The team huddles up, all business now, and when they break, Ryder's face has shifted back to that intense focus. Game mode. But I know what's underneath now—someone who isn't afraid to look silly for his team, who commits fully even to the absurd.
"That's my boy!" Diane yells, hands cupped around her mouth. "THAT'S OUR CAPTAIN!"
The opposing team—some guys from Fairbanks wearing green jerseys—takes the ice, and the energy shifts. This isn't just recreation. This matters.
The puck drops, and chaos erupts.
I've never watched hockey before—never understood the appeal of grown men chasing a tiny disk across frozen water while wielding sticks. But watching Ryder play? I get it now. He's everywhere at once, stealing the puck, setting up plays, his teammates moving around him like he's conducting a symphony of speed and violence.
"He's really good," I breathe.
"Best we've had in twenty years," Diane says proudly. "Could've gone pro right out of high school, but then his daddy died and Ryder stayed to help his mama. Now he's got scouts watching these five games—his last shot at the NHL before he ages out."
Five games. Five chances. The pressure Jax mentioned suddenly makes devastating sense.
Ryder gets the puck and speeds toward the goal, defenders swarming. He dodges one, then another, and shoots?—
The puck hits the crossbar with a sharp ping and bounces away.
The crowd groans. Ryder's shoulders tighten even from here, frustration evident in every line of his body.
"That's not like him," Sue mutters. "He's off tonight."
"Pressure," Carol agrees. "First game with scouts in the building. Boy's playing scared instead of smart."
The period continues with relentless intensity. Ryder sets up two goals for teammates but can't seem to score himself. Every miss makes his movements sharper, more aggressive, until Coach calls a timeout and has words with him at the bench.
During the break, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through the footage I've captured. The arena's energy, the crowd's passion, the way this whole town seems to hold its breath every time number 17 touches the puck.
But when I review the close-ups, the tension is there in Ryder's jaw. The weight carried in shoulders that already hold too much..
The second period is worse. Ryder takes a brutal check into the boards that makes everyone in our section wince. He gets up slowly, shakes it off, but something's changed. He's not playing smart anymore—he's playing angry.
"Someone needs to pull him," Diane says, worry creeping into her voice.
But Coach leaves him in, and Ryder keeps pushing. Another missed shot. Another turnover. When the buzzer sounds for the second intermission, the score is tied 2-2, and Ryder skates to the bench looking like he's ready to fight the ice itself.
"I need some air," I tell Diane, grabbing my jacket.
Outside, the cold hits like a slap of reality. I lean against the building, trying to process what I'm watching. This isn't content. This is someone's entire future riding on five games, and I'm sitting in the stands with my camera like his struggle is entertainment.
"He gets in his head sometimes."
I turn to find Bob Thompson, hands wrapped around a steaming cup that smells like Dotty's hot chocolate. He offers me a sad smile.
"Scouts make him crazy," Bob continues. "He thinks if he's not perfect, he'll blow his shot. Doesn't understand that perfection doesn't exist—just shows up and does the work."
"How do I—" I stop, because what right do I have to ask? I'm just the neighbor. The temporary neighbor who'll be gone in a few weeks.
But Bob reads my expression anyway. "You want to help? Stop looking at him like a story and start seeing him like a person. That boy's been performing his whole life. Might be nice to have someone who just... sees him."
He heads back inside, leaving me alone with his words and the sound of muffled cheering from inside the arena.
I pull out my phone and delete every piece of hockey footage I captured tonight. All of it. The crowd reactions, the action shots, even the perfect frame of Ryder mid-slapshot that would've gotten a million likes.
I start drafting a caption about today's adventure, then stop. Post the photo of the frozen lake without me in it. Just ice, sky, and the kind of quiet you can't fake. No mention of Ryder, no mention of why I'm really here.
The engagement is half what my usual posts get.
