"Right. Reevaluate." She reaches for the door handle. "I should go. You probably need to rest. Big practice tomorrow."
"Piper."
She pauses, hand on the door.
"Thank you. For doing this. I know it's not ideal?—"
"It's fine." Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Mutually beneficial, remember? This helps both of us."
She's out of the truck before I can respond, and I watch her walk to her rental car—which still only has one side mirror thanks to Morris's culinary preferences. She doesn't look back.
I sit in the parking lot long after she drives away, staring at my phone where Preston has already texted with "media strategy ideas" and Jax has sent approximately forty-seven memes about the viral video.
Four more games. Four chances to prove to the scouts I can handle pressure. Four weeks of fake dating someone I'm already halfway in love with while pretending it's just business.
This is either the smartest or stupidest decision I've ever made.
Through my windshield, the arena lights are shutting off one by one. In a few hours, I'll be back here, running drills and trying to remember that hockey is supposed to be what matters most.
My phone buzzes with a text from Piper:
Piper: Rule five: Morris is Switzerland. He gets no opinion on this arrangement.
I'm grinning like an idiot as I text back:
Me: Pretty sure Morris has opinions on everything.
Piper: Then he keeps them to himself. I've had enough judgment from wildlife this week.
Me: Fair. See you tomorrow?
Piper: Partner meetings are scheduled for 10am at The Ashwood Café. Bring your game face. We've got a fake relationship to launch.
I read her text three times, trying to find some hint of how she really feels about this arrangement. But all I get is professional efficiency and humor that might be masking something deeper.
Or maybe I'm reading too much into it. Maybe for her, this really is just business.
I start my truck and head home, already dreading tomorrow's "partner meeting" where we'll strategize about fake dating while pretending we're not both thinking about that almost-kiss.
Three more games to prove I'm NHL material.
And three weeks of pretending Piper Meadows is just a business arrangement when I can still feel how close she was standing, see exactly how her eyes started to drift closed before Morris interrupted.
I'm so screwed.
Chapter 9
Piper
The Ashwood Café smells like salvation and poor life choices. I'm twenty minutes early for our "partner meeting" because apparently, I deal with anxiety by showing up to fake relationship negotiations with military punctuality and three different outfit changes.
I landed on "casually put-together influencer who definitely didn't spend forty-five minutes choosing jeans" which is really just code for "I'm spiraling and my closet looks like a boutique exploded."
The café's morning crowd is lighter than usual—a few early risers hunched over laptops, Marnie from the general store gossiping with someone I don't recognize, and Old Jim reading a newspaper like it's still 1987. The twinkle lights strung across the exposed beams cast everything in a warm glow that makes even my anxiety look aesthetic.
I claim a corner table with good lighting for potential content—habit—then immediately question whether documenting our fake dating strategy session counts as authentic or performative.
My phone buzzes. Ryder.
