Chapter 6
Ryder
The coffee tastes like regret this morning.
I stare at the game footage on my laptop, watching myself miss that first shot for the fourteenth time.
The puck hits the crossbar with that distinctive ping that still echoes in my head.
Sure, I scored later—won the damn game—but that first period was a disaster.
The scouts saw me choke, saw me get in my own head, saw me play scared instead of smart.
Three more games to prove I'm not a liability who crumbles under pressure.
My phone buzzes across the kitchen table. Preston Wiloughby, my agent. Calling at seven in the morning on a Saturday, which means either really good news or a lecture I don't want to hear.
"Tell me you've got a contract offer," I say instead of hello.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine." Preston's voice carries that particular brand of forced enthusiasm that agents use when they're about to deliver bad news wrapped in opportunity. "Great game last night. That third-period goal was exactly what we needed."
"But?"
"But the scouts want to see consistency.
Leadership. Someone who can handle pressure both on and off the ice.
" He pauses, and I can practically hear him building up to whatever pitch he's about to make.
"They want a compelling narrative, Ryder.
Right now, you're 'small-town captain with potential.
' We need you to be 'complete package with marketability. '"
I dump the rest of my coffee down the sink. "What does that even mean?"
"It means they want to see you as more than just a hockey player.
They want community engagement, social media presence, the kind of storyline that makes you marketable to sponsors.
" His voice shifts into what I've started calling his Used Car Salesman mode.
"Speaking of which—I heard you've got a new neighbor.
An influencer? With almost half a million followers? "
My grip tightens on the phone. "How do you know about Piper?"
"Small town, big gossip network, and I follow local news.
Also, her Morris the Moose video is trending.
Very entertaining." He's enjoying this way too much.
"Here's an idea—what if you two were seen together?
The grumpy hockey captain and the city girl influencer?
People eat that stuff up. It's practically a Hallmark movie. "
"Absolutely not."
"Hear me out. You need visibility and likability. She needs content. It's a win-win. A few public outings, some social media posts—"
"I said no." The words come out harder than I mean them to, but the thought of using Piper for career advancement makes my stomach drop. "She's not a marketing opportunity. She's a person."
"A person with 487,000 followers who could make you a household name.
" Preston's voice shifts—the sound of someone about to give up this round.
"Fine. But think about it, okay? The scouts want to see the whole package.
Right now, you're all hockey and heroics.
Show them you can be personable, relatable.
It doesn't have to be fake—just strategic. "
He hangs up before I can tell him where he can strategically shove his idea.
I stare at my phone, at the black screen reflecting my scowl, and try not to think about Piper. About how she deleted all her footage from the game because some things aren't meant to be performed. About how she promised to wait four games while I figure out if I have a future in hockey.
Four games to prove I'm NHL material.
And Preston wants me to turn my personal life into a publicity stunt.
"Fuck that," I tell my empty kitchen.
The Ashwood Café is packed when I push through the door an hour later, desperate for coffee that doesn't taste like disappointment. Dotty's behind the counter, her rainbow scarf today featuring what appears to be dancing llamas, and she lights up the moment she spots me.
"There's our captain!" She's already pulling shots before I reach the counter. "That goal last night—pure poetry. Your daddy would've been so proud."
The words land right where Dad's memory still lives. "Thanks, Dotty."
"Regular mocha? Or are we celebrating with something fancy?"
"Regular's fine."
She's already pulling espresso shots, studying me with thirty years of coffee-shop wisdom. "You don't look like someone who won a game last night. You look like someone who's carrying the weight of the entire sport on those shoulders."
"Just thinking about the next four games."
"Mm-hmm." She slides my usual mug across the counter—the one with a grumpy-looking bear that she claims reminds her of me—and leans in conspiratorially.
"You know what might help? Talking to that pretty neighbor of yours.
She sat with Diane at the game last night, didn't pull out her camera once during the third period.
Just watched. Diane says the girl's got it bad. "
Of course Dotty knows. Small towns have better intelligence networks than the CIA.
