3. Sean

3

Sean

Trudging across the ranch, each step feels heavier than the last. The last few days have been a blur of manual labor, Pops finding every possible task to keep me busy, from fixing fences to dealing with the livestock.

Stepping into the main house, the familiar warmth wraps around me, a comforting embrace despite my current state of exhaustion. This house, with its creaky floorboards and the constant smell of something delicious baking, is where my siblings and I grew up. It's full of memories, both good and bad, but today, it just feels like another reminder of how much has changed.

I find Emma, my sixteen-year-old kid sister, in the kitchen, her usual sunny self. The smell of fresh coffee in the air is a small consolation.

"Look who's finally crawled out of the wilderness," she teases, pouring me a cup. "How's the rugged ranch life treating you? Pops keeping you on your toes?"

"You could say that," I grumble, accepting the coffee with a nod of thanks. "Feels more like NHL training camp than a visit home. I think he's on a mission to single-handedly redefine the meaning of 'hard work' for me."

Em laughs, clearly enjoying my plight a little too much. "Well, you know Dad. He believes a little hard work never killed anyone. Besides, it's good for you. Builds character or something like that."

"Ha, character. I've got plenty of that already. What I need is a break," I retort, the coffee already starting to soothe my frayed nerves. "How about you trade places with me for a day? Let's see how much character you come out with."

"Nice try," she chuckles, leaning against the counter. "But I think I'll stick to my duties. Besides, I don't think I could handle the wrath of Pops if I let his star worker take a day off."

"Star worker, huh?" I can't help but smile, the banter easing the weight of the past few days. "Well, if this hockey thing doesn't pan out, at least I've got a future in fence repair and cow herding."

Em shakes her head, still smiling. "Only the best for you, bro. Now, drink up. You're going to need all the energy you can get. Dad's got a list of chores with your name on it."

As much as I'd love to argue, I know she's right. So, I take another sip of coffee, bracing myself for whatever Pops has got planned next.

Just as Emma's grabbing her keys, ready to make her escape, she pauses, a look of realization dawning. "Oh, almost forgot to mention, the marketing lady from Chicago and her little one are staying in the room next to yours at the Airbnb. Try not to scare them off with your sunny disposition," she says, her tone teasing but with a hint of seriousness.

I can't help but let out a sarcastic chuckle. "Great, kicked out of my own room and now a warning label. What's next? Am I sleeping in the barn?"

Em shoots me a playful glare, not missing a beat. "If you want the second-floor painting job to get done faster, feel free to pick up a brush. I'm sure Dad would appreciate the help."

Rolling my eyes, I retort, "I think I'll stick to my expertise in cow pies for now. Seems a bit safer than venturing into your renovation projects."

With coffee in hand, I make my way towards the door, but not before adding, "I better go find Pops. Sounds like I need to negotiate my sleeping arrangements and maybe my workload too."

Emma's laughter follows me out, a pleasant reminder that no matter how much I grumble, this place and its never-ending list of chores somehow also feel like home. It's a strange comfort, knowing that amid the manual labor and the unexpected house guests, there's a rhythm to ranch life that always pulls me back in, grounding me in ways the city never could.

Heading up to the third floor, I navigate past the second, which looks like a disaster zone thanks to the renovations. The chaos of paint cans and drop cloths is a total contrast to the memories of order and discipline that flood back as I make my way higher.

Reaching the top floor, I'm struck by a wave of nostalgia. Pop's office, at the end of the hallway, used to be the final frontier for us kids—a no-go zone that, of course, made it all the more enticing. It was the heart of the ranch, mysterious and off-limits, filled with the aura of adult decisions and serious conversations.

As I got older, that mystery faded, replaced by the reality of being called in for lectures and reprimands. Staying out too late, getting into mischief in town—the office became the stage for those not-so-fond memories. Yet, despite the scoldings, it also became a place of understanding, a testament to Pop's tough love.

I knock on the door, a habit ingrained from years of respect (and a bit of fear) for what the office represented. The response is immediate and unmistakable.

"Come in!" Pop's voice, as commanding as ever, booms from within.

Walking into Pops’s command center, it’s like stepping into a time capsule, only the dust’s been kept at bay. There, the cross holds court on the wall, Pops’s nod to the man upstairs, flanked by the Ice Hall of Fame: snapshots of Blake and Blaze lighting up the NHL, Jake gunning for the big leagues with that hungry look in his eyes, Emma, the ranch's resident ray of sunshine, and Mom... Christine, whose memory casts a long, silent shadow in this space.

The office? It’s a masterclass in rustic meets CEO, with a desk so grand it could double as a dining table for the whole clan. The view from behind it is something else—miles of Ice legacy stretching out, a testament to sweat, dirt, and dreams. The bookshelves are a mishmash of farming know-how and literary classics, with a fireplace that’s seen more strategy sessions than a war room.

And there, amidst the homage to times past, sits a laptop, Pops’s reluctant concession to the 21st century. Man’s a believer in the muscle of work and the bond of a handshake, but hey, even he can’t argue with the ease of a click and send.

Soaking in the room, I can't shake the weight of all it represents—the Ices, past and present, a legacy of grit and grace. It’s a lot to live up to, carrying this name, walking these floors. But then again, challenges? They're kind of my thing.

The man himself sits there looking every inch the Ranch King in his throne. Clad in his denim armor and plaid, the unofficial uniform of the rugged and tireless, he's the picture of what every cowboy in those old Westerns aspires to be. And those boots, caked with the day's work—probably could tell more stories than all of us combined. His hair, thick and close-cropped as ever, is nearly fully silver.

