Chapter 14
Ryder
Wednesday morning, and the puck hits me in the face.
Not the helmet. Not the shoulder. The actual face, because apparently I forgot how to play hockey sometime between leaving Piper's bed and showing up for morning skate.
"Jesus, Lockwood!" Jax skates over, laughing so hard he can barely stay upright. "Were you trying to catch that with your teeth?"
I spit blood onto the ice and glare at him. "Shut up."
"Dude, you just took a slap shot to the face during a drill where the whole point is to not get hit in the face." He's still laughing, the traitor. "What the hell is wrong with you this morning?"
Everything. Everything is wrong.
I slept with Piper. The kind of sex that makes you forget your own name, the kind that changes everything.
Then I panicked and left before dawn like some kind of coward, and now I'm standing on the ice wondering if I ruined the best thing that's ever happened to me while also possibly destroying my NHL chances because I can't stop thinking about the way she said my name.
"Nothing's wrong," I say, which is the biggest lie I've told all morning.
Jax gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me for a second, but Coach blows the whistle before he can interrogate me further.
"Line drills!" Coach yells. "And Lockwood, try keeping your head in the game instead of wherever the hell it's been all morning!"
I skate to the line, determined to focus. Hockey is what matters right now. Three more games to impress the scouts, three more games before I have to figure out what the hell I'm doing with Piper.
Except every time I try to focus on the drill, my brain replays last night. The way she looked at me in the firelight. The vulnerable honesty when I told her about my dad. The moment she kissed me first, soft and certain, like she'd been waiting as long as I had.
I miss the pass completely and crash into the boards.
"Lockwood!" Coach's voice echoes across the rink. "Off the ice. Now."
The team collectively winces. Getting pulled from practice is never good, and I've never been pulled before. I'm the reliable one. The captain. The guy who shows up and does the work.
I skate to the bench where Coach is waiting, arms crossed, looking like he's debating whether to bench me or commit murder.
"You want to tell me what's going on?" he asks, voice low and dangerous.
"Just an off morning, Coach."
"An off morning." He stares at me like I just suggested we play hockey with a beach ball. "Lockwood, you took a puck to the face, missed every pass, and nearly concussed yourself on the boards. That's not an off morning. That's a crisis."
He's not wrong.
"I'll get my head together," I say.
"You better. Friday's game is in two days, and the scouts will be watching.
" He leans in closer. "Whatever's going on—girl trouble, family stuff, existential dread about your future—fix it before you step on that ice Friday night.
Because right now? You're playing like you've never seen a puck before. "
"Yes, Coach."
"And for the love of God, go see the medic about your face. You're bleeding on my ice."
I make my way to the locker room, my jaw throbbing where the puck connected. The medic—a cheerful woman named Darcy who's seen worse—hands me an ice pack and tells me I'll live.
"Rough practice?" she asks, clearly understating the situation.
"Something like that."
"Girl trouble," she says immediately. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The 'I did something stupid and now I'm paying for it' look. It's very distinct." She grins. "My husband had the same expression the morning after he proposed. Threw up twice before I said yes."
"That's romantic."
"That's terror." She tapes up my split lip with practiced efficiency. "Whatever you did, fix it. Life's too short to skate around like you've got a death wish."
My phone buzzes in my locker. I fish it out, half hoping it's Piper, fully prepared for it to be Coach kicking me off the team.
It's Preston.
Preston: Great news. Scouts loved the Fairbanks game. Called you 'stable, mature, relationship-ready.' The girlfriend angle is working. Keep it up.
The irony hits me like another puck to the face.
The fake relationship is helping my career. The scouts think I'm stable and mature because I'm supposedly in a relationship. Preston is thrilled. Coach is happy. My NHL dreams are actually within reach.
And I just made it real.
I slept with the woman I was supposed to be fake-dating, caught feelings I definitely wasn't supposed to catch, and now I have no idea how to navigate this without destroying everything we've both worked for.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I should text her. Should apologize for leaving, or explain why I left, or just ask if she's okay. Instead, I type out three different messages and delete them all.
We need to talk. Too ominous.
About last night... Too vague.
I'm sorry for being a coward. Too honest.
"You look like you got hit by a truck," Jax says, appearing in the doorway. "And also maybe finally got laid."
I nearly drop my phone. "What?"
"Dude, you just took a puck to the face during a simple drill, and you look simultaneously traumatized and satisfied." He grins. "You slept with her."
"I'm not discussing this."
"You absolutely slept with her. Was it good? It was good, wasn't it? I bet it was good." He's enjoying this way too much. "And now you're freaking out because you caught feelings and you don't know what to do about it."
"Has anyone ever told you you're annoying?"
"Frequently. But I'm also right." He sits on the bench across from me, expression turning serious. "Look, man. I don't know what's going on with you two, but something's clearly off. Either commit to this thing or end it, but stop torturing yourself in the middle."
"It's not that simple."
"It never is. But you're the guy who runs into burning buildings for a living. Pretty sure you can handle an honest conversation with a girl you're clearly crazy about."
