Chapter 8
Ryder
"Have you seen it?" My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to, my hand gripping the phone hard enough that the case creaks in protest.
"Yeah. I just saw it," Piper says, and there's something in her tone I can't quite read. Embarrassment? Anger? Both?
Through my cabin window, I can see her shadow moving behind her curtains. Twenty feet away and we're having this conversation by phone like cowards.
"Someone filmed us during the snowball fight. Posted it without asking. I didn't even know anyone was watching, but there's footage of every moment—the laughing, the way we almost—" My voice cracks. "The view count keeps climbing every time I check, like it's personally mocking me."
Thousands of people watching us almost kiss. Thousands of witnesses to the moment I forgot every rule I set for myself about staying focused, about keeping my distance until after the scouts.
"Piper—"
"The comments are losing their minds over Morris interrupting," she says, and now I can definitely hear the strain in her voice. "They think it's hilarious. Adorable. They're shipping us. There's fanfiction, Ryder. Someone wrote fanfiction about us and a moose in under two hours."
"Shipping us?" I repeat, lost.
"They want us together. As a couple. They're actively rooting for our relationship like we're characters in a TV show." She lets out a stressed laugh. "And now people are writing stories about us. Fictional romantic stories. About you, me, and Morris."
My mouth twitches even though I know I shouldn't find this funny. "People are writing stories about us and a moose?"
"Don't laugh. This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny."
"It's a disaster." Her voice cracks slightly. "Your agent just DMed me about 'partnership opportunities.' Brands are offering me sponsorships for couple content. Entertainment outlets want interviews about our 'small-town romance.' And you—you need to focus on hockey, not deal with this circus."
The reminder hits like a slap. Four games. I asked her for four games, and now we're trending internationally before game two.
"I know," I say quietly.
"I'm sorry. I didn't—I would never intentionally—"
"Hey." I cut her off before she can spiral. "You didn't do this. Some well-meaning townsfolk with a camera phone did."
"But now it's out there. Now everyone thinks—" She stops.
"Thinks what?"
The silence stretches long enough that I almost repeat the question. Then she says, so quietly I barely hear it, "Thinks something real is happening."
My chest tightens. Because something real is happening, but we're not supposed to acknowledge that yet. Not until after the games. Not until I know where my future lies.
"I should go," she says before I can figure out how to respond. "You probably have game prep or tape to watch or—"
"Piper."
"Yeah?"
"We'll figure this out."
"Right. Four games. I remember." She hangs up before I can say anything else, and I'm left staring at my phone, at that damn video that won't stop spreading.
I pull up the footage again, even though I've watched it way too many times already.
There we are, laughing and throwing snow like idiots.
The camera catches the exact moment my expression shifts—when the playfulness becomes something heavier.
When I stopped thinking about hockey and scouts and just wanted to kiss her senseless in the driveway while a judgmental moose watches.
The comments are exactly as she described:
"THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER "
"Morris the real MVP of this relationship"
"I would die for this level of sexual tension"
"Someone please tell me they're actually together"
My phone rings. Preston's name flashes across the screen, and I consider throwing the device into the fireplace.
Instead, I answer. "That was fast. Video's only been up a few hours."
"And it's already trending." Preston sounds far too excited for this conversation. "Ryder. Buddy. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Created a problem?"
"Created an opportunity!" He's practically vibrating through the phone. "That video is trending. Your name is everywhere. People who've never heard of semi-pro hockey are googling you. This is exactly what we need."
I close my eyes. "Preston—"
"The scouts are going to love this. Shows you're personable, relatable, capable of normal human connection. You're not just some hockey robot anymore—you're a guy with a life outside the rink."
"I don't want to be famous for my love life."
"You're not. You're famous for being good at hockey. This just makes you marketable too." He pauses, and I hear papers shuffling. "Look, I know you shot down the fake dating idea before. But this video? This changes everything. You two have chemistry that can't be manufactured. Use it."
"No." The word comes out harder than I mean it to. "I already told you—she's not a marketing tool."
