Chapter 15
Piper
Tessa holds up two different mascaras like she's presenting evidence at a trial.
"The left one makes your lashes look like you could cause wind damage," she says. "The right one is more natural but still 'I woke up like this' vibes."
"Neither," Patrice calls from my closet where she's been reorganizing my entire wardrobe for the past twenty minutes. "She needs the waterproof. Trust me on this."
I'm sitting on my bed wrapped in a towel, hair dripping onto my shoulders, trying very hard not to think about the fact that in two hours I have to see Ryder for the first time since the other night when we had sex.
Days of radio silence. Days of watching his truck come and go while I hid behind my curtains like a creep.
Days of overthinking every single moment of that night until I've convinced myself I did something wrong, said something weird, made some face during the actual sex that turned him off forever.
"Why waterproof?" I ask, even though I'm afraid of the answer.
"Because hockey games get emotional," Patrice says, emerging with an armful of sweaters. "And you look like you're about to cry just thinking about going."
"I'm not going to cry."
Tessa and Patrice exchange a look that says they don't believe me for a second.
"Okay, what's going on?" Tessa sits beside me on the bed, mascara forgotten. "You've been weird since we got here. You keep checking your phone. You look like you're going to throw up."
"I'm fine."
"You're wearing a towel and it's been forty minutes since your shower," Patrice points out. "That's not fine."
Baby Brooklyn chooses this moment to let out a shriek from the travel crib in the corner, and Patrice goes to scoop her up.
The baby immediately grabs a fistful of her mom's hair and yanks, which Patrice takes with the patience of someone who's been through this approximately eight thousand times today.
"Did something happen with Ryder?" Tessa asks quietly.
Everything. Everything happened with Ryder.
"No," I lie.
"Piper."
"We're just dating. It's casual. Nothing's happened."
Tessa's expression says she's not buying what I'm selling. "Gage says Ryder's been weird at practice all week. Distracted. Took a puck to the face during drills."
My stomach drops. "Is he okay?"
"He's fine. But he's never distracted. Ryder's the guy who shows up early, stays late, runs extra drills. This week he's been—off."
Because of me. Because we slept together and then he left and I woke up alone and now everything's weird and complicated and I don't know how to fix it.
"Maybe he's stressed about the scouts," I say, which is probably true but also definitely not the whole truth.
Patrice bounces Brooklyn on her hip and gives me a look that's way too knowing for someone holding a drooling infant. "Or maybe you two finally slept together and now you're both freaking out about it."
"We didn't—we're not—" I can feel my face heating up, which is basically a full confession. "It's complicated."
"Complicated how?" Tessa asks.
"Complicated like he's got NHL scouts watching him and I'm still rebuilding after my ex humiliated me on the internet. Complicated like neither of us can afford to screw this up, but I don't even know what this is anymore."
Brooklyn makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like agreement, and Patrice laughs. "She says you're overthinking it."
"I'm definitely overthinking it," I admit. "But also I woke up alone after we—after—and he hasn't texted or called or come over, and now I have to go to his game and pretend everything's normal when nothing feels normal anymore."
Tessa squeezes my hand. "For what it's worth, Gage says Ryder's looked miserable all week. Distracted. Not himself."
"Really?"
"Really. Maybe you're both sitting around wondering what the other one's thinking instead of just talking to each other like adults."
"We agreed to wait until after his games to figure things out," I say. "Three more games. That was the deal."
Tessa grins. "So you're almost done with the waiting part. Tonight, you show up, you wear his jersey, you cheer him on. Then after the game, you corner that man and have an actual conversation."
"What if he doesn't want to talk?"
"Then you make him," Patrice says. "You're Piper Meadows. You survived a viral breakup. You moved to Ashwood Falls in designer boots. You befriended a territorial moose. You can handle one emotionally constipated hockey player."
Brooklyn gurgles her agreement, and despite everything, I laugh.
I take a deep breath. "Okay. I can do this."
"Good." Tessa stands and pulls me up with her. "Now get dressed. Gage just sent me a photo of Grayson wearing a tiny Wolves jersey. He's three months old and already being recruited. We need to leave in an hour before that happens, and you still look like a drowned rat."
"Gee, thanks."
"A very cute drowned rat," she amends. "Now waterproof mascara or no?"
