Chapter 13
Piper
The bed beside me is cold. Has been for hours, since I watched him pull on his jeans in the pre-dawn darkness, since we agreed to 'figure things out' after three more games, since he walked out my door. I blink at the ceiling, brain foggy with too little sleep and too many questions.
I sit up fast enough that the room spins. The covers pool around my waist, and I'm naked, and oh God, we had sex. The kind where I forgot my own name. The kind where his mouth on my neck made me loud enough that I'm grateful we don't have neighbors..
And he's gone.
My phone reads 6:47 AM. Grey morning light seeps through the curtains. I grab the nearest shirt from the floor—one of his flannels—and yank it over my head. The fabric smells like smoke and cedar and his skin.
I fell asleep eventually. Exhausted. Confused. Now I'm awake and he's still gone and I still have no idea what happens next.
I pad to the window and peek through the curtains. His truck sits in his driveway, right where it always is. He's home. Twenty feet away. Not here.
My chest gets tight.
"Okay, no," I say to my empty cabin. "We're not doing this. We're professional adults who had consensual sex and can handle it like mature people."
I walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looks thoroughly ravaged—hair everywhere, lips swollen, a faint red mark on my neck where Ryder's mouth did something that should probably be illegal. I press my fingers to it and the memory hits hard.
His hands on my hips. His mouth on my skin. The way he said my name like it was the only word that mattered.
I grip the sink. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe I wasn't good enough. Maybe I was too much, too loud, too needy—
"Stop it. Just stop."
But my brain won't shut up. What if I ruined everything? What if the scouts see something different in him now? What if he blames me if this falls apart?
I need coffee. And pants. And possibly a time machine.
I pull on leggings and a hoodie, then head to the kitchen.
The coffee maker gurgles to life while I lean against the counter and try to remember how to be a functioning human.
My laptop sits on the kitchen table, closed and waiting.
I have content to create. Brand partnerships to nurture.
An entire online presence that doesn't care if I just slept with someone I wasn't supposed to sleep with.
My phone lights up on the counter. Seventeen notifications. Instagram, TikTok, email—all of them demanding attention.
The photo from yesterday—the one of Ryder and me at The Ashwood Café, the one where he held my hand and looked at me like I hung the moon—has exploded.
147,000 likes on Instagram. Someone reposted it to TikTok and that version has 128,000 views.
The comments are flooded with heart emojis and demands to know where they can find a man who looks at them like that.
If they only knew he was contractually obligated to look at me like that.
Another notification pops up. An email from a skincare brand. Then another from an outdoor gear company. Both want to discuss partnership opportunities. Both mention my "authentic relationship content."
I set the phone down before I throw it.
The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour myself a cup that's probably strong enough to strip paint. I should be thrilled. This is working. The fake relationship is generating exactly the kind of engagement I need to rebuild my brand. Companies are noticing. My analytics are through the roof.
And I complicated everything by sleeping with him.
I carry my coffee to the table and open my laptop. The screen glows to life, showing my content calendar. Three videos due this week. Two blog posts. A partnership announcement that needs to go out tomorrow. I stare at the blinking cursor.
Nothing happens.
How am I supposed to create content about my "relationship" when I don't even know what my relationship is anymore?
I scroll through my analytics instead. The numbers are ridiculous. Yesterday's photo gained another 50,000 likes overnight. My follower count jumped by 12,000. The engagement rate is higher than it's been since before Chad and that hotel room in Cancún.
Three months ago, I would have killed for these numbers. Now they just mean I have to keep pretending. Keep performing. Keep acting like the woman who's falling for Ryder Lockwood when the real Ryder Lockwood can't get away from me fast enough.
My phone buzzes. I grab it, hoping stupidly that it's Ryder, that he's texting to say something that makes this less confusing.
It's Patrice.
Patrice: How are you, honey?
I blink at the screen. How does she know? Did someone see Ryder leave my cabin this morning? Does the entire town of Ashwood Falls somehow know we had sex?
Me: I'm fine. Why?
The three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again.
Patrice: Just checking in. You two seemed very cozy at the café yesterday.
Oh. Right. The café. The photo that broke the internet. Not the sex that nobody knows about except me and the man currently avoiding me from twenty feet away.
Me: We're good. Just working today.
Patrice: Good! Make sure he's eating enough. Hockey players never eat enough during season. And don't let him lift anything heavy before tomorrow's game.
I stare at her text. She wants me to make sure Ryder's eating and not lifting heavy things. Like I'm his girlfriend. Like I have any say in what he does with his body. Like said body wasn't tangled with mine six hours ago doing things that definitely qualified as strenuous activity.
Me: Will do.
I type back, because what else am I supposed to say?
My phone buzzes again before I can set it down.
Patrice: You're good for him, you know. Haven't seen him this happy.
My stomach twists. I close the messages and toss the phone onto the couch.
This is fine. Everything is fine. Patrice thinks Ryder's happy. The town thinks we're in love. The internet thinks we're relationship goals. Everyone thinks this is real except the two people in it.
