Chapter 4
Ryder
The rhythm of cleaning equipment settles my brain in a way nothing else can.
Disassemble, inspect, clean, reassemble.
Each breathing apparatus gets the same methodical attention, the same careful hands that have done this a hundred times since I was fourteen and needed somewhere to put all the grief that threatened to drown me.
Morning practice was brutal—Coach riding us hard because we've got three games where scouts will be showing up, and apparently we played like shit in yesterday's scrimmage. Three hours of conditioning drills that left my legs screaming and my lungs burning.
But here at the firehouse, the world makes sense again. Metal and rubber and procedures that don't change based on mood or performance anxiety.
"Had an interesting visitor yesterday."
Chief Walsh's voice cuts through my focus. I know that tone—casual in the way that means he's about to meddle again.
"I saw that new girl—Piper something—at The Ashwood Café " He strokes his salt-and-pepper beard, examining an oxygen tank that's already been inspected twice. "Seems genuine enough."
My hands still on the regulator valve. Of course he did. Of course he wants to ask the city girl who screams at moose to volunteer at the fire department where I work.
"She's from Anchorage," I say.
"So? You're from here and you still managed to learn which end of the hose points at the fire."
"Chief—"
"I'm just saying, might be nice to have someone young helping with community outreach. Betty's great with the kids' fire safety program, but she doesn't understand social media. Girl like that could probably help us reach more people."
I go back to my equipment, checking seals that don't need checking. "She won't last. First real emergency, she'll be gone."
"Maybe." Chief watches me work with thirty years of experience reading people. "Then again, some people surprise you. Your dad surprised me once—city boy from Seattle, showed up here all educated and soft. Became the best firefighter I ever trained."
The words hit exactly where he aims them, right in that soft spot.
"Dad also didn't have NHL scouts watching his every move."
"No." Chief sets down the oxygen tank carefully. "He just had a son he was raising.
Before I can respond, the alarm bells shatter the afternoon quiet.
"Structure fire, Timber & Tap, 482 Main Street. Kitchen fire with active smoke."
Training takes over. Gear on in forty-five seconds, onto the engine in ninety.
Chief drives while I check our equipment list, my mind already mapping the building layout.
Kitchen's in the back, two exits, dining room holds sixty, bar area another thirty.
Tuesday afternoon means maybe twenty patrons, mostly the lunch crowd lingering over coffee.
We're first on scene. Smoke billows from the kitchen vents, and I can see people milling outside, some still holding their drinks. Frank, the owner, meets us at the door.
"Grease fire got away from the new cook. Tried the extinguisher but—"
"Everyone out?" I ask, already moving.
"Think so, but—"
I'm inside before he finishes, the familiar weight of the SCBA settling on my back.
My vision narrows to what matters. Smoke's thick but high—there's still breathable air near the floor.
I know this building from monthly inspections and annual walkthroughs.
I keep my left hand on the wall, counting doorways.
Heat intensifies near the mechanical room. That's not the source, but it's close. Radio chatter filters through—Thompson's crew is hitting the actual fire from the loading dock, making progress. My job is simpler: get everyone out.
The basement stairs disappear into smoke and heat shimmer. Coughing echoes from below. I follow the sound through the haze and find them near the electrical panels—two maintenance guys, one supporting the other.
"Can you walk?" I ask the stronger one.
"Yeah, but Edgar's ankle—"
"I got him." Edgar's maybe seventy, slight build, wheezing but conscious. I get him over my shoulder, tell the other guy to hold my belt. We move slow, deliberate. No heroics, just procedure. Up the stairs, through the corridor, following my mental map while the building groans around us.
Fresh air hits like salvation. EMTs take Edgar, oxygen mask sliding over his face while his buddy collapses on the curb, shaking. Alive though. Both alive.
"All clear from the basement," I radio, pulling my mask up to breathe real air.
"Copy. Primary search complete. Switching to defensive attack."
That means everyone's out. The relief hits harder than the heat did. We shift to containment—protecting exposures, keeping it from spreading. Systematic, methodical work that doesn't make headlines but saves structures.
The crowd's grown. Half the town, looks like. That's when I spot her—Piper with Dotty and others from the Bean, distributing coffee and blankets to displaced workers. No camera visible. Just helping.
