Chapter 9 #2
We spend the next twenty minutes with him explaining hockey in terms I can understand—which mostly involves him comparing plays to things from reality TV because apparently that's my frame of reference for strategy and drama.
By the time Lily brings over fresh coffee and a plate of muffins "on the house for the cute couple," I can identify a slapshot versus a wrist shot and understand what icing means.
"You're a surprisingly good teacher," I tell him, breaking off a piece of blueberry muffin.
"You're a surprisingly fast learner. For someone who thought we played with balls."
"I'm never living that down, am I?"
"Never." But his expression softens. "This is nice. Talking without—" He gestures vaguely. "—all the pressure."
"You mean without your agent breathing down your neck about marketability?"
"Among other things." He's quiet for a moment, working through a thought. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why did you really come to Ashwood Falls? I know about the viral breakup, but Anchorage has plenty of places to hide. Why here specifically?"
I pause, muffin halfway to my mouth. I've been telling everyone it's for authentic content, for the rebrand, for the wilderness aesthetic. But sitting here with Ryder's grey eyes watching me patiently, I find myself telling the truth.
"Because I needed to disappear," I say quietly.
"Not just from social media or my ex. From the person I'd become.
The performing, the constant content creation, the girl who measured her worth in engagement rates and follower counts.
" I trace the rim of my mug. "I thought if I came somewhere with bad WiFi and no one who knew me, I could figure out who Piper Meadows actually is when she's not performing for a camera. "
"And? Have you figured it out?"
"I'm getting there." I meet his eyes. "Turns out the real me is someone who screams at moose, can't start fires, gets lost on marked trails, and fake dates grumpy hockey players to rebuild her brand."
"You're also someone who deleted all your footage from my game because you thought it was more important to just watch. Who negotiated five smart rules for this arrangement to protect both of us." His voice drops lower. "You're more real than you give yourself credit for."
My throat tightens. "Ryder—"
"We should probably practice," he says.
"Practice?"
"Couple behavior. Physical affection." He stands, extending his hand. "Come here."
I take his hand and let him pull me up, suddenly very aware that we're in a public café where Marnie is absolutely watching us over her coffee cup.
"What are we practicing?" I ask.
"This." He steps closer, and suddenly there's barely any space between us. His hand settles on my waist, light but possessive, and the other comes up to cup my jaw. "We need to look comfortable together. Like we've done this before."
My breath catches. "We have done this before. In the driveway before Morris—"
"But we didn't actually kiss." His thumb brushes my cheekbone, and I'm definitely not breathing normally anymore. "People are going to expect us to be comfortable with intimacy. Casual touches. Kisses goodbye. That kind of thing."
"So this is—this is practice."
"Just practice." But the way he's looking at me doesn't feel like practice. It feels like he's memorizing my face, like every point of contact between us matters.
I should step back. Remind him of rule four: keep things professional. But my hands have apparently decided to betray me because they're sliding up his chest, feeling solid muscle under flannel and thermal.
"Your heart's racing," he murmurs.
"So is yours."
"Yeah." His forehead drops to rest against mine, and we're sharing breath now, sharing space, and this is definitely not professional. "Piper—"
"This is fake," I whisper, the words barely audible. "Remember? We're just practicing."
"Right. Practicing." But he's not pulling away, and neither am I.
"We should—we have rules. Rule four specifically."
"I remember the rules."
"Good. Because if we break them, this whole thing gets complicated."
"It's already complicated."
"More complicated," I correct, and somehow my hands have found their way into his hair. "If we cross that line, we can't uncross it."
"I know." His hand tightens slightly on my waist. "So we won't cross it."
"We won't."
"We're just practicing."
"Exactly. Very professional practicing."
The moment stretches. We're frozen in this moment, close enough to kiss but not kissing, wanting but not taking, and I can feel my resolve crumbling with every second that passes.
Then Marnie clears her throat loudly from three tables over.
We jump apart like teenagers caught making out by parents, and I immediately busy myself with my coffee that I don't need more of. Ryder's neck is flushed, and he's very deliberately not looking at me.
"That was—" I start.
"Practice," he finishes firmly. "Just practice."
"Right. Very convincing practice. I'm sure everyone totally believed we were a real couple just now."
"That's the goal."
