Page 45

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Jake

Cedar Creek’s single-sheet ice arena smells like Zamboni exhaust, nacho cheese, and every early memory I have of pee-wee hockey.

Violet’s Learn-to-Skate class glides and wobbles in messy circles; she’s the smallest blob out there—pink helmet, tangerine mittens, determination cranked to eleven.

I lean on the plexiglass with Blaze to my left and Blake to my right, arms folded, trying to absorb a rare moment of normal. Custody lawyers have been on my back all week; Marnie petitioned the judge for an “emergency hearing” in two days.

The only time the noise fades is when my daughter’s on the ice—unless you count the hammer in my chest each time she totters too near the boards.

Today, there’s another distraction: Piper. She’s across the lobby behind the half wall that divides the rink from the community room, kneeling by a fold-up table, helping Emma sort silent-auction donation baskets—spa vouchers, hand-tooled belts, a custom lariat Blaze donated.

She hasn’t seen me, and she’s not exactly hiding, but there’s a deliberate smallness to her posture. Head down, camera bag slung at her hip, hair in a messy bun. She moves like she’s auditioning for the part of “helpful assistant #3” instead of the woman who flip-turned my life.

Blaze follows my gaze, eyebrows rising. “That the photog?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.” I keep my tone neutral. He’s asked before; I’ve dodged.

Blake hums, noncommittal. I can practically hear the gears in his brother brain turning: You’re still watching her, man. I ignore it.

On the ice, Coach Tandy claps, and the kids shuffle to center for a game of freeze-tag. Violet trips, frowns, then hauls herself upright without help. Pride swells in my chest, tempered by an ache: what if a judge decides she belongs somewhere else next month?

My grip tightens on the top of the boards.

Practice ends. Parents clog the lobby, coaxing helmets off, promising hot cocoa. Violet scampers over; I scoop her up, spinning once—ritual. She giggles, then points toward Emma’s table. “Piper!”

The name pierces me. “She’s busy,” I say gently, setting Violet down. “Let’s get your skates off first.”

Blake appears beside us, handing over Violet’s shoe bag. His eyes flick to Piper again, then to me. “Gonna pretend you didn’t stand here watching her for twenty minutes?” he asks low.

“Gonna pretend you mind your own business?” I mutter back.

He laughs—not mocking, just knowing. “Business is my brother walking around like he swallowed barbed wire. Face it, you’re still hurting.”

“Working on more pressing things, Blake.” I gesture with my chin toward Violet. “Like keeping her home.”

“Right,” he acknowledges. “But punishing Piper won’t help you win in court. It’s just you avoiding your own bruises.”

I tighten Violet’s laces. “She lied.”

“And then told the truth,” Blake counters. “Publicly. I told you: the easy move was to run.” He crosses his arms. “That's old news. Question now is, why does her not chasing you bother you so much?”

“It doesn’t,” I mutter automatically. Except it does. The night she confessed, I anticipated nonstop texts, maybe another stunt apology. Instead—silence. Like she knows I need space and respects it. The courtesy stings worse than if she camped on my porch with a boom box. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed, so I default to irritated.

Blake drops a hand on my shoulder. “You can be mad and impressed, you know. Not everything’s a binary.”

I snort. “Spoken like a man who writes code for fun.”

“Just because you didn’t inherit the tech genius gene like Emma and I did doesn’t mean you get to ignore logic.”

“Calling yourself a genius? I thought Blaze was the arrogant asshole of you two.”

“Debugging emotions: my least favorite algorithm,” he mutters back, but there’s a glint in his eyes—mission not finished.

We head toward the exit, Violet swinging between my hands—her request, my biceps’ workout. Near the front desk, voices carry: Aunt Evelyn Ice-Grant in full imperious mode, Sadie squared off opposite.

“…and I’m telling you, Sadie Lynn, that girl is calculating,” Evelyn hisses. “She wormed her way in with scandal, and now she’s playing penitent saint for sympathy.”

Sadie’s chin tips up. “She messed up, yes. She also owned it. Name one adult you know who’s burned her own brand to the ground just to be honest.”

Evelyn’s brow lifts. “Honesty or strategy? The Ice boys are protective. She’ll milk that.”

Sadie crosses her arms. “Maybe you’d recognize sincerity if you tried it on for size.”

Blake whistles under his breath. I clear my throat.

Evelyn startles when she sees us, but recovers instantly with a smooth smile. “Jacob. Darling practice, as always. Violet loves the ice.”

“Thanks.” I keep my tone cordial, my distance polite. Family tree branch or not, Evelyn’s meddling vibe is oil-slick on water.

