Page 14 of Pucking Christmas Triplets Surprise

From the other side of the doorI hear her stomp around, and the distinct ripping of paper. And so fucking help me, if she is pulling the poster off her wall again, I am going to pull my fucking hair out.

"Come out here," I call from the other side of her door, keeping my tone calm but edged with steel. "We’re finishing this conversation. You’ve got school on Monday and that’s not up for debate."

It’s been a week. A whole week of sulking, hiding in her room, and refusing to face the mess at that fancy boarding school I am paying 55,000 dollars a semester for her to attend. I know she’s hurting, but I’m not raising a quitter. Abby’s going to have to face this girl sooner or later—and I’ve already offered to help her plot some creative payback if that’s what she wants. But instead, she’s convinced the only solution is to keep dating this Ricardo kid, someone I didn’t even knowexisteduntil now.

Fifteen. Just fifteen years old, and already she's dating. It feels like only yesterday that she was a small child, clutching onto my finger for dear life as we crossed the street. But now, she's yelling about how Ricardo was supposed to be her one true love, and it's all falling apart.

How could any fifteen year old be someone's everything? As a former teenage boy myself, I am trying to explain to her that boys are not worth it because for the most part we’re thinking with the wrong head, but I’m trying not to have thebirds and the bees talk with her again. Last time, we both ran from the room screaming.

I rake a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. I'm trying to meet her halfway, I really am. But it’s hard not to feel like the adult here, who has to draw a line in the sand.

"Listen, kid," I call out, my voice low but firm. "You have two options. You either transfer to public school and deal with life there, or you go back to that boarding school and handle things head-on. Either way, you're going to school. You can’t just hole up in your room forever."

I hear the floor creak from behind the door, like she’s standing there, deciding whether to come out or keep this battle going.

"And no more dating until you’re older," I add, crossing my arms over my chest. "Ricardo can wait. Right now, school comes first."

There’s a pause—a long one—before she huffs loud enough for me to hear.

"I'm serious, Abby." My voice dips into a quiet growl, the one I use when I mean business. "We're Jacksons, we don't run. We may take a beat to recover, but we get up, brush the ice off and tackle things head on."

Through the door, I hear a sniffle, followed by a grumble. "I don't even play hockey, Uncle Chris." Her voice is thick, weighed down with fresh tears, but I can tell she is one lame joke away from opening the door.

I lean against the doorframe, softening my tone. "I know. I tried, but you're too darn clumsy to stay upright on dry land, let alone ice. " A low chuckle rumbles from my chest.

There’s a pause, and then the door creaks open, just a sliver. "I get my clumsiness from you," she mutters.

I smile as her face peeks out from the narrow gap. Her light brown hair is dyed ginger. Her hair is messy, strands falling over her forehead in tangles from running her hands through it. Her freckled cheeks are blotchy from crying, and her brown doe eyes are red-rimmed and glossy with tears. She sniffles again, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her oversized hoodie.

"You said you'd help me get back at her?"

I fight the smile tugging at my lips and keep my expression neutral. "Damn right, I will. We’ll come up with a plan so diabolical even she’ll think twice about crossing a Jackson. But first, you go to school on Monday."

She peers out through the small gap, still sulking but listening now.

"Deal?" I ask, arching a brow.

With a reluctant sigh, she mutters, "Deal."

"Good." I nod toward the table. "Now come eat. You're not plotting revenge on an empty stomach."

After Abby promises to start packing her bags again, I head over to the arena. It’s the first Friday night practice I’ve called in months, and judging by the grumbles I heard through the group chat earlier, no one’s happy about it. Tough. They can party when we’re champions. Right now? We’ve got a lot of work to do.

The improvement is there but it’s crawling along at a snail’s pace. Caleb, my assistant coach and longtime friend, is running speed drills with the team. Given that both of us are pushing forty, the fact that he’s beatinghalf of these kids on sprints is unacceptable. They should be running circles around us by now, not the other way around.

"Move your damn feet!" I bellow. "This isn’t a retirement home, move like you’ve gotsomeplace to be!"

Caleb blows the whistle again turning on his heels to start skating backwards, grinning like he’s enjoying himself way too much. The guy has always been an asshole, this is not new. “Come on, princesses!” he shouts. "Any slower and I'll make you do suicides."

I grin briefly, but it fades when I spot Isaiah trailing behind the group. "Isaiah!" I bark, my voice cutting through the arena like a slap. "Lift your damn knees. You're skating like you've gotbricksstrapped to your ankles. If I can catch you at my age, you might as well quit now."

Isaiah flushes but nods and digs in harder, pumping his legs, though it still looks like he’s running on fumes. I shake my head, muttering under my breath, "These kids wouldn’t survive ten minutes in a real game."

If I was here to really be a coach, this team would demolish my ego, but if I'm not honest with the world, I'll be honest with myself when I say: I am here for Josie. I want Josie. This is a façade, but it's one I have to keep up with for now. I make my way down the line, checking form as Caleb pushes them through more laps.

"Thomas!" I shout when I spot him lagging behind again. "If you skate any slower, I’m putting a milk crate under you and calling it a sled. "

I cross my arms, rolling my shoulders back and nodding to Caleb, signaling that I’m done for now. He blows the whistle again, calling the team in.

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