I want to argue, to point out that understanding doesn't make it hurt less. But Chief's already lived through this conversation with Mom a hundred times. He doesn't need to hear it from me too.
"Three more games," I say instead. "Three more chances for the NHL to decide if I'm worth the risk."
"And if they don't?"
"Then I stay. Fight fires. Coach hockey. Try to matter the way Dad did."
"That's not a backup plan, son. That's a damn good life." He squeezes my shoulder once, then heads to coordinate with the incident commander.
I finish packing gear on autopilot, running through the call in my head. Looking for mistakes, near misses, things to improve. It's what Dad taught me—every call is a lesson if you're willing to learn it.
By the time we're back at the station, it's almost five. My shift doesn't end until seven, but Chief takes one look at me and jerks his head toward the door. "Go home, Lockwood. Get some sleep before practice."
"I'm fine."
"That's an order, not a suggestion."
I should go home, shower, try to grab a few hours of sleep before nine o'clock practice. But when I pull into the Twin Pine Cabins lot, I sit in my truck staring at my dark cabin on the left.
Piper's light is on.
I should go to my own cabin. We agreed to wait, to keep things simple until after the games. But Chief's words about Dad—about mattering, about making choices—keep echoing in my head. My hands won't stop shaking, and the smell of smoke clings to my hair despite the shower at the station.
I get out of the truck. My legs feel shaky, adrenaline finally wearing off. I stand there for a moment, halfway between my cabin and hers, trying to decide.
Her cabin door opens before I can make up my mind.
"Ryder?" She's wearing flannel pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. No makeup. No camera-ready smile. Just Piper, blinking sleep from her eyes and looking concerned. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"Fire call. Everyone's fine." The words come out rougher than intended. "I don't know why I'm here."
"Come in." She steps back without hesitation. "You're freezing."
Only when she says it do I realize I'm shivering. The adrenaline finally wore off, leaving me wrung out and cold despite the layers.
Her cabin is warm, smelling like whatever fancy candle she's burning and the faint scent of coffee. She guides me to the couch, disappears into the kitchen, returns with a mug of hot chocolate that she presses into my hands.
"Drink," she orders.
I do. It's too hot and too sweet, and exactly what I need.
She sits beside me, close enough that her knee brushes mine, not saying anything. Just present. The shaking finally stops, and she must notice because she speaks.
"Bad call?"
"Good call, actually. Got the victim out, everyone went home safe." I stare into the hot chocolate like it holds answers. "Chief said Dad would've been proud."
Her hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together. The touch is gentle, grounding. She doesn't say anything, just waits.
"It was a little girl. Five years old, hiding near her closet." Once I start talking, I can't seem to stop. "Dad died saving a family too. Structure fire when I was fourteen. He got them out. Roof collapsed before he could follow."
"You told me." Her thumb traces circles on the back of my hand.
"Chief was there when it happened. He's the one who pulled Dad's body out after." I still can't look at her, can't see the pity I know will be in her eyes. "Mom fell apart. Started drinking, stopped functioning. I went to live with my aunt in Fairbanks, came back when Mom got sober. By then, I'd already decided I'd become a firefighter too."
"Did she try to talk you out of it?"
"Every day for a year." The laugh that escapes is bitter. "Said she already lost one Lockwood to this job, couldn't lose another. But Chief offered me a position after high school, and Mom eventually accepted it. Now she just worries quietly instead of loudly."