"Look at you, all decked out in your rancher's best. Planning on corralling some wild cattle, or is it just for show today?" I tease, dropping into one of the leather chairs with an ease born of familiarity.

Pops shoots me a look, that age-old mix of amusement and exasperation. "Might do me some good to chase after something that doesn't talk back for a change," he retorts.

I can't help but laugh, even as I catch the subtle once-over he gives me. Yeah, he's got that x-ray vision—can probably spot a hangover from a mile away and read the tales of city life written all over my face.

"So, what's the verdict, Pops? Am I the prodigal son making good, or just a cautionary tale?" I ask, half-joking but curious about his read on me.

He leans back, the leather creaking under his frame. "Might say a bit of both. You've got your mother's spirit, God rest her soul. Just wish you'd channel it into something that keeps you out of trouble."

There's a warmth there, beneath the gruff exterior, a father's concern mixed with a dash of pride. It's comforting, in a way, to know that some things never change, like Pops' ability to cut through the bullshit and lay it out straight.

"Trouble? Me?" I feign innocence, knowing full well the path I've walked hasn't always been straight. "I was the epitome of the perfect son. You know, minus the detours and occasional mishaps."

Pops chuckles, a deep rumble that fills the room. "Son, the day you stop finding 'mishaps' is the day I'll start worrying you've been replaced by an alien."

As we settle into those leather wingback chairs, the kind that've heard more than their fair share of Ice family trials and triumphs, Pops hits me with a curveball right out of the gate.

"Got a special job for you today," he says, but there's a hitch in his voice that tells me this isn't your regular ranch chore.

I lean back, trying to mask my rising curiosity with a smirk. "What, no fence mending or cattle wrangling? You're getting creative on me, old man."

He doesn't bite at my bait, though. Instead, there's a sigh, heavy like the early morning fog that clings to the fields. Pops looks like he's wrestling with his thoughts, a man on the brink of saying something he'd rather not. And when he finally speaks, his tone's edged with a seriousness that cuts through any attempt at levity on my part.

Without a word, he heaves himself up and heads over to his desk, flipping open that solitary piece of modern tech in his otherwise time-locked office. My crack about his newfound taste in tabloid sites falls flat as Wisconsin in winter.

"This is serious, Sean," he says, not even a flicker of amusement in his voice.

He clicks on an article, and there it is, splashed across the screen like a bad joke:

"NHL Bad Boy Sean Ice's One-Night Stand Tells All: Love 'Em and Leave 'Em.” Accompanying the article is a picture of none other than Jenna from the other night.

I let out a low whistle, not because I'm impressed, but because what else can you do when you're confronted with your own mess in 72-point font? "Didn't know I was newsworthy enough for the gossip rags," I try, keeping up the facade.

But Pops isn't having any of it. The disappointment is clear as day in his eyes. "This is bad, Sean. It's not just about you. It's about this family, the ranch... What people will think."

And just like that, the weight of his words settles in. This isn't just a blow to my already tarnished reputation; it's a stain on the Ice legacy.

Pops leans forward, the weight of his words grounding me more effectively than any lecture ever could.

"We're a good Catholic family, Sean. But this," he gestures to the damning headline still displayed on his laptop screen, "this paints a different picture. Your actions, your reputation as some drunken playboy, it's starting to cast a shadow over everything the Ices have worked for. And this isn’t the first time—just the most egregious. It's not just about you; it's about your brothers, your sister, the legacy we're trying to uphold here."

That hits like a sucker punch to the gut. The realization that my reckless behavior hasn't just impacted me, but my entire family, is a wake-up call I can't ignore. Hearing Pops lay it out, understanding the ripple effect my actions have caused, it's a bitter pill to swallow.

"That woman staying with us, she’s a marketer named Aubrey," Pops continues, shifting gears but still driving his point home. "She came to help with the Airbnb. But given the circumstances, I'm thinking she might be able to do some damage control, some public relations work to help clean up the mess you've made."

The idea that a stranger might hold the key to salvaging the Ice name, to undoing some of the damage I've carelessly inflicted, is both humbling and slightly terrifying. Pops's next words cement my resolve.

"Find her, Sean. Explain your situation, and for the love of God, show her some respect. We might just salvage something from this yet."

Standing up, I nod, the fight drained out of me. "Alright, Pops. I'll talk to her." It's a concession, an acknowledgment of the hole I've dug not just for myself but for my family. And if swallowing my pride, facing the consequences of my actions, and asking for help is what it takes to begin the long process of making amends, then so be it.

Striding down the stairs with the kind of determination you'd think I was heading into a playoff game, not on a quest to fix my latest screw-up, I can't help but roll my eyes at the universe's sense of humor. Aubrey. Of all the names, it had to be Aubrey, a blast from the past I figured was just that—past. I chuckle to myself, thinking, "What are the odds?" It's a common name, sure, but at this moment, it feels like fate's playing games.

Approaching the kitchen, I'm already gearing up with a mental playbook of apologies and charm, ready to smooth-talk my way through this mess with Pops' marketer. But then, that voice—her voice—hits me like a slap shot. No way. It can't be. Not the Aubrey from that night, the one that's been a highlight reel in my mind for years.

I pause at the kitchen doorway, half-expecting to walk into a family breakfast, not a rendezvous with a ghost from my more carefree days. And there she is, turning around, her surprise mirroring my own. It's like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.

There we stand, frozen in a moment that feels as charged as the air before a storm, the kind of silence that speaks volumes, the smirk wiped clean off my face as I'm faced with Aubrey. Again.

And she’s not alone. At her side is a little boy, about two years old.

He looks just like me.