Chapter 5 #2
Friday arrives with the kind of nervous energy usually reserved for first dates or job interviews.
I change outfits four times before settling on jeans, a Wolves t-shirt I bought from Dotty (she had them in stock, obviously), and my warmest jacket.
Minimal makeup. Hair in a ponytail. I look like I actually belong here instead of like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's aesthetic.
The Ashwood Falls Community Ice Arena is exactly what I expected—a low building that's seen better decades, surrounded by trucks and SUVs that have earned their road salt.
Inside, the smell hits me first: popcorn, hot dogs, ice, and that specific scent of community that comes from hundreds of people gathering in the same space every week for years.
"Piper! Over here!"
Diane waves from Section C, row 4, her bedazzled jersey catching the arena lights like a disco ball. I navigate the concrete steps carefully, hyperaware of my camera bag and the fact that everyone seems to be watching me.
"You made it!" Diane pulls me into a hug that smells like aqua net and cinnamon. "This is Barb, Carol, and Sue—the team mothers. Girls, this is Piper, Ryder's neighbor."
"Just neighbor," I clarify quickly.
"For now," Barb stage-whispers, and they all laugh.
I settle into my seat just as the lights dim and music blares through speakers that have definitely seen better days. The home team skates onto the ice in formation, and the crowd erupts.
Number 17. Ryder Lockwood, captain.
He moves across the ice with a grace that seems impossible for someone his size, all controlled power and precision. Even from here, the focus in his posture is unmistakable, the way he scans the rink like he's already planning three moves ahead.
"Here it comes!" Diane grabs my arm, practically vibrating with excitement. "Watch!"
The Wolves form a line at center ice. The arena lights shift, spotlights hitting the team. Then, without warning, "Footloose" blasts through the speakers and the entire team launches into a choreographed dance routine.
In full hockey gear. On skates. With their sticks.
I'm talking full choreography. Hip thrusts while balancing on blades.
Synchronized arm waves with hockey sticks held overhead.
Jax doing some kind of backwards moonwalk thing that should be physically impossible on ice.
And Ryder—serious, intense, grumpy-neighbor Ryder—is right in the center doing the running man in skates with more commitment than I've seen from professional backup dancers.
My jaw drops.
"They do this every home game!" Barb shouts over the music. "Started as a bet three years ago. Now it's tradition!"
The routine escalates. There's a spin move.
A jump. Someone attempts a split and nearly succeeds.
The crowd is losing their minds, clapping along, and I'm laughing so hard my sides hurt because Ryder Lockwood—firefighter, hockey captain, man who grunted at me for screaming at a moose—is currently doing the sprinkler in front of three hundred people without a trace of embarrassment.
He catches my eye mid-move and has the audacity to wink.
The routine ends with all of them dropping to one knee, arms spread wide, as the crowd goes absolutely feral with applause and whistling.
"That," I manage between gasps of laughter, "was the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen."
"That's our boys!" Diane beams. "Best pre-game show in the league."
Sue leans over. "Wait until you see what they do for playoffs. Last year they did 'Baby Got Back.' Complete with coordinated booty shaking."
My phone is already in my hands, the footage saved automatically. Ryder doing the sprinkler in perfect time with his teammates. That wink. The way he committed completely to something so absurd. This is gold—the kind of content that shows the human side of athletes, the joy and community and—
I pause, finger hovering over the share button.
This feels different. Private, almost. Like I'm holding something that belongs to the team, to the town, not to my followers.
I save the video to my drafts instead of posting it. Maybe later. Maybe never. Right now, I just want to enjoy what I saw without filtering it through engagement metrics.
The team huddles up, all business now, and when they break, Ryder's face has shifted back to that intense focus. Game mode. But I know what's underneath now—someone who isn't afraid to look silly for his team, who commits fully even to the absurd.
"That's my boy!" Diane yells, hands cupped around her mouth. "THAT'S OUR CAPTAIN!"
The opposing team—some guys from Fairbanks wearing green jerseys—takes the ice, and the energy shifts. This isn't just recreation. This matters.
The puck drops, and chaos erupts.
I've never watched hockey before—never understood the appeal of grown men chasing a tiny disk across frozen water while wielding sticks.
But watching Ryder play? I get it now. He's everywhere at once, stealing the puck, setting up plays, his teammates moving around him like he's conducting a symphony of speed and violence.