The Ashwood Falls Community Rink is packed.
I knew hockey was big here—small town, limited entertainment options, semi-pro team with an actual shot at championships—but this is another level entirely. Every seat is filled. Kids wave homemade signs. Someone's organized a whole cheering section with coordinated chants.
And everyone, absolutely everyone, notices when I walk in wearing Ryder's jersey.
"There she is!" someone yells, and a round of applause breaks out.
"Looking good, Piper!"
"Go Wolves!"
I wave awkwardly and follow Tessa and Patrice to the front row seats that apparently come with being friends with the captain's fake girlfriend.
Gage and Trace are already there. Trace has Brooklyn's carrier tucked between his boots, and Gage has Grayson strapped to his chest in one of those wraps that makes him look like a flannel-wearing kangaroo.
"Hey, Piper," Gage says, grinning. "Nice jersey."
The jersey hangs to my mid-thigh, number 17 across my back, Lockwood stitched above it. It smells like him—pine and smoke and something clean that makes my lungs forget how to work every time I breathe.
"Thanks," I manage.
"Ryder know you're here?" Trace asks, which is a completely innocent question that makes me want to sink through the floor.
"I said I'd come," I say quickly. "Support him. It's what you do when you're dating someone, right?"
Trace and Gage exchange that look again—the one that says they know exactly what happened and are just waiting for me to confirm it.
The team skates out for warmups, and my heart literally stops.
Ryder's at the front of the line, helmet tucked under his arm, dark hair still damp from whatever pre-game ritual hockey players do. He's scanning the crowd, and when his eyes find me in the front row wearing his jersey, he freezes.
We just stare at each other, and the entire rink could disappear and I wouldn't notice.
Then someone crashes into him from behind—Jax, probably—and the moment breaks.
Ryder shakes his head and skates to the bench, but not before I catch the look on his face.
The way his shoulders tense, the way he doesn't quite meet my eyes for more than a heartbeat—he's nervous. Just as nervous as I am.
"Well, that wasn't awkward at all," Tessa mutters beside me.
The warmups are torture. Every time Ryder skates past our section, I swear I can feel him looking at me. Not just looking—studying. Like he's trying to figure out what I'm thinking from across the rink through plexiglass and about seventeen layers of protective equipment.
I try to focus on the game prep, but all I can think about is the way his hands felt on my skin. The way he kissed me like I was the only thing that mattered. The way he left.
Then the arena lights shift, and "Footloose" blasts through the speakers.
The entire team forms a line at center ice and launches into their pre-game dance ritual. Full choreography. While balancing on blades. With hockey sticks as props.
I've seen this before—Ryder doing the sprinkler with complete commitment, Jax attempting some kind of spin move that nearly takes out two teammates, the whole team dropping to one knee at the end while the crowd loses their minds.
But watching it again, knowing everything that's happened between us, watching this serious, intense man do perfectly timed hip thrusts with a hockey stick overhead—I laugh so hard I snort.
Tessa elbows me. "See? He's fine."
"He's doing the running man on ice while looking like he wants to murder someone," I say between gasps. "That's not fine. That's—"
Ryder catches my eye mid-sprinkler move. For just a second, his intensity cracks and something else flashes across his face. Then he's back to the routine, committing fully to something ridiculous because it's tradition, because his team needs it, because that's who he is.
The routine ends with the team dropping to one knee, arms spread wide. The crowd goes absolutely wild.
And my chest aches because I'm so gone for this man it's not even funny.
The team breaks from their pose and skates back to the bench, all business now.
The playfulness vanishes as they huddle up, helmets together, Ryder's voice carrying across the ice even though I can't make out the words.
When they break apart, his face has shifted completely—locked in, focused, ready.
The opposing team takes the ice. The referee positions the puck at center ice.
The buzzer sounds, and the game starts.
Within the first thirty seconds, I realize something's different.
Ryder's playing angry.
Not sloppy-angry or reckless-angry. Controlled-angry.
Like every hit is personal, every play is about proving something.
He checks a guy into the boards so hard the whole crowd winces.
Steals the puck and rockets down the ice like he's being chased by demons.
Takes a shot that misses the goal by inches but hits the glass behind it with a sound like thunder.
"Jesus," Gage says. "What did you do to him?"