Before I can respond, someone knocks on the locker room door. Jax gets up to check, and returns with an amused expression.
"You've got a visitor. Big guy, looks like he could bench press a moose."
Gage.
I find him in the hallway, looking exactly like Jax described—six-foot-three of solid muscle and questionable life choices. He's wearing his usual flannel and work boots, sawdust still clinging to his jeans.
"Heard practice didn't go well," he says.
"News travels fast."
"Tessa's in a group chat with half the town. Apparently you took a puck to the face." He studies me with the same assessing look he probably uses on wood grain. "That why you're bleeding, or is there something else going on?"
I should tell him to mind his own business. Should say I'm fine and send him on his way. Instead, what comes out is: "I slept with her."
Gage doesn't look surprised. "And?"
"And I don't know what I'm doing. I started dating Piper, and it was supposed to be simple. Good for both of us. But now—" I stop, frustrated. "You did this. You chose Tessa over everything else. How did you know it was the right choice?"
"I didn't." He leans against the wall, arms crossed. "When Tessa showed up in Ashwood Falls, I was convinced I couldn't have both. The business was struggling, I had responsibilities, and getting involved with someone felt like a distraction I couldn't afford."
"So what changed?"
"I realized I was making decisions for her. Deciding what she wanted, what she could handle, what was best for both of us—without actually asking her." His expression softens. "Turns out, she didn't need me to protect her from the hard stuff. She needed me to trust her enough to face it together."
The words hit harder than I expect.
"Piper has her own career," I say. "Her brand is taking off, she's got opportunities—"
"And you think your NHL dreams are going to get in the way of that?"
"I think if I go to the NHL, I'm asking her to give up everything she's built here. And if I stay, I'm giving up everything I've worked for. Either way, someone loses."
Gage shakes his head. "You're doing it again. Making decisions for her."
"I'm trying to be realistic."
"You're trying to control an outcome you can't predict. Maybe she wants to follow you to the NHL. Maybe she doesn't. Maybe there's a third option you haven't thought of yet. But you won't know unless you talk to the woman."
He makes it sound so simple. Like having an honest conversation could solve everything, when in reality it could destroy everything.
"What if talking about it ruins what we have?" I ask.
"What if not talking about it does?"
He's got a point.
"The fire chief offered me a promotion," I admit. "Full-time lieutenant. I'd have to turn down the NHL if I take it."
"Have you told Piper?"
"Yeah."
"What did she say?”
“We didn’t talk about it.”
“Why not?”
Because if we did, it becomes real. A choice I have to make instead of a possibility I can avoid. Because I'm terrified she'll tell me to take the NHL opportunity and I'll have to leave, or worse, she'll tell me to stay and I'll resent her for it.
"I'm scared," I finally say.
Gage nods, like this is the first honest thing I've said all morning. "Good. Means it matters. But being scared is fine. Letting scared make your decisions for you is bullshit."
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Preston, this one with a screenshot of social media analytics. Engagement is up. Brand sentiment is positive. The scouts are impressed.
All because of a relationship that was never supposed to be real.
"Go talk to her," Gage says. "And Lockwood? Stop trying to be the hero who sacrifices everything. Sometimes the brave thing is asking for what you want."
He leaves, and I'm alone in the hallway with my bleeding face and my terrible decisions.
By evening, I've convinced myself seventeen times to go talk to Piper and chickened out eighteen times.
I stand on my porch, looking at her cabin twenty feet away. Lights are on inside. I can see her shadow moving past the window—probably editing content or responding to comments or doing any of the hundred things that make up her job.
The job that's finally working because of our arrangement.
My phone is in my hand. I've typed and deleted four different versions:
Can I come over?
About last night.
Are you okay?
I miss you.
Each one feels wrong.
It sounds ominous. Like I'm about to break up with her, which I'm not, because you can't break up with someone you're not actually dating. Except we slept together, which means we kind of are dating, or at least we crossed a line that makes everything exponentially more complicated.
A light flicks on in her bedroom. The curtains are open just enough that I can see her pulling on a sweatshirt—one of mine, I realize, the grey one I left at her place last week. She's wearing my clothes. In her cabin. After we had sex.
This is real. Whatever we're doing, it stopped being fake the moment she kissed me in the firelight.
I step off my porch.
Take three steps toward her cabin.
Stop.
Through her window, I can see her shadow moving. Pacing, probably. Making lists. Doing all the things she does when she's overthinking, just like I'm overthinking out here like a creep.
My phone buzzes.
Gage: Did you talk to her yet or are you still being a coward?
I look at Piper's cabin. At my cabin. At the twenty feet between them that feels impossible to cross.
Then I turn around and go inside.
The message to Piper stays typed but unsent:
Me: We need to talk.
I delete it.
Pour myself a drink I won't finish. Stare at the wall where I can see the glow from her cabin window through mine.
Three games left. Three games to figure out if I'm brave enough to fight for this.