"Mission accomplished, then." I grab my phone, needing something to do with my shaky hands. "So. We've got our story, basic hockey knowledge, and apparently we can do the whole 'almost kissing in public' thing convincingly. What else?"
"Social media rollout." He grimaces slightly. "Preston sent me a strategy document. At 6 AM."
"Of course he did." I pull up my Instagram, stomach twisting. "We should probably post something. Make it official."
"What do we post?"
"A soft launch. Nothing too obvious. Just—" I hold up my phone, angling it to capture both of us. "Smile, Lockwood."
"I don't smile for cameras."
"You're about to." I lean in, and he automatically shifts closer, his arm coming around my shoulders. I snap three quick photos, reviewing them.
In the photos, we look—we look real. His arm around me, my head tilted toward him, both of us caught mid-laugh about something. You can't tell we were arguing about smiling. You can't see the rules or the business arrangement or any of it.
We just look happy.
"These are good," I say quietly.
He leans over to see, and his jaw tightens, then relaxes. "Yeah. They are."
I select the best one and start crafting a caption. Something casual. Authentic. Real.
Morning coffee hits different with good company. #AshwoodFalls #NewBeginnings
Simple. Minimal. Just enough to confirm without being too obvious.
"Ready?" I ask, finger hovering over the post button.
Ryder's quiet for a moment, and when I look up, he's watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Once we post this, everyone's going to have opinions," he says. "The team, the scouts, the entire town. Your followers. All of them."
"I know."
"And we're doing this anyway."
"We agreed, didn't we? Mutually beneficial." The words taste wrong, but I say them anyway. "This helps both of us."
"Right." He nods, but uncertainty flickers in his eyes. "Post it."
I hit share before I can overthink it further. The post goes live, and within seconds, notifications start flooding in. Hearts, comments, shares. My follower count ticks up in real-time.
It's working. The strategy is working.
So why does it feel like I just lied to 490,000 people?
"I should go," Ryder says, standing. "Morning skate in an hour, and I need to—" He doesn't finish, just gestures vaguely.
"Yeah. Of course." I stand too, and we're awkward again, all the ease from earlier evaporated. "So. Friday's game?"
"Preston wants you there. Front row, wearing my jersey if possible." He grimaces slightly. "Very visible girlfriend energy."
"I can do visible."
"Good." He's backing toward the door now, and I hate how much space is suddenly between us. "See you then, I guess."
"Ryder?"
He pauses, hand on the door.
"We're doing the right thing, right? This fake dating thing?"
His expression goes carefully neutral. "Ask me in three games."
Then he's gone, and I'm standing in The Ashwood Café with my phone blowing up and the ghost of his touch still tingling on my skin.
Marnie appears at my elbow approximately three seconds later. "Well. That was quite a performance."
"We're just—we're dating. Trying the dating thing."
"Mm-hmm." She's studying me with the shrewd eyes of someone who's seen a lot of young people fall hard. "Word of advice, honey? That boy's been alone a long time. And from where I was sitting, he's not playing games. So if you're not serious, be kind about it."
She leaves me with that, and I sink back into my chair, staring at my phone.
The post has 15,000 likes already. Comments pouring in:
"OMG I KNEW IT"
"The way he looks at her "
"Morris the matchmaker strikes again!"
"Alaska rom-com energy"
I should be thrilled. This is exactly the engagement I need. The rebrand is working.
Instead, all I can think about is the moment before Marnie interrupted. How close we were. How badly I wanted to close that last inch.
My phone buzzes. A text from Patrice.
Patrice: Just saw your post. Please tell me you know what you're doing.
I stare at the message, then type back:
Me: Absolutely. Totally under control. Why do you ask?
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally:
Patrice: Because you both looked at each other the same way Trace looked at me when we were "just friends." And we all know how that ended.
I don't respond. Can't respond. Because she's not wrong.
The post has 20,000 likes now. Comments pouring in about how cute we are, how perfect, how 'meant to be.
' They have no idea this is a strategic business arrangement with five rules and clear boundaries.
I pull up the photo again. The way I'm leaning into him.
How his smile looks genuine instead of camera-ready.
Three more games. I can keep this professional for three more games.
I screenshot the photo and save it to my camera roll. Not for content. Just for me.