"He's fine. But he's never distracted. Ryder's the guy who shows up early, stays late, runs extra drills. This week he's been—off."
Because of me. Because we slept together and then he left and I woke up alone and now everything's weird and complicated and I don't know how to fix it.
"Maybe he's stressed about the scouts," I say, which is probably true but also definitely not the whole truth.
Patrice bounces Brooklyn on her hip and gives me a look that's way too knowing for someone holding a drooling infant. "Or maybe you two finally slept together and now you're both freaking out about it."
"We didn't—we're not—" I can feel my face heating up, which is basically a full confession. "It's complicated."
"Complicated how?" Tessa asks.
"Complicated like he's got NHL scouts watching him and I'm still rebuilding after my ex humiliated me on the internet. Complicated like neither of us can afford to screw this up, but I don't even know what this is anymore."
Brooklyn makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like agreement, and Patrice laughs. "She says you're overthinking it."
"I'm definitely overthinking it," I admit. "But also I woke up alone after we—after—and he hasn't texted or called or come over, and now I have to go to his game and pretend everything's normal when nothing feels normal anymore."
Tessa squeezes my hand. "For what it's worth, Gage says Ryder's looked miserable all week. Distracted. Not himself."
"Really?"
"Really. Maybe you're both sitting around wondering what the other one's thinking instead of just talking to each other like adults."
"We agreed to wait until after his games to figure things out," I say. "Three more games. That was the deal."
Tessa grins. "So you're almost done with the waiting part. Tonight, you show up, you wear his jersey, you cheer him on. Then after the game, you corner that man and have an actual conversation."
"What if he doesn't want to talk?"
"Then you make him," Patrice says. "You're Piper Meadows. You survived a viral breakup. You moved to Ashwood Falls in designer boots. You befriended a territorial moose. You can handle one emotionally constipated hockey player."
Brooklyn gurgles her agreement, and despite everything, I laugh.
I take a deep breath. "Okay. I can do this."
"Good." Tessa stands and pulls me up with her. "Now get dressed. Gage just sent me a photo of Grayson wearing a tiny Wolves jersey. He's three months old and already being recruited. We need to leave in an hour before that happens, and you still look like a drowned rat."
"Gee, thanks."
"A very cute drowned rat," she amends. "Now waterproof mascara or no?"
The Ashwood Falls Community Rink is packed.
I knew hockey was big here—small town, limited entertainment options, semi-pro team with an actual shot at championships—but this is another level entirely. Every seat is filled. Kids wave homemade signs. Someone's organized a whole cheering section with coordinated chants.
And everyone, absolutely everyone, notices when I walk in wearing Ryder's jersey.
"There she is!" someone yells, and a round of applause breaks out.
"Looking good, Piper!"
"Go Wolves!"
I wave awkwardly and follow Tessa and Patrice to the front row seats that apparently come with being friends with the captain's fake girlfriend. Gage and Trace are already there. Trace has Brooklyn's carrier tucked between his boots, and Gage hasGrayson strapped to his chest in one of those wraps that makes him look like a flannel-wearing kangaroo.
"Hey, Piper," Gage says, grinning. "Nice jersey."
The jersey hangs to my mid-thigh, number 17 across my back, Lockwood stitched above it. It smells like him—pine and smoke and something clean that makes my lungs forget how to work every time I breathe.
