways. “You love that girl?”

I blow out a breath, shoulders tight. “Yeah.”

“And you’re angry she’s not here.”

“Yeah.”

He takes a sip of coffee. “Might be she’s got her own storm she’s wrestling tonight. Might be she’s fighting for you without saying a word.”

That thought hits harder than I expect. I swallow, my chest loosening just a little.

Dad tips his hat back. “Fight smart, son. Lead with calm. Don’t let fear speak louder than love.”

And just like that, I feel steady enough to breathe again.

A short time later, Im sit at the kitchen table, laptop open, legal files spread. Custody petitions. Character references. I draft an email to my attorney, attach Violet’s school reports, pediatric notes: thriving, well-adjusted, normal milestones. Evidence of stability.

I picture Piper: her camera strap, the way she kneels to capture Violet’s grin, the tremor in her hands when she thought she’d lost our trust. I picture Violet’s sun-bleached braids, her fearless laughter. And I swear on every inch of this land—I won’t let anyone rip her away.

The cursor blinks, waiting.

Whatever it takes , I type into the subject line. Then I hit send.

Outside, coyotes howl somewhere beyond the north fence. Inside, the house feels less shaky, more like a fortress gathering strength.

Marnie’s lawyer wants temperament? Fine. They’ll see it. But they’ll also see a father who won’t give up without a fight.

No matter what.