"That's mine?—"
"Jax Moretti," he announces, returning my mug with zero shame. "Defenseman, social media coordinator, and best friend of the grumpiest captain in semi-pro hockey." His eyes scan my setup with obvious delight. "You're the influencer, right? Living next to Ryder? Please tell me you've got content of him being his usual charming self."
"Just the moose incident so far." I adjust my ring light to include him because honestly, his face was made for Instagram engagement. "I'm documenting authentic Alaskan life, and your captain happens to be... geographically convenient."
Jax laughs loud enough that half the team looks over. "Geographically convenient. That's what we're calling it?" He leans back, clearly settling in for a prolonged interruption. "Did he do the thing where he stares at you like you're personallyresponsible for climate change? Or wait—did you get the grunt-and-walk-away special?"
"Both, actually."
I glance around the coffee shop, half-expecting to see my grumpy neighbor scowling at me from a corner booth. But there's no sign of him.
"Classic Ryder." Jax steals a piece of my untouched blueberry muffin, following my gaze. "Don't worry, he never comes in after practice. Goes straight to the firehouse. Man's got the emotional range of a hockey puck lately. Coach has him doing double practices, extra video review, plus his firefighter shifts. Scouts are coming Sunday to watch the next five games that'll determine if he gets called up or stays here forever."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"That's not even half of it." Jax waves at my camera. "This thing on? Because I've got stories. Like last week, he saved Mrs. Yamamoto's cat from a tree during a structure fire, still in full gear, because she was crying about Rutherford more than her kitchen."
"He saved a cat?"
"Hates cats," Jax confirms cheerfully. "Allergic, actually. But Mrs. Y was crying, so..." He shrugs. "That's Ryder. Grumpy as hell but physically incapable of not helping. Which is why him being extra growly since you moved in is hilarious."
"Extra growly?"
"Oh yeah. Yesterday at practice he called me an 'animated disaster' for suggesting we should have a team TikTok." Jax grins wider. "Usually, I'm just a regular disaster. The 'animated' means something's got him worked up."
Before I can process that, Dotty appears with a plate of something that smells like heaven took baking lessons. "Jackson Moretti, stop harassing our guest and go bother your teammates."
"Can't. They're boring." But he stands anyway, snagging another piece of my muffin. "Hey, you should come to our game Friday. Watch Ryder pretend he doesn't know you're there while playing better because you are."
"That doesn't even make sense?—"
He's already rejoining his team, shouting something about "Captain's got a groupie" that makes several heads turn my way.
I am not a groupie. I'm a professional content creator who happens to live next door to a hockey player. There's a difference. Although why Jax feels the need to announce my existence to the entire coffee shop is beyond me. Small towns are weird.
By the time I escape The Ashwood Café, I've got two hours of footage, four new Instagram followers from the team, and a disturbing amount of information about Ryder Lockwood. Firefighter. Team captain. Allergic to cats but saves them anyway. Five games from his dream of joining the NHL.
The local waterfall seems like perfect content to process all this. Dotty gave me directions that seemed simple enough: "Follow the marked trail from the parking area, can't miss it, dear." My phone shows a clear path on the GPS. How hard can it be?
Two hours later, I'm ready to admit it can be very hard.
The marked trail became three trails about an hour ago, none of which my GPS acknowledges exist. My phone's showing one bar of signal that flickers like it's mocking me. The trees—which looked charming and authentic from my car—now seem identical and possibly sentient, definitely smirking at my expensive boots slipping on ice-covered rocks.
"Follow the marked trail," I mutter, spinning in a circle that definitely doesn't help. "Can't miss it. Except apparently, I can miss it. I can miss it so hard it's like the waterfall never existed."
A rustling in the bushes makes me freeze. My bear spray's in my hand before I remember I never learned how to use it. Do I spray toward the bear? Away from the bear? What if it's not a bear? What if it's a moose? Can you pepper spray a moose?
The rustling gets closer.
"I'm armed!" I shout at the bushes. "With... chemicals! And poor decision-making skills!"
A fox pops out, looks at me with obvious disappointment, and trots away.
"Yeah, well, same to you, buddy!" I call after it, then immediately feel stupid for arguing with wildlife.
My phone dies with a cheerful chime, as if mocking my desperate attempts to refresh Google Maps. The sun's getting lower, painting everything golden in a way that would be beautiful if I wasn't potentially about to become a cautionary tale.
Then—an engine sound, growing closer through the trees.
