Page 54

Piper

One Year Later

There’s a pink onesie on the clothesline.

Well, it’s more of a hopeful visual manifestation than an actual necessity at this point, but it’s there—flapping between Jake’s worn jeans and Violet’s unicorn pajamas like it belongs. Like it’s waiting. Like we’re waiting.

I snap a photo, angle the lens up to catch the sun peeking through the fabric, then lower the camera and smile to myself.

I may or may not have bought the onesie on a post-ovulation Target high. Jake knows. He just shook his head and muttered something about "jinxing the swimmers," then kissed my forehead and added it to the laundry without another word.

God, I love that man.

Violet shrieks from the backyard. “I did it! I score’d!”

Jake’s voice floats back, deep and full of mock defeat. “Technically, I didn’t say you couldn’t —I said not to show off. That’s Uncle Blaze’s job.”

I lean on the porch railing, watching them: Violet in her pink jersey, stick held high like she just won the Stanley Cup, and Jake—my husband, my heart—skating backward on the small patch of outdoor ice he built just for her. His beanie’s crooked, cheeks flushed, and he’s grinning like she just made the Olympic team.

“Piiiper!” Violet skates clumsily to the edge, breathless. “You see me? I beat Daddy!”

“I saw you,” I call, snapping a picture. “That move was wild. You’re trouble on skates.”

She beams. “Daddy say hot cocoa if I do it again!”

Jake glides by, leans on his stick, and winks at me. “Don’t fall for it. She’s been chirping me all morning.”

“She’s yours,” I shoot back.

His grin widens. “Lucky me.”

I’m about to call back something suggestive when a car pulls up the gravel drive. I straighten instinctively—then relax when I spot Marnie stepping out in her usual wool coat and ballet flats, Violet’s overnight bag tucked under one arm.

The relationship between us? Still complicated. Still healing. But we’ve found our rhythm.

I meet her halfway. “Hey,” I say, voice easy.

She nods, her gaze skimming the backyard where Violet waves enthusiastically from the rink. “She didn’t want to leave this morning. Insisted I pack her skates in case there was time.”

“There’s always time,” I say with a smile.

Marnie glances at the porch. “I got your package. The photo album.”

“Thought you might like it,” I say. “There were a lot of good shots from the fall festival and her first stick-and-puck day.”

Her fingers tighten slightly on the strap. “It was… beautiful.” She hesitates, then adds, “Thank you.”

Coming from Marnie, that’s basically a standing ovation.

I nod. “She wanted to add a note to the last page. I didn’t read it.”

She swallows. “It said, ‘Thank you for being my first mommy.’”

My chest tightens. “She loves you.”

“I know,” Marnie says softly. Then her gaze meets mine. “And she loves you, too. I’ve made peace with that.”

I blink fast. The air feels full of grace.

“I’m not trying to replace you,” I say.

She nods slowly. “I know. You’re not her mother. But I think you’ve become a piece of her world, one she needs.”

It hits me square in the chest. Because what more could I ask for?

***

Back inside, I kick off my boots and wander into the living room, where my laptop is open on the coffee table. “True Lens” loads with a satisfying click. No gossip. No scandals. Just photos and essays that breathe—quiet portraits, hockey stories, snapshots of humanity I used to chase for drama but now chase for truth.

My last piece, Women on Ice: What Girls Learn From Skates and Stick Tape, was shared by the junior league and got reposted by USA Hockey. Sponsors returned—new ones, better ones. Not because I courted clicks, but because I started telling real stories again.

I never thought a rebrand would be my redemption arc. But here we are.

Maddie texts.

You ovulating?

Boundaries.

Just checking. I lit a candle for your uterus.

Touching. Truly.

She’s been obnoxiously supportive since the wedding. Has a whole “Aunt Maddie” Pinterest board now and absolutely no shame about sending me ovulation memes.

I close the laptop, grab my camera again, and head back outside. Jake is helping Violet unlace her skates, her cheeks red and nose dripping. She’s got marshmallow fluff on her chin from her cocoa and a gap-toothed smile that makes me want to cry.

Jake looks up when I approach, his expression soft.

“She wants to watch a movie after lunch,” he says. “Something about dogs that can talk?”

“Classic,” I say. “Should we join her?”

He brushes a kiss across my temple. “Later.”

***

Turns out “later” means I end up curled on the couch, Violet nestled between us, snoring softly into my side by minute twenty of the movie.

Jake slides his arm behind me, fingers trailing idle circles at my lower back. His voice is low against my ear. “You wore her out.”

“She wore me out.”

“She asked if we could all sleep in the same bed tonight again.”

I blink, surprised. “Really?”

“She called it ‘family sleep.’ Said it made her feel safe.”