I pull up my content folder. I have footage to edit. A partnership announcement to draft. Three different brand emails sitting in my inbox waiting for responses. This is my job. This is what I do.
I open the first email. A hiking gear company wants me to review their new line of winter jackets. They're offering a flat fee plus commission on sales. The numbers make my eyes water in a good way. The kind of deal I haven't seen since Cancún.
The second email is from a coffee subscription service. They want to send me three months of free product in exchange for content. They specifically mention my "authentic lifestyle content" and "genuine relationship dynamic."
The third email is from my former agency. The one that dropped me after Chad's livestream disaster. They want to know if I'm interested in representation again.
I close my laptop.
Everyone wants me again because I'm fake dating a hockey player. Not because my content improved. Not because I learned something or grew as a creator. Because I look good standing next to Ryder Lockwood.
I grab my phone and pull up Instagram. Maybe I can at least respond to some comments. Engage with my audience. Do something productive that doesn't involve thinking about Ryder's hands or his mouth or the way he whispered my name in the dark.
The comments on yesterday's photo are overwhelming. Hundreds of them. Thousands.
OMG you two are SO CUTE
Where did you find him and are there more???
The way he looks at you I'm CRYING
This is what true love looks like
I scroll until my eyes blur. Someone tagged me in a TikTok—a compilation video of Ryder and me set to some romantic song I don't recognize. It has 300,000 views.
My own video analyzing sustainable tourism practices last month got 3,000 views.
I close the app and set the phone face-down on the cushion beside me.
Then I get up and pace because sitting still feels impossible.
My feet take me from the kitchen to the living room and back again.
Past the couch where Ryder kissed me. Past the hallway leading to my bedroom where we definitely didn't keep things professional.
Past the window where his truck sits in his driveway, silent and mocking.
What am I supposed to do? March over there and demand to know why he left? Text him and ask if last night was a mistake? Pretend nothing happened and keep performing for the cameras?
All of those options sound terrible.
A truck engine rumbles to life outside. I freeze, coffee cup halfway to my lips. Through the window, I watch Ryder's truck back out of his driveway. He doesn't look at my cabin. Doesn't wave. Just pulls onto the road and drives away, taillights disappearing between the trees.
Practice. He has practice. Because tomorrow is another game, another chance for NHL scouts to watch, another opportunity where he needs to look focused and mature and not like a guy who slept with his fake girlfriend and then had to leave before things got even more complicated.
I walk back to the couch and sink into the cushions.
This was supposed to be simple. Four games. Four public dates. Build my brand, help his image, everyone wins. Instead, I caught feelings like an idiot, slept with him like a bigger idiot, and now he's avoiding me because obviously he regrets it.
My phone lights up again. Another email. Another brand partnership inquiry. More proof that this fake relationship is the best thing that ever happened to my career.
And possibly the worst thing that ever happened to my heart.
I pull a blanket over my legs and stare at nothing.
Outside, a raven calls from the spruce trees.
The sun climbs higher, turning the morning mist to gold.
It's beautiful. Alaska is always beautiful.
I should film it. I should capitalize on this perfect lighting and create content that will get thousands of views.
Instead, I sit here and wonder how we went from the best night of my life to this crushing silence in less than six hours.
My phone buzzes one more time. I grab it, ready to throw it across the room.
All the notifications are about the same thing: yesterday's photo has hit 200,000 likes combined across platforms. The comments are full of people demanding couple content. Asking when we're getting married. Calling us "relationship goals."
I laugh, and it comes out bitter.
Relationship goals. Right. Because nothing says "goals" like waking up alone after the best sex of your life and realizing your fake boyfriend wants nothing to do with you.
I set the phone face-down on the coffee table. Through the window, the road where Ryder's truck disappeared stays empty. Practice probably lasts a few hours. Then he'll come back, and his truck will be twenty feet away, and we'll both pretend last night didn't happen.
Unless it did happen, and he regrets it, and I just destroyed his NHL chances by being too much too soon.
The coffee's gone cold in my cup. I should get up. Should work. Should do something productive.
Instead, I stay on the couch and watch the empty road and wonder if you can ruin something that was never real in the first place.
I try to imagine tomorrow's game. Standing in the crowd. Cheering for him. Playing the supportive girlfriend while my stomach ties itself in knots. Watching him skate and fight and be brilliant, knowing that last night meant everything to me and possibly nothing to him.
Four games. That was the deal. We're only halfway through.
I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them. My laptop sits closed on the table. My phone stays silent. Outside, the sun keeps climbing, and the world keeps turning, and I'm stuck here trying to figure out how to survive seeing him tomorrow when I can barely survive this morning.
The blanket's not warm enough. The coffee's not strong enough. The silence is too loud.
I press my forehead to my knees and close my eyes.
Tomorrow, I have to see him. Tomorrow, I have to pretend we're fine. Tomorrow, I have to stand there and smile while everything inside me screams that this was a mistake.
The road outside stays empty. My phone stays dark. The cabin stays quiet.
And I stay here, alone, wondering what happens when you break the rules of a fake relationship by making it real.