Chapter 6 #2
The question catches me off guard. Most people assume the NHL is a sure thing, or they don't ask at all. "I stay. Keep fighting fires, probably coach youth hockey. Chief's been hinting about a lieutenant position if I'm sticking around long-term."
"Would that be enough? After chasing the dream for so long?"
She's gripping the purple parka against her chest now, and I should deflect. Should give her the PR answer about being grateful for any opportunity. But there's something genuine in the way she's waiting for my answer that makes me honest.
"I don't know. Ask me after the next four games."
She nods, sets the purple parka over her arm. "That's fair. I don't know what I'm doing after this either. My brand manager keeps calling about returning to Anchorage, doing the whole influencer circuit again. Partner events, sponsored posts, the fake smile thing."
"You don't want that?"
"I don't know what I want anymore." She laughs, but it sounds tired. "Before the viral breakup disaster, I thought I had it all figured out. Now I'm in Ashwood Falls taking notes on fire-starting and buying parkas rated for apocalypse-level cold. My therapist would have a field day."
"You're in therapy?"
"Three years running. Best decision I ever made, even if my mom thinks it's 'airing dirty laundry to strangers.'" She meets my eyes. "You?"
"After Dad died, yeah. Chief made it mandatory. Said grief plus teenage rage plus fire equipment was a bad combination."
"Smart man."
"The smartest."
We're quiet for a moment, and it's not uncomfortable. Just two people standing in Northbound Outfitters, being honest about things most people hide.
"Actually," I start, then stop. Because what am I doing? Am I really about to suggest fake dating the woman I promised I'd wait four games to figure things out with?
"Actually what?" She's watching me with those hazel eyes that seem to see through every defense I've built.
"My agent called this morning." The words come out before I can reconsider them. "He suggested that being seen together might be good for both our careers. You need content, I need visibility. A mutually beneficial arrangement."
Her expression shuts down so fast I actually take a step back. "A mutually beneficial arrangement."
"That came out wrong—"
"No, I think it came out exactly right." She's already moving past me, the purple parka clutched against her chest like armor. "Thanks for the coat advice, Lockwood. Very neighborly of you."
"Piper, wait—"
But she's gone, moving fast enough that I know I've screwed this up. I stand there like an idiot, surrounded by thermal underwear and camping equipment, trying to figure out how I managed to make things worse.
"Smooth," a voice says behind me.
I turn to find Chief Walsh examining work gloves, his expression a mix of disappointment and amusement. "How much of that did you hear?"
"Enough." He tests the flexibility of a glove, not looking at me. "Let me guess—your agent suggested fake dating for publicity, and you just pitched it to her like a business merger?"
"Something like that."
"Son." He sets down the glove with that deliberate care that means I'm about to get a lecture. "If you're actually interested in a woman, you don't lead with 'mutually beneficial arrangement.' That's how you negotiate equipment purchases, not relationships."
"We're not in a relationship."
"Not yet. But you want to be, which is why that pitch went over like a lead balloon.
" He picks up another pair of gloves, examines them with more attention than they deserve.
"That girl's dealt with enough fake people using her for content and clout.
What she needs is someone genuine. Someone who sees her as a person first, not a career move. "
"I know that."
"Do you?" His eyes meet mine then, and there's something sharp in that gaze—the same look he gave me when I was fourteen and trying to run into burning buildings to prove something.
"Because from where I'm standing, you just treated her exactly like everyone else has.
Made her feel like she's only valuable for what she can do for you. "
The words hit harder than any check I've ever taken on the ice.
"How do I fix this?"
"Start by figuring out what you actually want.
" Chief moves toward the checkout with his gloves, but pauses.
"Do you want her because she's convenient for your career?
Or do you want her because when she's around, you remember there's more to life than proving yourself to scouts who don't know you from Adam? "
He doesn't wait for an answer, just heads to pay for his purchase, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the uncomfortable realization that he's absolutely right.
I want Piper. Not for Preston's compelling narrative or social media visibility or any of the strategic reasons that make sense on paper.
I want her because she deleted footage to preserve something real.
Because she named a moose Morris and takes notes on fire-starting like there'll be a test. Because when she looks at me, she sees past the captain's jersey and the pressure and all the walls I've built.
But I just offered her a business arrangement.
"Fuck," I mutter to the thermal underwear display.
My phone buzzes. Piper's name lights up the screen:
Piper: For the record, I'm not for sale. Not for content, not for visibility, not for whatever "compelling narrative" your agent wants. I thought you were different. Guess I was wrong.
Before I can respond, another text comes through:
Piper: Also, Morris says you're an idiot.
Despite everything, I smile. Even angry, she's the most authentic person I've met in years.
I type out and delete three different responses before settling on the truth:
Me: You're right. I'm an idiot. Preston put the idea in my head and I pitched it wrong. Can we talk?
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally:
Piper: Four games, Lockwood. You said you needed four games to focus. So focus on hockey. I'll be here, being authentic all by myself.
She's right. I asked her to wait while I proved myself to scouts. I can't have it both ways—can't ask for her patience and then try to turn whatever's developing between us into a publicity stunt.
I pay for my thermal gear and head back into the cold, her texts still burning in my pocket like accusations I deserve.
The purple parka she picked catches my eye through Northbound's window as I pass—she must've bought it before leaving.
It's practical and warm, rated for the kind of cold that can kill you if you're not prepared.
Just like her. All practical preparation wrapped around someone who's still figuring out how to survive here.
Four games left. Four chances to prove I belong in the NHL.
But standing in this parking lot, watching her disappear around the corner of Main Street with that purple parka over her arm, hockey suddenly feels like the easy part.