My heart turns molten. “What did you say?”

“I said yes.” He leans closer. “And that I wanted you to feel safe, too.”

I turn into him, our foreheads touching. “I do.”

He kisses me—soft, lingering. “I want to make love to my wife.”

The movie’s still playing. Violet’s out cold. But Jake’s lips on my neck, his hand brushing low over my hip, makes every cell in my body vibrate.

“Bedroom,” I whisper.

He lifts Violet carefully, carries her upstairs, tucks her into the middle of the bed like precious cargo. I stand at the doorway, watching, falling harder somehow. Again.

Then he returns, pulls me into our room, and locks the door.

My back hits the mattress, Jake’s hands warm and steady as he spreads kisses down my bare stomach. “You’re everything,” he says. “Not perfect. Not easy. But everything.”

I cup his face, tug him up until we’re nose to nose. “And you’re mine.”

Our mouths meet—no rush, no pressure. Just heat. History. Hope.

Jake kisses me deep, tongue sweeping into my mouth with a slow hunger that makes me moan against him.

His name is a sigh on my lips. His body, my anchor. We move together, hearts pounding, breath tangled. There’s laughter—because he’s trying to whisper sweet nothings and I keep ticklishly giggling when his beard brushes my collarbone. There’s emotion—because I didn’t think I’d ever feel whole like this.

He kisses down my neck, sucking gently just below my jaw, then lower, tugging my underwear down my thighs and tossing them aside. His mouth moves between my breasts, lips teasing, tongue flicking, then closing around one nipple while his fingers dip lower.

He slides one finger inside me, then another, curling just right. I arch against him, fingers tangling in his hair.

“I want you now,” I breathe.

“Not yet.”

He moves lower, kisses down my belly, then nudges my thighs apart and licks a long, slow stripe up my pussy, groaning when he tastes me.

“Oh—God, Jake—”

He flattens his tongue, fucking me with it, then flicks my clit until I’m writhing. His grip on my hips is firm, holding me in place as he devours me like a man starved. My thighs shake. My moans rise.

“Jake—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Good,” he growls, sucking harder.

I come with a cry, back arching, legs trembling. He doesn’t stop until I’m gasping and pulling his hair, begging him up.

He kisses me, and I taste myself on his lips.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice rough.

“Barely.”

He smiles and guides himself to my entrance. His cock rubs against me, thick and hard and so damn perfect. He slides in slowly, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel so good.”

I dig my heels into the mattress, wrap my arms around his neck, and roll my hips.

“Jake.”

He thrusts, slow at first, then deeper, harder. The rhythm builds, bodies slapping, the heat between us thick and primal. Every stroke hits that perfect spot.

I gasp his name, over and over, nails raking down his back.

“I love you,” he pants. “God, Piper—I love you.”

“Harder,” I beg. “Don’t stop.”

He shifts, hooking one of my legs over his shoulder and driving deeper. The new angle makes me cry out. My orgasm builds again, fast and sharp.

“Jake—please—”

“Come for me, baby.”

I explode around him, clenching tight, crying out his name. He thrusts twice more and groans, spilling inside me as his body tenses and shudders.

We collapse into each other, soaked in sweat and love and the kind of breathless silence that says everything.

He strokes my thigh, still buried inside me. “Every time feels like the first.”

“Every time feels like home.”

We stay like that—skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat—until the world stops spinning. Until it starts to feel like forever again.

The room smells like candles and rain—because of course it started raining right at the best part like nature knew we needed the soundtrack.

“Hey,” I murmur, brushing hair from his forehead. “That thing you said… about me being everything?”

“Still true.”

I kiss his chin. “Even when I eat all the fries?”

“Especially then.”

I laugh. “Think Violet will be okay with a baby?”

He smiles against my shoulder. “Only if she gets to name it.”

“Oh God. We’re gonna have a kid named Glitter Ice. ”

Jake snorts. “Glitter’s strong. Unpredictable. Iconic.”

“Stop encouraging her.”

He shifts to kiss my belly, even though we don’t know if we’ve conceived yet. “Doesn’t matter what the name is,” he says. “They’ll have you. And they’ll have us. Our family.”

I blink back tears.

We lie there for a while, just breathing, just being. And for once, I don’t worry about tomorrow.

***

Later that Night

We’re brushing teeth, hair damp from a lazy bath, when Jake glances at me in the mirror.

“Emma’s next.”

I pause, toothbrush mid-scrub. “Huh?”

He wipes his mouth with a towel. “To fall.”

I smirk. “You’re calling it?”

He nods solemnly. “I’m okay with it… as long as it’s my buddy Knox and not that Davidson boy.”

I laugh so hard I snort toothpaste onto the mirror.

***