Second period is worse. Ryder scores a goal with a slap shot so powerful the goalie doesn't even see it coming. The rink erupts. His teammates mob him. And for just a second, he looks up at the stands, finds me in the crowd, and our eyes meet.
The hunger in his gaze makes me grip the bleacher to stay upright.
Then he's gone, back to the game, and I'm left trying to remember how to breathe.
By the third period, the Wolves are up by two. Ryder's got a goal, two assists, and has spent more time in the penalty box than anyone else on the team. Every time he comes off the ice, he's breathing hard, eyes dark, looking like he's fighting something way bigger than the opposing team.
The final buzzer sounds. The Wolves win, 4-2.
The crowd goes absolutely insane. Music blasts through the speakers. Kids run down to the glass to high-five the players. And Ryder, surrounded by his celebrating teammates, looks at me like he's drowning and I'm the only thing that can save him.
But he doesn't skate over. Doesn't come to the glass like last time. Just turns and heads toward the locker room with the rest of the team, and I'm left standing there feeling like I just missed something important.
"Piper Meadows?"
I turn to find a man in a suit that probably costs more than my cabin rental, holding a clipboard like he's about to conduct business. He looks way too pleased with himself.
"That's me," I say.
"Preston Wiloughby, Ryder's agent." He extends a hand. "The scouts want photos. Locker room. Family and girlfriends only." He gestures toward a hallway. "You coming?"
Family and girlfriends. Two categories I don't actually belong to, despite the jersey that says otherwise.
"Sure," I say, because this is part of the arrangement. This is what we agreed to.
Tessa squeezes my hand. "Go get him."
The hallway leading to the locker rooms is concrete and fluorescent lighting and smells like sweat and rubber. Preston walks ahead of me, already on his phone, already planning whatever comes next. A few other people mill around—parents, actual girlfriends, someone who might be a scout based on the expensive notebook and judgmental expression.
"Just act natural," Preston says without looking up from his phone. "Supportive girlfriend. Happy for his success. The scouts eat that stuff up."
Right. Supportive fake girlfriend. That's me.
The locker room door opens and players start emerging. Jax first, still riding the high of the win. A couple of guys I don't know by name. The celebration carries into the hallway—backslapping, laughter, the kind of joy that comes from winning when it matters.
Then Ryder walks out, and everything else fades away.
He's showered and changed into jeans and a dress shirt, hair still damp, eyes finding mine immediately. We stare at each other across ten feet of concrete floor, and the weight of everything we haven't said presses down on us.
"Hey," he says quietly.
"Hey." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Good game."
"Thanks."
The silence stretches. Preston's checking his phone, already moving on to whatever's next. The other players flow around us like water around rocks, and someone wolf-whistles, but we stand frozen in time.
"We need to talk," Ryder says finally.
"Not here," I say, glancing at the scouts who are definitely watching us.
He follows my gaze and swears under his breath. Then he pulls me close, one arm around my waist, and presses a kiss to my forehead. It's brief, almost businesslike, but his lips linger just long enough that my breath catches.
"Later," he says quietly, still close enough that his breath stirs my hair. "We'll talk later."
Preston clears his throat. "Photos first. Then you two can—" He makes a vague gesture that could mean anything. "—talk."
The next fifteen minutes are agony. Posing for photos with Ryder standing stiff beside me. His arm around my shoulders feels nothing like it did three nights ago. Answering questions from scouts about how we met, how long we've been together, what it's like dating someone with his schedule. Every answer is technically true and completely fake, and I hate every second of it.
