I don't care.
When I return to my seat, the third period is starting. Ryder takes the ice, and this time when his eyes scan the crowd, they land on me.
I'm not holding my camera. I'm just watching. Just here.
Something in his posture shifts—loosens, maybe. He gives the tiniest nod before the puck drops, and suddenly he's not fighting the ice anymore. He's dancing on it.
The play develops fast. Jax steals the puck, passes to Ryder, who dodges two defenders with the kind of grace that makes the physics seem optional. He winds up, and this time when he shoots?—
The goal horn blares.
The arena explodes.
Diane's hugging me, Barb's screaming, and Carol's crying actual tears, and I'm on my feet cheering for someone who twelve hours ago I was trying to avoid.
Ryder's teammates mob him on the ice, but through the chaos, he looks up.
At me.
And the smile that breaks across his face—raw and real and completely unconscious—steals the air from my lungs.
This is dangerous territory.
The Wolves win 4-2.
After the game, Diane insists I wait while the team changes because "it's tradition to congratulate our boys."
I pull out my phone and open Instagram while waiting for the crowd to thin. The blank post template stares back at me. Usually, words flow like water. Tonight, I can't find any that feel true.
Finally, I type: "Sometimes the best content is the moments you choose not to record. #AshwoodFalls #MorrisTheMoose #LearningToLive"
I scroll through my camera roll and select the photo of Morris from that first day—mid-chew on my side mirror, looking completely unbothered by my existence. It feels right somehow. The beginning of this whole messy, unexpected journey.
The post gets 500 likes in the first minute, but I barely notice.
I'm preparing excuses to leave when Jax appears, still damp from a quick shower.
"You stayed!" He pulls me into a hug that smells like sports deodorant and victory. "Did you get good footage?"
"I deleted it all."
His eyebrows shoot up. "You... deleted content?"
"Some things aren't meant to be posted."
Jax studies me for a long moment, then grins. "You know what? I like you. Come on—team's heading to The Ashwood Café for post-game celebration. Dotty stays open late on game nights."
"I should probably?—"
"Piper."
Ryder emerges from the locker room, hair still wet, wearing jeans and the same flannel I've seen hanging in his cabin. His eyes find mine immediately, and something passes between us that I don't have words for.
"You came," he says quietly.
"Diane saved me a seat."
His expression softens. "Did you enjoy it?"