Sadie’s eyes flick to me, then to Piper’s silhouette still bent over auction items. “Excuse me,” she says, moving past Evelyn toward the community room. Interesting. Emma told me that last week Sadie admitted she started the dare; now she’s defending the woman she once blackmailed. Shifting loyalties indeed.

Evelyn purses her lips, glances at me. “You know she’s trouble, Jakey. Don’t let Violet attach.”

Blake lays a casual arm across my back. “Pretty sure Jake can manage his own fathering, Aunt Evelyn.” His tone is mild; the steel underneath isn’t.

Evelyn makes a tight smile. “Of course. Just looking out for family.” She drifts off, designer coat swishing.

Blaze exhales. “She’s like a Disney villain without the musical number.”

“Be fair,” Blake says. “She’d kill a musical number.”

Even I manage a smirk. But my thoughts boomerang back to Sadie, to Piper, to that conversation we didn’t finish.

***

After dropping Violet at Dad’s house for dinner, I head to the ranch’s converted gym—the old milk barn we overhauled into an off-ice training room. I hammer out deadlifts until my legs shake, trying to lift the weight off my conscience. Doesn’t work. Showers, protein shake, still wired.

I pull Violet’s drawing from my duffel—creased from being in my wallet. The three stick figures holding hands. Piper’s hair is chestnut noodles; mine is brown; Violet drew herself with orange scribbles. Family. Kids are fearless about declaring who belongs.

I flip the paper over. Blank white stares back. Piper hasn’t called, texted, hinted. She gave me space—and somehow that’s worse. If she’d begged, I could stay angry. Silence forces me to examine the bruises instead of punching new ones. I wonder if this is just a strategy.

A knock rattles the doorframe. Sadie leans against it, phone in hand. “Gym rat hour?”

“Stress management,” I answer, tucking the drawing away.

She nods. “Listen—I didn’t plan the rink ambush, but I’m glad you two were in the same zip code. Just… thought you should know she spent four hours today sanding splintered rails at the arena. Emma barely spoke to her, but Piper kept at it.”

I shrug. “Labor doesn’t erase lies.”

“No,” Sadie agrees. “But it sure says she’s not chasing headlines anymore.” She hesitates. “Mom’s wrong about her, Jake. Piper isn’t manipulating. She’s just… rebuilding.”

I rub a towel over my hair. “Rebuilding without asking for credit. Why push that narrative to me?”

Sadie’s gaze holds mine—steady, new honesty. “Because you taught me what accountability looks like. You, Emma, the whole family. Piper’s trying that, too. Maybe give her enough rope to climb, not hang.”

She leaves before I can answer.

Back in the bunkhouse I flip channels. Nothing sticks. I open my phone, skim Piper’s new site. No controversy, just saturated shots of sunrise on barbed wire, Emma laughing with a bucket of nails, Violet’s hands pressed against aquarium glass on a class trip. Genuine. Beautiful. View count: modest.

My thumb hovers over the comment box. I type Nice work , stare at the words, then erase them. Not ready.

I scroll further—an about page: “Finding truth in unposed moments.” A line below it: “Capturing community, one honest frame at a time.” A quiet mission statement, heavy with meaning.

My heartbeat won’t slow. I hear Blake’s voice: Why does her not chasing you scare you more than if she did? Because if she walks the other way and I still feel this much… it means the anger is paper over a much deeper cut. It means I care enough to risk being hurt again.

I thunk my head back against the couch, exhale hard. Violet whimpers in her sleep through the baby monitor; I rise, tuck her blanket tighter. Her tiny fingers clutch the edge of her stuffed horse. Family, she labeled, unfiltered.

I stroke her hair and whisper, “Night, cowgirl.” Closing the door, I lean against it and let the truth land:

Piper’s silence isn’t indifference. It’s respect. It leaves the next move—and the chance at healing—squarely in my rink. And that might be the scariest gift I’ve ever been handed.

***

Sleep eludes me. At two a.m. I find myself at the ranch gate, stars blazing overhead. I thumb Violet’s drawing again, edges getting soft from over-handling.

Blake’s words circle: You’re still hurting—and now you’re avoiding healing. Sadie’s: Give her enough rope to climb, not hang.

I pocket the drawing, look toward the dark silhouette of Piper’s Airbnb in the valley below. Not tonight. Custody hearing first. But after that? Maybe.

For now I chart a quiet intention: watch, listen, reassess. Hold the line for Violet, but don’t weld it shut.

Because if a woman can burn down her brand, rebuild from ashes, and still spend her afternoons painting splintered rails for a family that won’t look her in the eye—maybe she deserves someone willing to watch her climb.

Tomorrow, I’ll text Piper exactly two words: I heard. Not forgiveness. Not an invitation. Just proof I’m no longer pretending indifference.

And we’ll see where the next draw of ice takes us.