"Oh, I could tell. That level of commitment to the hip thrusts? Oscar-worthy." I grin up at him. "You know, if this whole NHL thing doesn't work out, I hear the Icecapades are hiring."
He raises an eyebrow. "The Icecapades."
"You've clearly got the moves. Just need some sequins. Maybe a cape."
"A cape," he repeats, deadpan.
"All the best ice dancers have capes. It's a fact."
He shakes his head, but he's fighting a smile now—a real one that softens his whole face. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"
"Not even a little bit." I tap his chest with one finger. "That wink during the sprinkler? That's going to haunt you, Lockwood."
"Worth it," he says quietly, and the way he's looking at me makes my breath catch all over again.
His fingers brush against mine as he turns—just a whisper of contact that sends electricity straight up my arm. The touch is sobrief it might be accidental, except for the way he hesitates for half a second before pulling away completely.
My hand tingles where his fingers grazed mine, and I curl my fingers into my palm like I can hold onto the sensation.
He leaves first, and I stand in the empty arena parking lot, heart racing and mind spinning.
Four games.
The thought follows me all the way to The Ashwood Café - to Diane's bedazzled embrace, to Jax recounting the winning goal with increasingly theatrical hand gestures, to the warm lights and easy laughter of a team that dances in skates before destroying their opponents.
Four games until I find out if I'm brave enough to stay.
Chapter 6
Ryder
The coffee tastes like regret this morning.
I stare at the game footage on my laptop, watching myself miss that first shot for the fourteenth time. The puck hits the crossbar with that distinctive ping that still echoes in my head. Sure, I scored later—won the damn game—but that first period was a disaster. The scouts saw me choke, saw me get in my own head, saw me play scared instead of smart.
Three more games to prove I'm not a liability who crumbles under pressure.
My phone buzzes across the kitchen table. Preston Wiloughby, my agent. Calling at seven in the morning on a Saturday, which means either really good news or a lecture I don't want to hear.
"Tell me you've got a contract offer," I say instead of hello.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine." Preston's voice carries that particular brand of forced enthusiasm that agents use when they're about to deliver bad news wrapped in opportunity. "Great game last night. That third-period goal was exactly what we needed."
"But?"
"But the scouts want to see consistency. Leadership. Someone who can handle pressure both on and off the ice." He pauses, and I can practically hear him building up to whatever pitch he's about to make. "They want a compelling narrative, Ryder. Right now, you're 'small-town captain with potential.' We need you to be 'complete package with marketability.'"
I dump the rest of my coffee down the sink. "What does that even mean?"
"It means they want to see you as more than just a hockey player. They want community engagement, social media presence, the kind of storyline that makes you marketable to sponsors." His voice shifts into what I've started calling his Used Car Salesman mode. "Speaking of which—I heard you've got a new neighbor. An influencer? With almost half a million followers?"
My grip tightens on the phone. "How do you know about Piper?"
"Small town, big gossip network, and I follow local news. Also, her Morris the Moose video is trending. Very entertaining." He's enjoying this way too much. "Here's an idea—what if you two were seen together? The grumpy hockey captain and the city girl influencer? People eat that stuff up. It's practically a Hallmark movie."
"Absolutely not."
"Hear me out. You need visibility and likability. She needs content. It's a win-win. A few public outings, some social media posts?—"
