"You're lying to make me feel better."
"Absolutely. But you still did great." We stand there between our vehicles for a moment. "Hey, about your ex?—"
"I should probably feel something," I interrupt. "We were together for three years and I just... don't care."
"That's not a bad thing," he says quietly. "Means you already moved on before any of this started."
Something loosens in my chest, a knot I didn't know was there.
"Thank you."
"Plus, his ring choice was terrible. Princess cuts are so outdated."
I burst out laughing. "You noticed that too?"
"Jax pointed it out. He has surprisingly strong opinions about engagement rings." Ryder grins. "Give me ten minutes to change and we can head to The Grizzly together?"
"Sounds good. I'll wait out here."
Ten minutes later, I've swapped rink clothes for jeans and a sweater that doesn't smell like humiliation, and we climb into Ryder's truck for the short drive to The Grizzly.
The Grizzly turns out to be a bar that looks exactly like every small-town Alaskan bar in every movie ever—dark wood, mounted fish that probably have names, and a karaoke stage that's seen better days.
Ryder's hand finds mine as we walk in, fingers lacing together like we've done this a hundred times. The ease of it surprises me—no awkwardness, no second-guessing. Just his palm warm against mine.
The Wolves have claimed a corner, and they cheer when they spot us. Several of them make exaggerated kissy faces.
"The lovebirds!" someone shouts.
"Shut up, Connor," Ryder mutters, but he's smiling.
We squeeze into a booth, and immediately Jax appears with drinks. "House specialty. Don't ask what's in it."
"That's terrifying," I say, eyeing the glass. Whatever it is, it's amber-colored with a cinnamon stick and looks way better than it has any right to. I take a sip.
"Holy hell, that's good," I say.
"That's Alaska." He clinks his glass against mine. "Welcome to the family."
The next two hours blur together in the best possible way. The team teases Ryder mercilessly about his skating lessons, I'm forced to sing an off-key rendition of "Love Story" that makes everyone laugh, and at some point, Patrice and Tessa show up and drag me to the bathroom for what they call a "tactical debrief."
The bathroom is exactly what you'd expect—faded floral wallpaper, a single bulb that flickers occasionally, and a mirror with stickers from bands that haven't toured in twenty years. It smells like cheap air freshener and beer.
Patrice leans against the sink, arms crossed. Tessa locks the door behind us.
"So," Patrice says. "You and Ryder."
"We're dating," I say carefully.
"Uh-huh." Tessa's studying me with the shrewd eyes of someone who's seen through worse lies. "And how's that going?"
"Fine? Good? I don't know, it's new."
They exchange a look.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," Patrice says, too innocently. "Just... be careful."
