Chapter 12
Ryder
After Piper left my cabin, I needed to do something productive, so I went to the firehouse to work on the equipment.
The alarm goes off at two in the morning, which is never good.
Fire calls in January mean someone's wood stove malfunctioned or their space heater decided to commit arson.
Either way, at minus twenty-five degrees, a structure fire becomes a race against hypothermia as much as the flames.
The scene is chaos controlled by training. Flames punch through the roof, orange against the black sky. Chief Walsh is already directing crews, his voice cutting through the roar of the fire and the rumble of engines. Tommy's checking connections on the hose lines.
"Copy."
The weight of the gear settles familiar and heavy across my shoulders. The SCBA mask goes on, cutting off the world to just the sound of my own breathing and the crackle of the radio. Bobby and I move together, trained by years of working side by side.
The heat hits first. Even through the gear, it's oppressive. Smoke hangs thick and black, visibility maybe two feet. We move fast but methodical, checking every room. The cabin's layout is standard—living area, kitchen, two bedrooms in the back.
"Clear!" Bobby calls from the first bedroom.
I push into the second. The smoke is thicker here, rolling across the ceiling in angry waves. My light catches a shape on the floor near the closet. Small. Child-sized. Not moving.
My heart slams against my ribs.
"Got them!" I key my radio. "Back bedroom, victim down. It's a kid."
Bobby's beside me in seconds. We check for breathing—shallow but present. Together we lift, moving as fast as safety allows. The roof groans ominously. Chief's voice in my ear: "Thirty seconds, boys. Structure's compromised."
We make it out with fifteen seconds to spare.
The roof collapses in a shower of sparks as we clear the porch. Bobby and I hand off the little girl—maybe five years old, limp but breathing—to the paramedics. They wrap her in blankets, start oxygen.
A woman's scream cuts through the chaos. "Emma! Oh my God, Emma!"
The parents. Running toward us. The mom collapses beside the gurney, sobbing. The dad has his arm around a boy, maybe seven, who's crying too.
The little girl—Emma—coughs. Opens her eyes. Starts crying for her mom.
The paramedic catches my eye, gives me a nod. She'll be okay.
The adrenaline crash hits about twenty minutes later, once the fire's contained and we're packing gear. My hands shake slightly as I coil hose lines. They always do after a rescue. Dad's hands used to shake too, after calls. He said it was the body remembering to be scared after the fact.
"Good work tonight." Chief appears beside me, holding two thermoses of coffee that materialized from somewhere. He always has coffee. "Clean entry, clean exit. Your dad would've been proud."
His words hit like a sucker punch below my ribs, forcing out air I didn't know I was holding.
"He would've told me the structure assessment was sloppy," I say, taking the thermos.
"He would've." Chief's smile is sad around the edges. "Then he would've bought you breakfast and told everyone at The Ashwood Café how you saved that kid's life."
We stand there for a moment, watching the crews finish mopping up.
The stars are impossibly bright above the smoke, the kind of clarity you only get in deep winter.
The little girl's parents are still with the ambulance, refusing to leave their daughter's side even though the paramedics keep saying she's fine.
"He died doing this," I say quietly. "Ran into a building everyone said was clear. Found a family hiding in a closet, got them out. Roof came down thirty seconds after."
"I know. I was there."
"You ever regret it? The job?"
Chief takes a long drink of his coffee, considering.
"Your dad used to say firefighting was the only job where you left everything on the field every single time.
No half measures. No phone-it-in days. You were all in or you were a liability.
" He looks at me. "He also said it was the best feeling in the world, knowing you'd spent your life mattering. "
"Even if that life was shorter because of it?"
"He knew the risks. Made his peace with them." Chief's hand lands on my shoulder, heavy and warm through the gear. "And he knew he was raising a son who'd understand why he made the choices he did."
I want to argue, to point out that understanding doesn't make it hurt less. But Chief's already lived through this conversation with Mom a hundred times. He doesn't need to hear it from me too.
"Three more games," I say instead. "Three more chances for the NHL to decide if I'm worth the risk."
"And if they don't?"
"Then I stay. Fight fires. Coach hockey. Try to matter the way Dad did."
