But as I finally reach my cabin's crooked porch and fumble with frozen fingers for the key, I catch sight of the view—mountains painted in alpenglow, pine trees heavy with snow, the kind of untouched wilderness that makes you understand why people write poetry about Alaska. My phone buzzes withnotifications, probably my video already getting views from people who witnessed my spectacular moose encounter.
Maybe interesting is exactly what I need.
Chapter 2
Ryder
The ice knows me better than I know myself. Every morning, same routine: lace up, step out, let muscle memory take over. The scrape of blades against ice drowns out everything else—the pressure, the scouts, the ticking clock on my NHL dreams. Here, I'm just movement and precision, nothing more.
"Lockwood! Tighter on the blue line!" Coach barks from the bench.
I adjust, skating backward while tracking the puck's movement between my teammates. The cold air burns my lungs in that familiar way that means I'm pushing hard enough. Perfect. I need to be sharper, faster, better. Five games. Five chances to prove I'm more than small-town potential.
"Yo, Captain!" Jax glides up beside me, skating backward because the kid never met a simple drill he couldn't turn into a performance. "You see that smokeshow who moved in next to you?"
I send the puck rocketing into the corner harder than necessary.
"We're running plays, Moretti."
"Yeah, but dude." He spins, still backward, gesturing with his stick like he's conducting an orchestra of bad decisions. "She's like Instagram model hot. All that auburn hair and those legs—and she's literally right next door to you, Captain Antisocial."
The words trigger a flash of yesterday: expensive boots, coordinated mittens, screaming at that moose like it personally offended her ancestors. The way snow caught in her hair when she fell. How her whole face lit up with that ridiculous camera smile even while covered in snow and fear.
The crack of my stick against the boards echoes through the arena, sharp enough that practice stutters to a stop.
"Can we focus on hockey?" The words come out rougher than intended. "Scouts are coming to the next five games, not casting calls for whatever reality show you think you're living in."
Jax holds up his hands, skating backward with that shit-eating grin that usually means he's about to say something supremely unhelpful. "Just saying, if the universe drops a hottie on your doorstep, maybe don't growl at her like a wounded bear."
"She's a tourist with a camera." I grab a puck, send it flying toward the net. "Here for a few weeks of 'authentic Alaska content' before she runs back to civilization."
"Content?" Jax's eyes light up like Christmas came early. "She's an influencer? Bro, do you know what this means? We could go viral! The team could?—"
"The team could focus on winning." I skate past him, but the guys are all exchanging those looks. The ones that say their captain's wound tighter than fishing line and now there's apparently a complication living twenty feet away from him.
Tommy, our goalie, clears his throat. "Cap's right. Scouts don't care about our TikTok followers."
But even he's fighting a grin, because they all know me. Know I haven't dated since my last girlfriend left for Seattle twoyears ago, declaring Ashwood Falls "a place where dreams go to freeze." Know I spend my time between the rink, the firehouse, and my cabin, with occasional appearances at The Ashwood Café when the coffee runs out at home.
Coach blows his whistle. "Ladies, if you're done discussing Lockwood's lackluster love life, we've got plays to run. Unless you want the Fairbanks team to embarrass us on home ice again?"
We get back to it, but my concentration's shot. I keep thinking about expensive boots and useless mittens. About someone who doesn't know how to respect a moose's personal space, living alone in a cabin that tilts left like it's trying to escape to Canada.
After practice, I drive to Ashwood Falls Firehouse, hoping the familiar routine will clear my head. The bay doors are open despite the cold, Chief's way of proving Alaskans don't feel temperature like mere humans. The trucks gleam in the afternoon light, polished to perfection because that's how we show respect for the equipment that saves lives.
I find Chief bent over Engine 3's compartment, checking inventory with the focus of someone who's done this ten thousand times but still treats it like the first.
"Afternoon, Chief."
He grunts acknowledgment, not looking up. That's how I know something's coming. Chief only avoids eye contact when he's about to meddle.
"Heard we got a new neighbor out your way."
There it is.
"News travels fast." I grab the inventory clipboard, pretending to check numbers I've already memorized.
"City girl from Anchorage." He still won't look at me, examining a Halligan bar with intense focus. "Might be nice if someone showed her the ropes—you know, neighborly-like."