"We're just neighbors."
"Sure. And I'm just a coffee shop owner who doesn't notice when two people look at each other like you two did after the game." She winks. "Four games is a long time to wait, honey. Maybe spend some of it getting to know her without all the pressure."
Before I can respond, the door opens with its cheerful jingle, and Gage Bennett walks in looking like a man who knows exactly where he stands in life—married to the woman of his dreams, running his own business, content in ways I'm still figuring out.
"Lockwood." He nods, then turns to Dotty. "Two of your magic mochas to go. Grayson kept us up half the night, so Tessa's running on fumes and I'm the errand boy."
"Being married looks good on you," Dotty says, already working on his order.
“Sleep deprivation looks less good,” Gage says, but he’s smiling the way he only does when his family comes up.
He settles against the counter next to me. We don't need to fill every moment with words—six years of knowing someone does that.
"Heard the scouts were impressed," he says finally.
"Heard I choked in the first period."
"Heard you recovered and won the game." He accepts his drinks from Dotty with a grateful nod. "Also heard you've got a new neighbor who screamed at Morris and nearly froze to death in three separate incidents."
"Does everyone in this town just sit around discussing my life?"
"Pretty much." He grins, but his smile fades.
"Look, I'm not going to pretend I know anything about hockey scouts or NHL dreams. But I do know about being so focused on one thing that you forget to actually live your life.
" He gestures vaguely at himself. "I almost let Tessa leave because I was too stubborn to admit I wanted something more than just work and solitude.
" He runs his fingers through his beard.
"Now I've got Tessa, Grayson, a business that works.
I didn't lose anything by choosing her. I gained everything I didn't know I needed. "
"This is different—"
"Is it?" He raises an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm standing, you've got an opportunity to connect with someone who might actually understand what you're going through. She's dealing with her own public pressure, rebuilding after humiliation. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"
I want to argue, but he's not wrong. Piper knows what it's like to have people watching, judging, waiting for you to either succeed or fail in spectacular fashion.
"Preston wants me to use her," I admit. "For marketing. Fake dating for social media visibility."
Gage's expression darkens. "That's a terrible idea."
"I know."
"Unless..." He pauses, coffee cups in hand, clearly working through something. "Unless it's not fake. Unless you're actually interested and the public part is just a bonus."
"Four games, Gage. I've got four games to prove myself. I don't have time for complicated."
"Life's always complicated." He heads for the door, then calls back, "But sometimes the complicated parts are the ones worth fighting for. Just ask me and Tessa."
He leaves me with that, and Dotty slides a blueberry muffin across the counter—on the house, apparently—while giving me a look that says the whole café heard every word.
Small town living.
I'm supposed to be picking up new thermal gear from Northbound Outfitters, the outdoor supply store that Ashwood Falls relies on for everything from camping equipment to actual survival gear. What I'm not supposed to be doing is actively looking for excuses to run into Piper.
Yet here I am, taking the long route past the women's section where she's currently debating between two parkas like her life depends on the choice.
"The purple one's warmer," I say before I can stop myself.
She spins around. Surprise, then something warmer, then careful. "How do you know?"
"The orange one's fashion over function. Thin insulation, decorative rather than practical." I step closer, checking the tags. "This one"—I tap the purple parka—"is actually rated for minus forty. The other maxes out at minus ten."
"Minus forty." She holds the purple one up, examining it with new respect. "Why would anyone need minus forty?"
"Because it gets that cold here. Sometimes colder."
"That's not a temperature. That's a threat." But she's smiling, and the sight of it does something to my chest that has nothing to do with the cold.
We stand there for a moment, surrounded by racks of outdoor gear. She's close enough that I can see how her hair's pulled back in a messy bun, showing the curve of her neck. The fingerless gloves she's wearing make no practical sense but somehow look perfect on her.
"Can I ask you something?" She's studying the parka tag like it holds the secrets of the universe. "What happens if the NHL doesn't work out? Do you stay here, or..."