"That's not a backup plan, son. That's a damn good life." He squeezes my shoulder once, then heads to coordinate with the incident commander.
I finish packing gear on autopilot, running through the call in my head. Looking for mistakes, near misses, things to improve. It's what Dad taught me—every call is a lesson if you're willing to learn it.
By the time we're back at the station, it's almost five. My shift doesn't end until seven, but Chief takes one look at me and jerks his head toward the door. "Go home, Lockwood. Get some sleep before practice."
"I'm fine."
"That's an order, not a suggestion."
I should go home, shower, try to grab a few hours of sleep before nine o'clock practice. But when I pull into the Twin Pine Cabins lot, I sit in my truck staring at my dark cabin on the left.
Piper's light is on.
I should go to my own cabin. We agreed to wait, to keep things simple until after the games. But Chief's words about Dad—about mattering, about making choices—keep echoing in my head. My hands won't stop shaking, and the smell of smoke clings to my hair despite the shower at the station.
I get out of the truck. My legs feel shaky, adrenaline finally wearing off. I stand there for a moment, halfway between my cabin and hers, trying to decide.
Her cabin door opens before I can make up my mind.
"Ryder?" She's wearing flannel pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. No makeup. No camera-ready smile. Just Piper, blinking sleep from her eyes and looking concerned. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"Fire call. Everyone's fine." The words come out rougher than intended. "I don't know why I'm here."
"Come in." She steps back without hesitation. "You're freezing."
Only when she says it do I realize I'm shivering. The adrenaline finally wore off, leaving me wrung out and cold despite the layers.
Her cabin is warm, smelling like whatever fancy candle she's burning and the faint scent of coffee. She guides me to the couch, disappears into the kitchen, returns with a mug of hot chocolate that she presses into my hands.
"Drink," she orders.
I do. It's too hot and too sweet, and exactly what I need.
She sits beside me, close enough that her knee brushes mine, not saying anything. Just present. The shaking finally stops, and she must notice because she speaks.
"Bad call?"
"Good call, actually. Got the victim out, everyone went home safe." I stare into the hot chocolate like it holds answers. "Chief said Dad would've been proud."
Her hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together. The touch is gentle, grounding. She doesn't say anything, just waits.
"It was a little girl. Five years old, hiding near her closet." Once I start talking, I can't seem to stop. "Dad died saving a family too. Structure fire when I was fourteen. He got them out. Roof collapsed before he could follow."
"You told me." Her thumb traces circles on the back of my hand.
"Chief was there when it happened. He's the one who pulled Dad's body out after.
" I still can't look at her, can't see the pity I know will be in her eyes.
"Mom fell apart. Started drinking, stopped functioning.
I went to live with my aunt in Fairbanks, came back when Mom got sober.
By then, I'd already decided I'd become a firefighter too. "
"Did she try to talk you out of it?"
"Every day for a year." The laugh that escapes is bitter. "Said she already lost one Lockwood to this job, couldn't lose another. But Chief offered me a position after high school, and Mom eventually accepted it. Now she just worries quietly instead of loudly."
Piper shifts closer. "The hockey helps, doesn't it? Having something else."
"Dad coached youth hockey as a volunteer.
Got me on the ice at four, told me it would teach me teamwork and discipline.
" I finish the hot chocolate, set the mug aside.
"After he died, it was the only thing that made sense.
The ice doesn't care about your baggage.
Just shows you who you are when everything else is stripped away. "
"Is that why you want the NHL so badly? To prove something to him?"
The question cuts deeper than it should. She's not trying to hurt me, just trying to understand. And maybe I need someone to understand.
"Maybe. Or maybe I just want to matter the way he did.
" I turn to look at her finally. "Chief said firefighting and Dad's legacy are a damn good life if hockey doesn't work out.
But I keep thinking about that roof collapse.
How Dad had thirty seconds and chose to save strangers instead of himself.
How Mom spent the next decade trying to forgive him for loving his job more than he feared dying. "
"That's not fair to him," Piper says softly. "Or to you."
"What do you mean?"
"Your dad didn't love his job more than he feared dying. He loved saving people more than he loved playing it safe." She shifts closer, and I can smell her shampoo—something floral and expensive. "And you're not trying to die like he did. You're trying to live like he did. There's a difference."