Despite everything, I smile. Even angry, she's the most authentic person I've met in years.
I type out and delete three different responses before settling on the truth:
Me: You're right. I'm an idiot. Preston put the idea in my head and I pitched it wrong. Can we talk?
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally:
Piper: Four games, Lockwood. You said you needed four games to focus. So focus on hockey. I'll be here, being authentic all by myself.
She's right. I asked her to wait while I proved myself to scouts. I can't have it both ways—can't ask for her patience and then try to turn whatever's developing between us into a publicity stunt.
I pay for my thermal gear and head back into the cold, her texts still burning in my pocket like accusations I deserve. The purple parka she picked catches my eye through Northbound's window as I pass—she must've bought it before leaving. It's practical and warm, rated for the kind of cold that can kill you if you're not prepared.
Just like her. All practical preparation wrapped around someone who's still figuring out how to survive here.
Four games left. Four chances to prove I belong in the NHL.
But standing in this parking lot, watching her disappear around the corner of Main Street with that purple parka over her arm, hockey suddenly feels like the easy part.
Chapter 7
Piper
Ice fishing, I discover, is less "peaceful meditation with nature" and more "sitting on a frozen lake in minus fifteen while questioning every life choice that led me here."
At least the purple parka Ryder recommended is doing its job. Minus forty rating suddenly doesn't seem like overkill when you're planted on a bucket atop frozen water.
"You're doing great!" Patrice calls from her spot twenty feet away, where she's bundled in what appears to be an entire REI catalog. Even out here on a frozen lake, she somehow makes new motherhood look effortless. "Most newbies give up after ten minutes."
"I've been here eight minutes," I mutter, adjusting my position on the overturned bucket that's apparently considered seating. "Don't get your hopes up."
Tessa laughs from her spot between us, dark hair escaping from under her beanie as she checks her line. "The key is lowering your expectations. We're not actually here to catch fish."
"We're not?"
"God, no." Patrice waves a mittened hand dismissively. "We're here because it's Sunday, the men are watching gametape at the rink, and Dotty suggested we 'take you ice fishing' which is small-town code for 'let's gossip somewhere our husbands can't hear us. Brooklyn and Grayson are both with Joanne for the afternoon." Patrice adjusts her mittens.
"She moved up from Florida after Grayson was born and now she's basically running a one-woman daycare. My mother lives for it," Tessa says. "Two grandbabies to spoil — one biological, one honorary. She keeps saying Ashwood Falls is the best decision she ever made."
I peer down the hole I drilled—well, that Tessa drilled while I held the auger awkwardly and tried not to look useless. Dark water ripples below, and I'm suddenly very aware that I'm sitting on top of a frozen lake. "Is this safe?"
"The ice is two feet thick," Tessa assures me. "You're more likely to die of boredom than drowning."
"Comforting."
"So." Patrice leans forward with the gleam of someone settling in for quality intel. "Want to tell us why you've been rage-posting aesthetic photos of snow for two days straight?"
I stare down at my fishing hole with sudden intense focus. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sweetie." Tessa's expression is pure sisterly concern mixed with amusement. "You posted seventeen photos of trees yesterday. Just trees. With captions like 'finding peace in solitude' and 'nature never disappoints unlike SOME PEOPLE.'"
"The trees were very photogenic."
"The last one was just a blurry branch," Patrice points out. "With the caption 'still has more depth than certain hockey players.'"
My face heats despite the cold. "Okay, so maybe I'm working through some things."
"Does it have anything to do with Ryder Lockwood and his spectacularly terrible fake dating pitch?" Tessa asks, becauseapparently everyone in this town knows everything before it even happens.
