Piper shifts closer. "The hockey helps, doesn't it? Having something else."
"Dad coached youth hockey as a volunteer. Got me on the ice at four, told me it would teach me teamwork and discipline." I finish the hot chocolate, set the mug aside. "After he died, it was the only thing that made sense. The ice doesn't care about yourbaggage. Just shows you who you are when everything else is stripped away."
"Is that why you want the NHL so badly? To prove something to him?"
The question cuts deeper than it should. She's not trying to hurt me, just trying to understand. And maybe I need someone to understand.
"Maybe. Or maybe I just want to matter the way he did." I turn to look at her finally. "Chief said firefighting and Dad's legacy are a damn good life if hockey doesn't work out. But I keep thinking about that roof collapse. How Dad had thirty seconds and chose to save strangers instead of himself. How Mom spent the next decade trying to forgive him for loving his job more than he feared dying."
"That's not fair to him," Piper says softly. "Or to you."
"What do you mean?"
"Your dad didn't love his job more than he feared dying. He loved saving people more than he loved playing it safe." She shifts closer, and I can smell her shampoo—something floral and expensive. "And you're not trying to die like he did. You're trying to live like he did. There's a difference."
The tightness in my throat makes it hard to breathe. Nobody's ever said it like that before. Like there's a distinction between honoring his memory and being haunted by it.
"I'm terrified," I admit. "That I'll get the NHL contract and it won't be enough. That I'll stay in Ashwood Falls and regret it forever. That no matter what I choose, I'll disappoint everyone—Dad's memory, Mom's hopes, Chief's faith in me, the team's trust."
"Ryder." She frames my face with both hands, forcing me to meet her eyes. "You're not responsible for everyone else's expectations. You're only responsible for your own life."
"Easy to say."
"Impossible to do, I know." Her smile turns sad. "But we're both doing it anyway. Me, hiding in Alaska and pretending I'm not terrified of going back to real life. You, fighting fires and chasing hockey and acting like you don't deserve both."
We're close now. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, count the freckles across her nose, watch her pupils dilate.
"We should wait," I murmur, even as my hand comes up to cup her cheek. "Three games. We agreed."
"We did." She leans into my touch, eyes drifting closed. "We agreed to a lot of things."
"Fake dating. Clear boundaries. Mutually beneficial arrangement."
"All very professional." Her lips curve. "Very strategic."
"This doesn't feel strategic." My thumb traces her bottom lip, and she makes a sound low in her throat that goes straight through me.
"No. It doesn't."
When she kisses me, it's different from the almost-kisses we've had before. No audience. No cameras. No moose interrupting. Just Piper and me and everything we admitted tonight pressing us together.
She tastes like coffee and certainty, and the kiss is slow and deep and honest. Her hands slide into my hair, tugging slightly, and I groan against her mouth.
"Ryder," she breathes when we break apart. "We should?—"
"I know. Three more games."
"Right. Three games." Her fingers trace the line of my jaw, and I have to close my eyes against how good it feels. "Except..."
"Except?"
"Except I don't want to wait." She pulls back just enough to look at me. "I don't want to be strategic or professional or careful. I just want you."
The honesty in her voice makes my pulse hammer in my throat.
"Are you sure?" Because I need her to be sure, need this to be real and not just aftermath from the fire call or the vulnerable conversation. "Piper, if we do this?—"
"I'm sure." Her eyes are clear, certain. "Are you?"