"He's really good," I breathe.
"Best we've had in twenty years," Diane says proudly. "Could've gone pro right out of high school, but then his daddy died and Ryder stayed to help his mama. Now he's got scouts watching these five games—his last shot at the NHL before he ages out."
Five games. Five chances. The pressure Jax mentioned suddenly makes devastating sense.
Ryder gets the puck and speeds toward the goal, defenders swarming. He dodges one, then another, and shoots—
The puck hits the crossbar with a sharp ping and bounces away.
The crowd groans. Ryder's shoulders tighten even from here, frustration evident in every line of his body.
"That's not like him," Sue mutters. "He's off tonight."
"Pressure," Carol agrees. "First game with scouts in the building. Boy's playing scared instead of smart."
The period continues with relentless intensity. Ryder sets up two goals for teammates but can't seem to score himself. Every miss makes his movements sharper, more aggressive, until Coach calls a timeout and has words with him at the bench.
During the break, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through the footage I've captured. The arena's energy, the crowd's passion, the way this whole town seems to hold its breath every time number 17 touches the puck.
But when I review the close-ups, the tension is there in Ryder's jaw. The weight carried in shoulders that already hold too much..
The second period is worse. Ryder takes a brutal check into the boards that makes everyone in our section wince. He gets up slowly, shakes it off, but something's changed. He's not playing smart anymore—he's playing angry.
"Someone needs to pull him," Diane says, worry creeping into her voice.
But Coach leaves him in, and Ryder keeps pushing. Another missed shot. Another turnover. When the buzzer sounds for the second intermission, the score is tied 2-2, and Ryder skates to the bench looking like he's ready to fight the ice itself.
"I need some air," I tell Diane, grabbing my jacket.
Outside, the cold hits like a slap of reality. I lean against the building, trying to process what I'm watching. This isn't content. This is someone's entire future riding on five games, and I'm sitting in the stands with my camera like his struggle is entertainment.
"He gets in his head sometimes."
I turn to find Bob Thompson, hands wrapped around a steaming cup that smells like Dotty's hot chocolate. He offers me a sad smile.
"Scouts make him crazy," Bob continues. "He thinks if he's not perfect, he'll blow his shot. Doesn't understand that perfection doesn't exist—just shows up and does the work."
"How do I—" I stop, because what right do I have to ask? I'm just the neighbor. The temporary neighbor who'll be gone in a few weeks.
But Bob reads my expression anyway. "You want to help? Stop looking at him like a story and start seeing him like a person. That boy's been performing his whole life. Might be nice to have someone who just... sees him."
He heads back inside, leaving me alone with his words and the sound of muffled cheering from inside the arena.
I pull out my phone and delete every piece of hockey footage I captured tonight. All of it. The crowd reactions, the action shots, even the perfect frame of Ryder mid-slapshot that would've gotten a million likes.
I start drafting a caption about today's adventure, then stop. Post the photo of the frozen lake without me in it. Just ice, sky, and the kind of quiet you can't fake. No mention of Ryder, no mention of why I'm really here.
The engagement is half what my usual posts get.
I don't care.
When I return to my seat, the third period is starting. Ryder takes the ice, and this time when his eyes scan the crowd, they land on me.
I'm not holding my camera. I'm just watching. Just here.
Something in his posture shifts—loosens, maybe. He gives the tiniest nod before the puck drops, and suddenly he's not fighting the ice anymore. He's dancing on it.
The play develops fast. Jax steals the puck, passes to Ryder, who dodges two defenders with the kind of grace that makes the physics seem optional. He winds up, and this time when he shoots—
The goal horn blares.
The arena explodes.
Diane's hugging me, Barb's screaming, and Carol's crying actual tears, and I'm on my feet cheering for someone who twelve hours ago I was trying to avoid.
Ryder's teammates mob him on the ice, but through the chaos, he looks up.
At me.
And the smile that breaks across his face—raw and real and completely unconscious—steals the air from my lungs.
This is dangerous territory.
The Wolves win 4-2.
After the game, Diane insists I wait while the team changes because "it's tradition to congratulate our boys."
I pull out my phone and open Instagram while waiting for the crowd to thin. The blank post template stares back at me. Usually, words flow like water. Tonight, I can't find any that feel true.