Our eyes meet across the chaos and she starts toward me, but Chief calls my name. I turn back to the work. There's always more work.
It takes another hour to call it controlled—not a full knock-down, but safe enough for the investigation crew.
We start cleanup: rolling hose, checking for extensions, all the unglamorous work nobody sees.
My hand throbs where I brushed something hot helping Edgar, but it's minor compared to how exhausted everyone else is.
By the time we're released, the sun's setting. I drive home smelling like smoke and chemicals, exhaustion settling into my bones. All I want is my cabin, a beer, and silence.
What I get is Piper on my porch with a covered plate and worried eyes.
"You okay?" She reaches toward my face, maybe to wipe away soot, but stops herself.
"Fine,” I say. “Normal call."
"Normal." She laughs, but it's shaky. "You ran into a burning building."
"That's literally the job."
"I know. I just..." She trails off, notices me rotating my left wrist. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
"Show me."
I could argue, but I'm too tired. Inside, she examines the burn across my palm—first degree, maybe three inches long. Not serious but annoying. Should've been more careful with that door handle.
"You have first aid supplies?"
"Bathroom cabinet."
She returns with gauze and burn cream, sets up at my kitchen table like it's an operating room. Her touch is gentle, clinical at first, then softer as she works. The domesticity catches me off guard—Piper in my space, taking care of something I would've ignored.
"This might scar," she says quietly, spreading cream over the burn.
"Won't be the first."
"Do they all have stories?"
"Most."
She starts wrapping gauze, precise and careful. The silence stretches, comfortable but weighted. I watch her concentrate, tongue poking out slightly. When did I start noticing details like that?
"My father died in a fire when I was fourteen."
The words fall out unplanned. Her hands go still on the gauze. She doesn't look up, doesn't push, just keeps wrapping at half speed. I can continue or stop—the choice is mine.
"He was covering someone's shift. Wasn't even supposed to be there. Family inside made it out. Dad didn't."
Her hands pause completely now. Still not looking up, but I can see her jaw tighten.
"That's why I became a firefighter. Every call, every rescue—someone's family gets them back. A parent, a kid, a partner. They get to go home because we showed up."
She finishes the bandage, ties it off gently. When she looks up, her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"Ryder..."
"I don't talk about it. Ever. The team knows, Chief knows, but I don't—" I stop, not sure why I'm telling her this. Why now, why her.
She stands, moves around the table. Her hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing over the stubble there. The gentleness does something to my chest that I don't have words for.
"Thank you for telling me," she whispers.
We're too close. I can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, smell her shampoo—something floral that doesn't belong in Alaska but somehow fits her perfectly. Her thumb is still moving against my jaw, and I'm acutely aware of how her sweater has slipped off one shoulder.
"Piper." My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
She leans in, or maybe I do. Maybe we both do. Her breath mingles with mine, and for a second, I think this is actually going to happen—
I pull back suddenly. I stand up so fast my chair scrapes against the floor.
"You should go." The words come out harsh. "It's late."
Hurt flashes across her face before she masks it with that bright influencer smile. "Right. Yeah. Of course." She's already moving toward the door, grabbing her jacket. "I should let you rest. Big day saving people and all that."
"Piper—"
"It's fine." But her hands are shaking as she shoves her arms into the sleeves. "The plate on the counter—just microwave it for two minutes. Or don't. Whatever." She gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. "I'll just— I'll see you around. Neighborly check-ins and whatever."
She's at the door before I can figure out what to say. How to explain that I want to kiss her so badly it's making my teeth ache, but scouts are coming and I can't afford any distractions. Not now. Not when everything I've worked for is finally within reach.
"Thanks," I manage. "For the bandage and the food."
"Anytime you need someone to play nurse." She forces a laugh. "Or, you know, not. Whatever."
The door closes behind her, and I'm left standing in my kitchen, still smelling her shampoo, still feeling the ghost of her thumb against my jaw.
Through the window, I watch her cabin lights come on. I watch her shadow move past the curtains. My bandaged hand throbs in time with my pulse.
Five games. Five chances to prove I belong in the NHL. I can't afford distractions.
I turn away from the window and head to bed.
But sleep takes a long time to come, and when it does, I dream about hazel eyes and the almost-kiss I walked away from.