Chapter 8 #2
I skate the perimeter alone while my team runs plays I should be leading. Through the glass, I catch sight of Chief Walsh in the stands, watching with the same expression he wore when I was fourteen and trying to run into burning buildings.
After practice, I find him waiting by my truck.
"Heard you had a rough morning," Chief says, examining his coffee cup with intense focus.
"News travels."
"Small town." He takes a sip. "Also, the entire team group chat is discussing your viral video. Bobby sent me the link."
Of course he did.
"Coach thinks I'm distracted."
"Are you?"
The honest answer sits heavy in my chest. "Yeah."
"By the girl? Or by everyone's reaction to the girl?"
I lean against my truck, letting the cold metal seep through my jacket. "Both. Neither. I don't know anymore. Preston wants me to use the viral moment—make it work for my image. Coach wants me focused on hockey. And Piper—" I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence.
"Piper wants what?" Chief prompts.
"I don't know. We haven't actually talked about what's happening between us. Just that we'd wait four games. Except now we're trending and everyone has opinions and—" I drag my hand through my hair. "I'm handling this badly."
"Son, you're handling it like someone who's never been in the spotlight trying to navigate a very public situation.
" He sets down his coffee. "Here's what I know about you, Ryder Lockwood.
You're one of the best hockey players I've ever seen.
You're also one of the best firefighters I've trained.
But you're also just a man trying to figure out if he can have both a career and a life. "
"Dad managed it."
"Your father was thirty-two when he met your mother, already established in his career.
You're twenty-five with scouts watching your every move and a viral video complicating everything.
" Chief's expression softens. "He'd tell you the same thing I'm about to: figure out what you want.
Not what everyone else wants for you. What you want. "
The question echoes through my exhausted brain. What do I want?
To play in the NHL. To make Dad proud. To prove I belong at that level.
But also—to see Piper smile at me across a table. To teach her about surviving Alaska winters. To kiss her properly without a moose interrupting.
"What if I want both?" I ask quietly.
"Then you better figure out how to make that work. Because right now, trying to have both is making you terrible at everything."
He leaves me with that, and I drive home in silence, his words circling like vultures.
The game is a bloodbath.
Not literally—though there are two fights and a penalty that sends their enforcer to the box for ten minutes. But for me personally? It's a complete disaster from the opening faceoff.
I'm in my head from the first shift. Overthinking every pass, second-guessing every play. The scouts are three rows behind our bench, clipboards out, watching everything. Each mistake gets noted. Each hesitation recorded.
Second period, I miss an empty net. The puck bounces off my stick at the worst possible angle, and their goalie recovers before I can shoot again. The crowd groans. Coach looks like he wants to strangle me with my own jersey.
Third period, I take a stupid penalty—cross-checking because I was frustrated and not thinking. Two minutes in the box while my team plays shorthanded. Jax scores anyway, pulling us within one, but it's not enough.
We lose 2-4.
I'm the last one in the locker room, still in my gear, staring at nothing.
"Lockwood." Coach's voice makes me look up. His expression is carefully neutral—the kind of neutral that's worse than anger. "Scouts want to talk."
My stomach drops. "Now?"
"Now."
They're waiting in the conference room—two men in suits with tablets and assessment forms. I recognize them from their photos: Rick Dawson and David Cooper, scouts for teams that could change my entire life.
"Ryder." Dawson extends a hand. "Thanks for meeting with us."
"Of course." I shake both their hands, trying to ignore how sweaty my palms are despite having just showered.
"We've been watching your games this season," Cooper starts, pulling up stats on his tablet. "Your numbers are impressive. Goals, assists, plus-minus—all solid."
"Thank you."
"But tonight wasn't your best showing," Dawson says, not unkindly. "You seemed distracted. Unfocused. Not the captain we saw in game footage from earlier this season."
There it is. The thing everyone's been dancing around.
"I had an off night," I say.
"Because of the viral video?" Cooper asks, and he's watching me carefully now. "We saw it. The whole hockey community saw it. You're trending in markets you've never played in."
"That wasn't—I didn't plan that."
"Doesn't matter if you planned it." Dawson leans forward. "What matters is how you handle pressure. On ice and off. The NHL isn't just about skill—it's about managing public attention, media scrutiny, maintaining focus when everyone's watching."
"I can handle it."
"Can you?" Cooper's expression isn't hostile, just assessing. "Because tonight suggested otherwise. We need players who can compartmentalize. Who don't let personal drama affect their game."
My chest tightens. He's right. They're both right. I let the viral video, Preston's pressure, Piper's proximity—all of it—get into my head. And it cost me.
"I understand," I say quietly. "I'll do better."
"We hope so." Dawson stands, offering another handshake. "You've got four more games to show us you're the player we need. The one who leads his team, not the one distracted by trending hashtags."
They leave, and I sit in the empty conference room, staring at motivational posters about focus and dedication that mock me from the walls.
My phone has seventeen texts. Three from Jax checking if I'm alive. Two from Sage, my sister, asking what's wrong because apparently, my sister has ESPN alerts for my games. One from Mom saying she loves me regardless of hockey, which somehow makes it worse.
And one from Piper:
Piper: I'm sorry. This is my fault.
I stare at her message for a long moment, then call her instead of texting back.
She answers on the first ring. "Hey."
"This isn't your fault."
"Ryder—"
"I'm serious. You didn't ask for that video. You didn't ask for any of this." I lean back in the chair, closing my eyes. "I'm the one who can't get my head straight."
"Because of me."
"Because of everything. The scouts, Preston's pressure, the viral video—" I stop. "Can we talk? In person?"
