"I said no." The words come out harder than I mean them to, but the thought of using Piper for career advancement makes my stomach drop. "She's not a marketing opportunity. She's a person."
"A person with 487,000 followers who could make you a household name." Preston's voice shifts—the sound of someoneabout to give up this round. "Fine. But think about it, okay? The scouts want to see the whole package. Right now, you're all hockey and heroics. Show them you can be personable, relatable. It doesn't have to be fake—just strategic."
He hangs up before I can tell him where he can strategically shove his idea.
I stare at my phone, at the black screen reflecting my scowl, and try not to think about Piper. About how she deleted all her footage from the game because some things aren't meant to be performed. About how she promised to wait four games while I figure out if I have a future in hockey.
Four games to prove I'm NHL material.
And Preston wants me to turn my personal life into a publicity stunt.
"Fuck that," I tell my empty kitchen.
The Ashwood Café is packed when I push through the door an hour later, desperate for coffee that doesn't taste like disappointment. Dotty's behind the counter, her rainbow scarf today featuring what appears to be dancing llamas, and she lights up the moment she spots me.
"There's our captain!" She's already pulling shots before I reach the counter. "That goal last night—pure poetry. Your daddy would've been so proud."
The words land right where Dad's memory still lives. "Thanks, Dotty."
"Regular mocha? Or are we celebrating with something fancy?"
"Regular's fine."
She's already pulling espresso shots, studying me with thirty years of coffee-shop wisdom. "You don't look like someone whowon a game last night. You look like someone who's carrying the weight of the entire sport on those shoulders."
"Just thinking about the next four games."
"Mm-hmm." She slides my usual mug across the counter—the one with a grumpy-looking bear that she claims reminds her of me—and leans in conspiratorially. "You know what might help? Talking to that pretty neighbor of yours. She sat with Diane at the game last night, didn't pull out her camera once during the third period. Just watched. Diane says the girl's got it bad."
Of course Dotty knows. Small towns have better intelligence networks than the CIA.
"We're just neighbors."
"Sure. And I'm just a coffee shop owner who doesn't notice when two people look at each other like you two did after the game." She winks. "Four games is a long time to wait, honey. Maybe spend some of it getting to know her without all the pressure."
Before I can respond, the door opens with its cheerful jingle, and Gage Bennett walks in looking like a man who knows exactly where he stands in life—married to the woman of his dreams, running his own business, content in ways I'm still figuring out.
"Lockwood." He nods, then turns to Dotty. "Two of your magic mochas to go. Grayson kept us up half the night, so Tessa's running on fumes and I'm the errand boy."
"Being married looks good on you," Dotty says, already working on his order.
“Sleep deprivation looks less good,” Gage says, but he’s smiling the way he only does when his family comes up.
He settles against the counter next to me. We don't need to fill every moment with words—six years of knowing someone does that.
"Heard the scouts were impressed," he says finally.
"Heard I choked in the first period."
"Heard you recovered and won the game." He accepts his drinks from Dotty with a grateful nod. "Also heard you've got a new neighbor who screamed at Morris and nearly froze to death in three separate incidents."
"Does everyone in this town just sit around discussing my life?"
"Pretty much." He grins, but his smile fades. "Look, I'm not going to pretend I know anything about hockey scouts or NHL dreams. But I do know about being so focused on one thing that you forget to actually live your life." He gestures vaguely at himself. "I almost let Tessa leave because I was too stubborn to admit I wanted something more than just work and solitude." He runs his fingers through his beard. "Now I've got Tessa, Grayson, a business that works. I didn't lose anything by choosing her. I gained everything I didn't know I needed."
"This is different?—"
"Is it?" He raises an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm standing, you've got an opportunity to connect with someone who might actually understand what you're going through. She's dealing with her own public pressure, rebuilding after humiliation. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"