"I'm not saying she is." His tone shifts, gets smoother. More salesman than friend. "I'm saying she's an influencer who understands how this game works. She posts content for a living. You think she doesn't know the value of a viral moment? She's probably already strategizing how to monetize this."
"You don't know her."
"I know her type. Look, you clearly like each other, the internet is obsessed, and if you're going to be hooking up anyway—"
"We're not—" I stop, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache. "This conversation is over."
"Ryder, listen to me. You need to show the scouts you're the complete package.
She needs to rebuild her brand after that disaster with her ex.
You're already trending together. I'm just saying make it official.
A few posts, some public appearances, give people what they want to see. It's smart business."
"It's using someone." My hand tightens on the phone. "And I'm not doing it."
"Then you're throwing away an opportunity that could change your career.
" His voice goes cold, clipped. "The scouts want to see you can handle pressure on and off the ice.
Right now, you're a small-town player with decent stats and zero marketability.
This girl could change that. But fine. Stay noble.
See where that gets you when they pass you over for someone with half your skill and twice your Instagram following. "
"Preston—"
"I've been doing this for fifteen years, Ryder. Trust me or don't. But don't come crying to me when you're still fighting fires in Ashwood Falls at thirty-five because you were too proud to play the game."
He hangs up, leaving me staring at my phone, rage simmering under my skin.
Using Piper. Like she's some kind of prop to boost my image. Like what happened between us in that driveway was content instead of real.
The thought makes me sick.
I don't sleep well. Every time I close my eyes, I see that moment before Morris interrupted—the way Piper's lips parted slightly, how her eyes started to drift closed. How badly I wanted to close that last inch of space between us and forget about everything except how she feels in my arms.
Morning comes too early and too cold. I drag myself to practice, every muscle protesting from yesterday's extra conditioning drills and last night's terrible sleep.
The team's already on the ice when I arrive, and the moment I step into the rink, Jax skates over with a grin that promises nothing good.
"Captain! My man! You're trending!" He's holding up his phone, showing me the video I've now seen approximately forty-seven times.
"I'm aware."
"Dude, the moose interrupt is comedy gold. Have you read the comments? People are losing it."
"Can we focus on hockey?"
"We are focused on hockey," Tommy says, gliding up. "Hockey and your love life. Multitasking."
"There is no—"
"Lockwood!" Coach's voice cuts through the rink like a blade. "My office. Now."
The team makes various "ooooh" sounds that would be more appropriate in a middle school cafeteria. I skate off the ice, pop my skates, and trudge to Coach's office like I'm being called to the principal's office.
Coach is watching the viral video when I enter. On his computer. At full volume.
"Close the door," he says without looking up.
I do.
He watches the entire thing—all two minutes and thirty-seven seconds of snowball warfare culminating in an almost-kiss interrupted by wildlife. When it ends, he closes the laptop with deliberate care.
"Scouts are coming tonight," he says.
"I know."
"They're not coming to watch you flirt with pretty girls in driveways."
"I know that too."
"Do you?" He leans back in his chair, studying me with thirty years of coaching experience. "Because right now, you're all over social media for everything except hockey. And in three hours, you need to be the captain who leads this team. The player who deserves an NHL contract."
My jaw tightens. "I'll be ready."
"Will you?" He taps his laptop. "That video shows a guy who's distracted. Unfocused. More interested in romance than the game."
"That's not—"
"I don't care if it's fair, Lockwood. I care if it's true." He stands, moving to the window overlooking the rink. "Your teammates are down there running drills. You're up here trying to explain why your personal life is trending internationally hours before scouts watch your every move."
The words land exactly where he aims them. He's right. I asked Piper for four games to focus, then proceeded to get into a snowball fight that went viral. Real focused, Lockwood.
"Get your head together," Coach says, not unkindly. "Figure out what matters most. Then play like it."
I'm a disaster at practice. Miss passes I should catch. Fumble shots I normally make in my sleep. My timing is off by microseconds that might as well be miles. Every mistake compounds until Coach finally benches me for the last drill.
"Take a lap," he says. "Cool down. Get your head straight."