Chapter 5 #3
Finally, I type: "Sometimes the best content is the moments you choose not to record. #AshwoodFalls #MorrisTheMoose #LearningToLive"
I scroll through my camera roll and select the photo of Morris from that first day—mid-chew on my side mirror, looking completely unbothered by my existence. It feels right somehow. The beginning of this whole messy, unexpected journey.
The post gets 500 likes in the first minute, but I barely notice.
I'm preparing excuses to leave when Jax appears, still damp from a quick shower.
"You stayed!" He pulls me into a hug that smells like sports deodorant and victory. "Did you get good footage?"
"I deleted it all."
His eyebrows shoot up. "You... deleted content?"
"Some things aren't meant to be posted."
Jax studies me for a long moment, then grins. "You know what? I like you. Come on—team's heading to The Ashwood Café for post-game celebration. Dotty stays open late on game nights."
"I should probably—"
"Piper."
Ryder emerges from the locker room, hair still wet, wearing jeans and the same flannel I've seen hanging in his cabin. His eyes find mine immediately, and something passes between us that I don't have words for.
"You came," he says quietly.
"Diane saved me a seat."
His expression softens. "Did you enjoy it?"
"I deleted all my footage," I blurt out.
His expression cycles through confusion, surprise, and something that might be relief. "Why?"
"Because you're not content. You're just... you. And that felt like something worth seeing without a camera between us."
Neither of us speaks. The weight of what we're not saying fills the space between us. Jax makes a strategic retreat, mumbling something about "getting the car warm."
"I was a mess tonight," Ryder says finally. "Couldn't get out of my own head until—" He stops, jaw working.
"Until what?"
"Until I saw you. Just watching. Not recording, not playing a role. Just... there." He takes a step closer, and suddenly we're in that same charged space we were in his cabin. "I'm terrible at this."
"At what?"
"At wanting something I can't have." His voice drops lower, rougher. "I've got four more games, Piper. Four more chances to prove I belong in the NHL. I can't afford distractions."
"I know."
"But you're distracting as hell." He runs his fingers through his damp hair, and a smirk tugs at his mouth as he glances around the parking lot before his eyes lock back on mine.
"You show up next door in your ridiculous boots, screaming at moose, nearly freezing to death, getting lost on clearly marked trails—and every time I try to focus on hockey, all I can think about is whether you remembered to add wood to your fire. "
My pulse hammers in my throat. "Ryder—"
"I'm not asking you for anything," he continues. "I just need you to know that walking away the other night? That wasn't because I don't want... this. Whatever this is. It's because I can't risk losing focus. Not now."
"I understand."
"Do you?" He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his shampoo, see the flecks of silver in his grey eyes.
"Because I'm standing here telling you I want to kiss you more than I want my next breath, but I'm also telling you I can't. Not until after the scouts.
Not until I know if I've got a future in hockey or if I'm staying here fighting fires until I retire. "
"Four games," I whisper.
"Four games." He reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with infinite gentleness. "Think you can stick around that long? Let me focus on hockey, and then..."
"And then we figure out what this is?"
"Yeah." His thumb brushes my cheek. "If you're still here. If you still want—"
"I'll be here." The words come out before I can stop them, before I can remember that I'm only temporary, that this was supposed to be a quick rebrand before returning to real life. "Four games. I can wait four games."
His smile starts slow, spreading across his face until it transforms him completely. "Piper Meadows, are you making me a promise?"
"I don't make promises I can't keep."
"Good." He drops his hand but doesn't step back. "Because I'm going to hold you to it."
From the parking lot, a horn honks—Jax being subtle as a foghorn.
"Team's waiting," Ryder says, but he doesn't move.
"Diane invited me to The Ashwood Café."
"Then I guess I'll see you there."
A giggle escapes before I can stop it. His eyebrow lifts.
"Sorry," I say, biting my lip. "It's just—I keep picturing you doing the sprinkler in skates. The running man with a hockey stick. Very intimidating captain energy."
His mouth twitches. "We take our pre-game rituals seriously."
"Oh, I could tell. That level of commitment to the hip thrusts? Oscar-worthy." I grin up at him. "You know, if this whole NHL thing doesn't work out, I hear the Icecapades are hiring."
He raises an eyebrow. "The Icecapades."
"You've clearly got the moves. Just need some sequins. Maybe a cape."
"A cape," he repeats, deadpan.
"All the best ice dancers have capes. It's a fact."
He shakes his head, but he's fighting a smile now—a real one that softens his whole face. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"
"Not even a little bit." I tap his chest with one finger. "That wink during the sprinkler? That's going to haunt you, Lockwood."
"Worth it," he says quietly, and the way he's looking at me makes my breath catch all over again.
His fingers brush against mine as he turns—just a whisper of contact that sends electricity straight up my arm. The touch is so brief it might be accidental, except for the way he hesitates for half a second before pulling away completely.
My hand tingles where his fingers grazed mine, and I curl my fingers into my palm like I can hold onto the sensation.
He leaves first, and I stand in the empty arena parking lot, heart racing and mind spinning.
Four games.
The thought follows me all the way to The Ashwood Café - to Diane's bedazzled embrace, to Jax recounting the winning goal with increasingly theatrical hand gestures, to the warm lights and easy laughter of a team that dances in skates before destroying their opponents.
Four games until I find out if I'm brave enough to stay.