Jax: Sage just sent me a meme about my defensive positioning and I'm honestly concerned she's right
Tyler: She told me my stick tape job was "an affront to hockey" yesterday
Ben: She reorganized the equipment room this morning. Coach didn't even stop her.
Jax: Your sister is TERRIFYING and I respect her deeply
I look at Sage, who's grinning without remorse. "You've been here barely twenty-four hours."
"And I've already made this town better." She sits up, tucking her phone away. "Also, Jax is hilarious and possibly single? I asked but he deflected with a joke about his commitment issues."
"Stay away from Jax."
"Why? Is he a serial killer?"
"No, but you're my sister and he's—" I stop, because I don't actually have a good reason beyond the general terror of watching Sage unleash her personality on my teammate. "Just don't."
"Too late. We're already in a meme war." She stands, stretching. "Speaking of which, you need to get to the firehouse. Chief texted asking what time you're coming in."
"Chief texted you?"
"He's had my number for years, Ry." Her voice softens. "He checks in sometimes. See how Mom's doing, how I'm doing." She looks away. "He pulled Dad out. We stay in touch."
Of course she does. Sage could befriend a brick wall if she decided it needed emotional support.
I grab my keys. "Don't rearrange anything else while I'm gone."
"No promises!" she calls after me.
The firehouse smells like coffee and the faint scent of smoke that never quite leaves the building no matter how much we clean. Chief is in his office, door open, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviews reports.
He looks up when I knock. "Lockwood. Your shift doesn't start for another hour. I figured we chat once you were on shift."
"Figured I'd come early. Get ahead of things." I lean against the doorframe. My shift doesn't start for another hour, and I have no good reason for being here early except that sitting in my rearranged cabin felt worse.
Chief sets down his reading glasses, studies me with the same assessing look he probably used on Dad. "How's the sister visit going?"
"She rearranged my cabin."
"Sounds about right from what I've seen." He gestures to the chair across from his desk. "Sit. We need to talk."
That's never good. I sit.
Chief leans back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach. "The lieutenant promotion has a deadline. I need your answer by end of next week."
My chest tightens. "Next week?"
"I've held it as long as I can. The department needs to know if you're taking it or if I'm offering it to someone else." His voice is gentle but firm. "This is a real career, Ryder. Not a consolation prize for if hockey doesn't work out."
"I know that."
"Do you?" Chief leans forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're treating firefighting like the backup plan. The safe option. The thing you'll settle for if the NHL doesn't want you."
I grip the armrest. "That's not?—"
"Your dad didn't see firefighting as second best." Chief's voice is quiet but carries weight. "Neither should you."
I stare at the desk, at the scratches in the wood from decades of firefighters sitting in this exact chair, having this exact conversation. "Dad had already made his choice by the time he was my age."
