"Piper—"
"The comments are losing their minds over Morris interrupting," she says, and now I can definitely hear the strain in her voice. "They think it's hilarious. Adorable. They'reshipping us. There's fanfiction, Ryder. Someone wrote fanfiction about us and a moose in under two hours."
"Shipping us?" I repeat, lost.
"They want us together. As a couple. They're actively rooting for our relationship like we're characters in a TV show." She lets out a stressed laugh. "And now people are writing stories about us. Fictional romantic stories. About you, me, and Morris."
My mouth twitches even though I know I shouldn't find this funny. "People are writing stories about us and a moose?"
"Don't laugh. This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny."
"It's a disaster." Her voice cracks slightly. "Your agent just DMed me about 'partnership opportunities.' Brands are offering me sponsorships for couple content. Entertainment outlets want interviews about our 'small-town romance.' And you—you need to focus on hockey, not deal with this circus."
The reminder hits like a slap. Four games. I asked her for four games, and now we're trending internationally before game two.
"I know," I say quietly.
"I'm sorry. I didn't—I would never intentionally?—"
"Hey." I cut her off before she can spiral. "You didn't do this. Some well-meaning townsfolk with a camera phone did."
"But now it's out there. Now everyone thinks—" She stops.
"Thinks what?"
The silence stretches long enough that I almost repeat the question. Then she says, so quietly I barely hear it, "Thinks something real is happening."
My chest tightens. Because something real is happening, but we're not supposed to acknowledge that yet. Not until after the games. Not until I know where my future lies.
"I should go," she says before I can figure out how to respond. "You probably have game prep or tape to watch or?—"
"Piper."
"Yeah?"
"We'll figure this out."
"Right. Four games. I remember." She hangs up before I can say anything else, and I'm left staring at my phone, at that damn video that won't stop spreading.
I pull up the footage again, even though I've watched it way too many times already. There we are, laughing and throwing snow like idiots. The camera catches the exact moment my expression shifts—when the playfulness becomes something heavier. When I stopped thinking about hockey and scouts and just wanted to kiss her senseless in the driveway while a judgmental moose watches.
The comments are exactly as she described:
"THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER "
"Morris the real MVP of this relationship"
"I would die for this level of sexual tension"
"Someone please tell me they're actually together"
My phone rings. Preston's name flashes across the screen, and I consider throwing the device into the fireplace.
Instead, I answer. "That was fast. Video's only been up a few hours."
"And it's already trending." Preston sounds far too excited for this conversation. "Ryder. Buddy. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