"Now?"
"Now."
Twenty minutes later, we're sitting in my truck in the arena parking lot because my cabin feels too intimate and The Ashwood Café is too public. She's wrapped in that purple parka, hair pulled back, face bare of the makeup she usually wears for content.
She looks beautiful and terrified in equal measure.
"Preston called again after the game," I start. "Said the scouts are concerned about my focus. Said if I'm going to be in a relationship, I need to make it work for me instead of against me."
"So he still wants the fake dating thing."
"Yeah." I turn to face her fully. "And I've been thinking—maybe he's right."
Her expression shuts down immediately. "Ryder—"
"Hear me out." I hold up a hand. "Not because I think of you as a marketing opportunity. But because whatever's happening between us is clearly already affecting both our careers. The video proved that. So maybe instead of fighting it, we lean into it."
"Lean into it," she repeats, her voice giving nothing away.
"We're already trending together. People already think we're dating. What if we make it official—publicly—with clear boundaries and expectations? It helps my image with the scouts. It helps your brand recovery. Win-win."
"Mutually beneficial," she says, and each word has an edge to it.
"Piper—"
"Let me make sure I understand." She's looking at me now, hazel eyes bright with something that might be anger or hurt or both. "You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend—for the scouts, for my followers, for everyone watching—because it's good business?"
"That's not—" I stop, because that is what I just said, even if it's not what I meant. "It's not just business."
"Then what is it?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications neither of us is ready to voice. What is it? What are we?
"I don't know," I admit. "But I know I can't stop thinking about you.
Can't stop wanting to make sure your fire's still going.
Can't stop looking for excuses to see you.
" I drag my hand through my hair. "And I know that I choked tonight because I was too busy thinking about a damn viral video instead of playing hockey. "
"So you want to fix your distraction problem by making the distraction official?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds stupid."
"It is stupid." But her mouth twitches slightly. "It's also kind of genius."
"Yeah?"
"If we're doing this—" She holds up a finger. "And I mean if—we do it my way. With rules. Clear boundaries."
"I can do rules."
"Rule one: no lying to family. If your sister asks, if my mother calls, we tell them the truth. This is an arrangement."
"Agreed."
"Rule two: we're friends first. Whatever happens for the cameras, in private we're honest with each other. No games."
"Also agreed."
"Rule three: either of us can end this at any time, for any reason. No questions, no drama."
That one stings more than it should, but I nod. "Fair."
"And rule four—" She pauses, biting her lip. "We don't—we keep things professional. No repeating what almost happened in that driveway. Because if we cross that line, this whole thing gets complicated."
The rule I hate most. The one that makes the most sense. Because she's right—if we start actually dating while pretending to fake date, the lines blur beyond recognition.
"Okay," I say, even though every fiber of my being wants to argue.
"Okay?" She sounds surprised.
"You're right. Clear boundaries keep things simple. This is business. Mutually beneficial."
The words taste like ash, but they're what she needs to hear.
She studies me for a long moment, and I can't read her expression. Then she extends her hand across the console. "Partners?"
I take her hand, feeling the warmth of her palm against mine even through her glove. "Partners."
We shake hands on it—formal, professional, exactly the opposite of what I want. When she pulls her hand back, I feel the loss like a physical ache.
"So," she says, adjusting her parka. "How do we do this? Do I post something? Do you?"
"Preston will probably have ideas about the rollout. Make it look natural."
"Because nothing says natural like a choreographed social media strategy."
A smile breaks through before I can stop it. "We'll figure it out."
"Four more games," she says quietly. "After that, when you know about the NHL, we can—"
"Reevaluate," I finish.
"Right. Reevaluate." She reaches for the door handle. "I should go. You probably need to rest. Big practice tomorrow."
"Piper."
She pauses, hand on the door.
"Thank you. For doing this. I know it's not ideal—"
"It's fine." Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Mutually beneficial, remember? This helps both of us."
She's out of the truck before I can respond, and I watch her walk to her rental car—which still only has one side mirror thanks to Morris's culinary preferences. She doesn't look back.
I sit in the parking lot long after she drives away, staring at my phone where Preston has already texted with "media strategy ideas" and Jax has sent approximately forty-seven memes about the viral video.
Four more games. Four chances to prove to the scouts I can handle pressure. Four weeks of fake dating someone I'm already halfway in love with while pretending it's just business.
This is either the smartest or stupidest decision I've ever made.
Through my windshield, the arena lights are shutting off one by one. In a few hours, I'll be back here, running drills and trying to remember that hockey is supposed to be what matters most.
My phone buzzes with a text from Piper:
Piper: Rule five: Morris is Switzerland. He gets no opinion on this arrangement.
I'm grinning like an idiot as I text back:
Me: Pretty sure Morris has opinions on everything.
Piper: Then he keeps them to himself. I've had enough judgment from wildlife this week.
Me: Fair. See you tomorrow?
Piper: Partner meetings are scheduled for 10am at The Ashwood Café. Bring your game face. We've got a fake relationship to launch.
I read her text three times, trying to find some hint of how she really feels about this arrangement. But all I get is professional efficiency and humor that might be masking something deeper.
Or maybe I'm reading too much into it. Maybe for her, this really is just business.
I start my truck and head home, already dreading tomorrow's "partner meeting" where we'll strategize about fake dating while pretending we're not both thinking about that almost-kiss.
Three more games to prove I'm NHL material.
And three weeks of pretending Piper Meadows is just a business arrangement when I can still feel how close she was standing, see exactly how her eyes started to drift closed before Morris interrupted.
I'm so screwed.