I want to argue, but he's not wrong. Piper knows what it's like to have people watching, judging, waiting for you to either succeed or fail in spectacular fashion.
"Preston wants me to use her," I admit. "For marketing. Fake dating for social media visibility."
Gage's expression darkens. "That's a terrible idea."
"I know."
"Unless..." He pauses, coffee cups in hand, clearly working through something. "Unless it's not fake. Unless you're actually interested and the public part is just a bonus."
"Four games, Gage. I've got four games to prove myself. I don't have time for complicated."
"Life's always complicated." He heads for the door, then calls back, "But sometimes the complicated parts are the ones worth fighting for. Just ask me and Tessa."
He leaves me with that, and Dotty slides a blueberry muffin across the counter—on the house, apparently—while giving me a look that says the whole café heard every word.
Small town living.
I'm supposed to be picking up new thermal gear from Northbound Outfitters, the outdoor supply store that Ashwood Falls relies on for everything from camping equipment to actual survival gear. What I'm not supposed to be doing is actively looking for excuses to run into Piper.
Yet here I am, taking the long route past the women's section where she's currently debating between two parkas like her life depends on the choice.
"The purple one's warmer," I say before I can stop myself.
She spins around. Surprise, then something warmer, then careful. "How do you know?"
"The orange one's fashion over function. Thin insulation, decorative rather than practical." I step closer, checking the tags. "This one"—I tap the purple parka—"is actually rated for minus forty. The other maxes out at minus ten."
"Minus forty." She holds the purple one up, examining it with new respect. "Why would anyone need minus forty?"
"Because it gets that cold here. Sometimes colder."
"That's not a temperature. That's a threat." But she's smiling, and the sight of it does something to my chest that has nothing to do with the cold.
We stand there for a moment, surrounded by racks of outdoor gear. She's close enough that I can see how her hair's pulled back in a messy bun, showing the curve of her neck. The fingerless gloves she's wearing make no practical sense but somehow look perfect on her.
"Can I ask you something?" She's studying the parka tag like it holds the secrets of the universe. "What happens if the NHL doesn't work out? Do you stay here, or..."
The question catches me off guard. Most people assume the NHL is a sure thing, or they don't ask at all. "I stay. Keep fighting fires, probably coach youth hockey. Chief's been hinting about a lieutenant position if I'm sticking around long-term."
"Would that be enough? After chasing the dream for so long?"
She's gripping the purple parka against her chest now, and I should deflect. Should give her the PR answer about being grateful for any opportunity. But there's something genuine in the way she's waiting for my answer that makes me honest.
"I don't know. Ask me after the next four games."
She nods, sets the purple parka over her arm. "That's fair. I don't know what I'm doing after this either. My brand manager keeps calling about returning to Anchorage, doing the whole influencer circuit again. Partner events, sponsored posts, the fake smile thing."
"You don't want that?"
"I don't know what I want anymore." She laughs, but it sounds tired. "Before the viral breakup disaster, I thought I had it all figured out. Now I'm in Ashwood Falls taking notes on fire-starting and buying parkas rated for apocalypse-level cold. My therapist would have a field day."
"You're in therapy?"
"Three years running. Best decision I ever made, even if my mom thinks it's 'airing dirty laundry to strangers.'" She meets my eyes. "You?"
"After Dad died, yeah. Chief made it mandatory. Said grief plus teenage rage plus fire equipment was a bad combination."
"Smart man."
