Chapter 7 #2
What follows is less a snowball fight and more a study in competitive escalation. I'm scrambling behind my rental car for cover, he's using his woodpile as a fortress, and we're both throwing with increasingly terrible accuracy because we're laughing too hard to aim properly.
"Your form is terrible!" he calls out.
"Your dance moves are worse!" I pop up, throw, duck back down as his return fire sails over my head. "The sprinkler, Ryder? Really?"
"That was strategy!"
"That was a crime against coordination!"
I risk a peek around the car. He's reloading, and in that split second of distraction, I make my move—charging his position with three snowballs clutched against my chest like grenades.
"Offensive strategy!" I'm yelling. "Superior numbers! Overwhelming force!"
He catches the first snowball I throw, dodges the second, and then I'm close enough that the third one just kind of mushes against his jacket at point-blank range.
We're standing toe-to-toe, both breathing hard, faces flushed from cold and laughter. Snow is melting in my hair, down my collar, and I'm pretty sure I have ice in places ice should never be. But I'm grinning like an idiot because this—this is the most fun I've had since arriving in Alaska.
"Truce?" he asks, voice low and rough.
"Conditional truce," I counter. "I retain the right to resume hostilities if Morris comes back."
"Fair terms."
We're still standing too close. I can see the snowflakes caught in his dark hair, melting against the warmth of his skin.
His grey eyes have gone soft, almost silver in the fading afternoon light, and he's looking at me like I'm something precious instead of a mess of melting snow and windburned cheeks.
"Piper," he says quietly, and it's not a question or a statement. It's just my name, but the way he says it makes my breath catch.
"Yeah?"
"I'm really bad at this."
"At snowball fights? Because I definitely won."
"At wanting things I can't afford to want yet." His hand comes up, brushing snow from my hair with a gentleness that contradicts the size of his palm. "You're right. I need these games. Need to prove I can handle the pressure. But standing here with you, I forget why that matters."
My heart hammers. "Ryder—"
"I know. Four games. Four games." His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I'm leaning into the touch without meaning to. "But after? When the scouts are gone and I know where I stand?"
"We figure this out," I whisper. "Whatever this is."
"Yeah." He's leaning closer, or maybe I am, and suddenly the space between us feels like a promise instead of a problem. His breath mingles with mine, creating small clouds in the cold air. "Four more games."
"Four more." My eyes are drifting closed, lips parting slightly because this is happening, we're actually—
A loud snort interrupts us.
We jump apart like guilty teenagers as Morris emerges from the tree line, chewing contemplatively on what appears to be a pine branch. He regards us with the judgmental air of a chaperone who's seen quite enough of our nonsense, thank you very much.
"Are you kidding me right now?" I demand. "Morris!"
The moose snorts again, turns, and saunters back into the woods with his branch, leaving us standing in my driveway covered in snow and breathing hard for entirely different reasons than before.
Ryder starts laughing first—a real, full laugh that I've never heard from him. It's rough and warm and completely unguarded, and the sound hits me harder than it should.
"He's the worst wingman in history," I manage, torn between frustration and hysteria.
"He's got terrible timing," Ryder agrees, still chuckling. "But maybe—"
"Four games," I interrupt gently. "You need to focus. And I need to stop letting a moose dictate my love life."
"Is that what this is?" His expression goes serious. "Your love life?"
I freeze. The question is huge and terrifying and exactly what I've been avoiding thinking about.
"Ask me in four games," I say instead.
He nods slowly, stepping back. "Four games."
"Now go home and watch game tape or do pushups or whatever hockey players do to focus." I'm already backing toward my cabin before I do something stupid.
"Piper?"
I pause at my door.
"For the record? You definitely didn't win the snowball fight."
"I absolutely did."
"You had worse aim, worse strategy, and you only scored one direct hit."
"Quality over quantity, Lockwood." I'm grinning now, can't help it. "I made you laugh. That counts as winning."
His expression softens. "Yeah. It does."
He's halfway back to his cabin when I call out, "Hey, Ryder?"
He turns.
"Morris says you're still an idiot."
"Morris needs to mind his own business."
I'm still smiling when I close my door, lean against it, and try to remember why waiting four games is a good idea when my lips are still tingling from an almost-kiss that didn't happen.
My phone buzzes. Instagram notification. Another tag.
This time, it's a video. The caption reads: "ASHWOOD FALLS' HOTTEST COUPLE IN EPIC SNOWBALL BATTLE #LocalHero #InfluencerInLove #MorrisTheMatchmaker"
My stomach drops. I click play.
It's us. All of it. The snowball fight, the laughter, that moment where we were standing so close the camera caught the exact second my eyes started to drift closed. And Morris, perfectly timed, interrupting what was clearly about to be a kiss.
The video has 47,000 views and counting.
My phone won't stop buzzing. Comments, shares, tags. My follower count is climbing in real-time—489k, 490k, 491k.
Someone in town recorded us. Posted it. And now it's going viral.
Of course. Of course the one real moment goes viral.
After years of carefully crafting content, staging perfect moments, creating marketable narratives—the thing that finally breaks through is completely authentic and entirely unplanned.
I should be thrilled. This is exactly the kind of engagement I've been chasing. The comments are overwhelmingly positive:
"This is the cutest thing I've ever seen"
"The moose interrupt I'm DYING "
"She looks so happy compared to her old content"
"PLEASE tell me they're together"
But all I can think about is Ryder's face when he sees this. When he realizes our moment—that almost-kiss, that vulnerability—is now public entertainment.
A text comes through from Jax:
Jax: DUDE. You and Cap are TRENDING. #MorrisTheMatchmaker is going viral. This is AMAZING for the team!
Then Patrice:
Patrice: Just saw the video. You okay? Want to talk?
Then Dotty:
Dotty: Honey, someone caught you two on video and the whole town's been sharing it. We've been waiting for this since you arrived. Congratulations on being adorable.
My DMs are flooding with brands wanting to sponsor "relationship content," news outlets requesting interviews about my "small-town romance," even Preston Wiloughby —Ryder's agent—asking to "discuss partnership opportunities."
Everything Ryder said he didn't want. Everything I said I wouldn't do to him.
And it's happening anyway because some well-meaning townsfolk decided our private moment was worth sharing.
The view count keeps climbing. 52k. 55k. 60k.
Four games. He asked for four games to focus, and now our almost-kiss is trending internationally.
My phone rings. Ryder's name.
I stare at it for two rings, three, my thumb hovering over the answer button. There's no way he hasn't seen it yet. Someone filmed us and now the whole town is sharing it.
I answer on the fourth ring. "Hey."
"Have you seen it?" His voice is careful, controlled. The same tone he used before the fake dating pitch.
My stomach drops. "Yeah. I just saw it."