"Ryder. Don't you dare. You're supposed to be focusing on hockey?—"
The snowball hits my shoulder with perfect accuracy.
"Oh, it's ON." I'm already making ammunition, days of pent-up frustration finding a perfect outlet. "You do realize I have rage to work through, right? Days of it."
"Bring it." He's grinning now, actually grinning, and it transforms his whole face into something younger and lighter.
What follows is less a snowball fight and more a study in competitive escalation. I'm scrambling behind my rental car for cover, he's using his woodpile as a fortress, and we're both throwing with increasingly terrible accuracy because we're laughing too hard to aim properly.
"Your form is terrible!" he calls out.
"Your dance moves are worse!" I pop up, throw, duck back down as his return fire sails over my head. "The sprinkler, Ryder? Really?"
"That was strategy!"
"That was a crime against coordination!"
I risk a peek around the car. He's reloading, and in that split second of distraction, I make my move—charging his position with three snowballs clutched against my chest like grenades.
"Offensive strategy!" I'm yelling. "Superior numbers! Overwhelming force!"
He catches the first snowball I throw, dodges the second, and then I'm close enough that the third one just kind of mushes against his jacket at point-blank range.
We're standing toe-to-toe, both breathing hard, faces flushed from cold and laughter. Snow is melting in my hair, down my collar, and I'm pretty sure I have ice in places ice should never be. But I'm grinning like an idiot because this—this is the most fun I've had since arriving in Alaska.
"Truce?" he asks, voice low and rough.
"Conditional truce," I counter. "I retain the right to resume hostilities if Morris comes back."
"Fair terms."
We're still standing too close. I can see the snowflakes caught in his dark hair, melting against the warmth of his skin. His grey eyes have gone soft, almost silver in the fading afternoon light, and he's looking at me like I'm something precious instead of a mess of melting snow and windburned cheeks.
"Piper," he says quietly, and it's not a question or a statement. It's just my name, but the way he says it makes my breath catch.
"Yeah?"
"I'm really bad at this."
"At snowball fights? Because I definitely won."
"At wanting things I can't afford to want yet." His hand comes up, brushing snow from my hair with a gentleness that contradicts the size of his palm. "You're right. I need these games. Need to prove I can handle the pressure. But standing here with you, I forget why that matters."
My heart hammers. "Ryder?—"
"I know. Four games. Four games." His thumb traces my cheekbone, and I'm leaning into the touch without meaning to. "But after? When the scouts are gone and I know where I stand?"
"We figure this out," I whisper. "Whatever this is."
"Yeah." He's leaning closer, or maybe I am, and suddenly the space between us feels like a promise instead of a problem. His breath mingles with mine, creating small clouds in the cold air. "Four more games."
"Four more." My eyes are drifting closed, lips parting slightly because this is happening, we're actually?—
A loud snort interrupts us.
We jump apart like guilty teenagers as Morris emerges from the tree line, chewing contemplatively on what appears to be a pine branch. He regards us with the judgmental air of a chaperone who's seen quite enough of our nonsense, thank you very much.
"Are you kidding me right now?" I demand. "Morris!"
