Page 56 of Blocked Shot
Jake has been avoiding her since this morning. When they crossed paths, his eyes would meet hers briefly before sliding away, his jaw set in a tight line that made her chest ache.
She hates this—the awkwardness, the distance. But what is the alternative? To give in to her desires that would complicate everything? To risk Jesse’s anger, the team dynamics, the carefully ordered life she’s built?
The rational voice in her head keeps reminding her of all the reasons she needs to maintain boundaries with Jake. The problem is, a louder voice in her heart keeps replaying the brush of his lips on hers, the security of his arms around her, the way he seems to see parts ofher that even she had forgotten existed.
She wishes her mom were here. Just to talk to. Just to sit beside her on the porch swing and spill everything that’s tangled inside her heart. Her mother had a way of making the world simpler, steadier. Like no matter how messy things got, there was always a safe place to land.
It’s been five years since the accident, since her life was cleaved in two—before and after. She’d had no warning, no time to prepare. One moment, everything in her life was woefully ordinary, and in the next, her parents were gone, ripped from her like a page torn from a book mid-sentence.
College had ended in an instant. One phone call, and everything changed. Instead of midterms and late-night study sessions, she was working double shifts just to keep the lights on and the fridge full. She moved back home, packed away what was left of her twenties, and started navigating bills and probate court and legal guardianship paperwork when she could barely figure out how to file her own taxes.
And then there was Jesse.
He was thirteen. Grieving. Angry. Confused. A kid who didn’t understand why the world had changed overnight, and who didn’t want his sister—barely an adult herself—telling him what to do.
Natalie had gone from being his sibling to being his stand-in parent practically overnight. She was scheduling dentist appointments and sitting in meetings with his teachers, hearing phrases like "behavioral concerns" and "underperforming potential," while pretending she knew what to say. Pretending she had it all under control when, most days, she barely held it together.
And yet—somehow—they survived. They built something. Not perfect, not always easy, but real. And now he has grown, moved out, building his own life.
And she was… still figuring out hers.
Natalie presses her fingers to the delicate gold heart that hangs from her neck. Her father gave her mother this necklace when they first fell in love. Now it’s hers, a quiet reminder of the woman who would’ve known exactly what to say right now.
Follow your heart, Natalie. It knows the way.
A scraping noise outside pulls Natalie from her thoughts. Herbreath catches as she peers through the frosty window, watching Jake struggle on the front porch, trying to clear the snow with only one arm. His breath forms ghosting clouds in the frigid air. His movements are jerky, each one deliberate and tense, as if the very act of lifting the shovel takes everything he has. His grip is white-knuckled around the handle, and an angry wince twists his face with every scoop and toss, the pain eating at him with each motion.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The words tear from her throat before she can stop them. She’s already moving, stuffing her feet into her boots, hastily yanking on her jacket before tumbling outside into the biting cold.
Jake doesn’t acknowledge her. His profile is etched in sharp relief against the white landscape, jaw locked, shoulders rigid beneath his hoodie. His focus is singular, as if the mound of snow before him is an opponent he refuses to surrender to. The shovel becomes an extension of his wounded pride, scraping and dumping with mechanical precision.
“Go away, Nat.” His voice is hoarse, raw from exertion.
“Absolutely not. Put down the damn shovel before you make things worse.”
She steps closer, the cold biting at her skin, but the growing knot of frustration in her chest burns hotter.
Jake says nothing, keeping his head down. Scoop. Dump. Scoop. Dump. His arm on his uninjured side bears the full weight of the shovel, muscles bunching with an intensity that speaks of something deeper than physical effort. His face betrays him—creases forming at the corners of his eyes, a muscle twitching in his jaw each time he lifts another load.
“This is stupid. Jake, let me do it,” she says, reaching for the shovel.
“Don’t.” His voice is low, dangerous. A plea and a warning intertwined.
“Why not?” she challenges, stepping closer, close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat. “Do you want to end up back in the hospital?”
Scoop. Dump. Scoop. Dump. “If it means getting away from you.”
The words slam into Natalie like a punch.
Her chest tightens. “You don’t mean that.”
Jake whirls to face her. His eyes—usually that warm, teasing blue that makes her stomach flip—are now razor-sharp, glacial. They don’t just look at her; they cut.
“Of course I mean it!” he roars, stepping toward her. Natalie flinches but doesn’t back down. She’s seen Jake angry before, seen him throw a punch without hesitation on the ice, but this is different. He’s a simmering storm, crackling with frustration and angst beneath the surface, waiting to explode.
“Being here with you is torture.”
