The rest of the week passes in a blur of content creation and carefully orchestrated avoidance. I see Ryder twice—once leaving for a morning run, once returning from a shift at the firehouse. Both times we exchange awkward waves from safe distances, like neighbors who barely know each other instead of two people who almost kissed three days ago.
My followers are eating up the Alaska content. The "Learning to Start a Fire" video got 1.8 million views. The "Small Town Coffee Shop Culture" post sparked a whole thread about supporting local businesses. Brands are sliding into my DMs with collaboration offers that actually feel authentic instead of desperate.
I should be thrilled. This is exactly the rebrand I needed after the viral breakup disaster. Piper Meadows, wilderness content creator. Authentic Alaska living.
But late at night, staring at Ryder's cabin through my window, watching his shadow move past the curtains, I can't shake the feeling that I'm documenting someone else's life instead of actually living my own.
Friday arrives with the kind of nervous energy usually reserved for first dates or job interviews. I change outfits four times before settling on jeans, a Wolves t-shirt I bought from Dotty (she had them in stock, obviously), and my warmest jacket. Minimal makeup. Hair in a ponytail. I look like I actually belong here instead of like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's aesthetic.
The Ashwood Falls Community Ice Arena is exactly what I expected—a low building that's seen better decades, surrounded by trucks and SUVs that have earned their road salt. Inside, the smell hits me first: popcorn, hot dogs, ice, and that specific scent of community that comes from hundreds of people gathering in the same space every week for years.
"Piper! Over here!"
Diane waves from Section C, row 4, her bedazzled jersey catching the arena lights like a disco ball. I navigate the concrete steps carefully, hyperaware of my camera bag and the fact that everyone seems to be watching me.
"You made it!" Diane pulls me into a hug that smells like aqua net and cinnamon. "This is Barb, Carol, and Sue—the team mothers. Girls, this is Piper, Ryder's neighbor."
"Just neighbor," I clarify quickly.
"For now," Barb stage-whispers, and they all laugh.
I settle into my seat just as the lights dim and music blares through speakers that have definitely seen better days. The home team skates onto the ice in formation, and the crowd erupts.
Number 17. Ryder Lockwood, captain.
He moves across the ice with a grace that seems impossible for someone his size, all controlled power and precision. Even from here, the focus in his posture is unmistakable, the way he scans the rink like he's already planning three moves ahead.
"Here it comes!" Diane grabs my arm, practically vibrating with excitement. "Watch!"
The Wolves form a line at center ice. The arena lights shift, spotlights hitting the team. Then, without warning, "Footloose" blasts through the speakers and the entire team launches into a choreographed dance routine.
In full hockey gear. On skates. With their sticks.
I'm talking full choreography. Hip thrusts while balancing on blades. Synchronized arm waves with hockey sticks held overhead. Jax doing some kind of backwards moonwalk thing that should be physically impossible on ice. And Ryder—serious, intense, grumpy-neighbor Ryder—is right in the center doing the running man in skates with more commitment than I've seen from professional backup dancers.
My jaw drops.
"They do this every home game!" Barb shouts over the music. "Started as a bet three years ago. Now it's tradition!"
The routine escalates. There's a spin move. A jump. Someone attempts a split and nearly succeeds. The crowd is losing their minds, clapping along, and I'm laughing so hard my sides hurt because Ryder Lockwood—firefighter, hockey captain, man who grunted at me for screaming at a moose—is currently doing the sprinkler in front of three hundred people without a trace of embarrassment.
He catches my eye mid-move and has the audacity to wink.
The routine ends with all of them dropping to one knee, arms spread wide, as the crowd goes absolutely feral with applause and whistling.
"That," I manage between gasps of laughter, "was the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen."
"That's our boys!" Diane beams. "Best pre-game show in the league."
Sue leans over. "Wait until you see what they do for playoffs. Last year they did 'Baby Got Back.' Complete with coordinated booty shaking."
My phone is already in my hands, the footage saved automatically. Ryder doing the sprinkler in perfect time with his teammates. That wink. The way he committed completely to something so absurd. This is gold—the kind of content that shows the human side of athletes, the joy and community and?—
I pause, finger hovering over the share button.
This feels different. Private, almost. Like I'm holding something that belongs to the team, to the town, not to my followers.
I save the video to my drafts instead of posting it. Maybe later. Maybe never. Right now, I just want to enjoy what I saw without filtering it through engagement metrics.
