Page 1 of The Hockey Pact

Chapter 1: Riley

I wiped the same spot on the table for the fifth time, pretending the circular motion could somehow polish away my problems. The pristine surface already gleamed under the pendant lights, but keeping my hands busy was better than giving in to the tears threatening behind my eyes.

Hat Trickwas empty. Again.

The clock showed 9:47 PM. Not a single customer had walked through the door in the last two hours, and only a handful had come for lunch. I could practically hear my bank account draining with each tick of the clock.

"That table's going to file a restraining order if you don't stop harassing it," Zoe said, emerging from the kitchen with her apron already untied.

I forced a smile. "Just making sure we maintain our standards, even if no one's here to appreciate them."

Zoe, my best friend since culinary school and the only sous chef willing to stick with me through this disaster, raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Right. And I'm just wearing this bandana because it brings out my eyes, not because we can't afford to repair the air conditioning."

"It does bring out your eyes, though," I offered, finally abandoning the table to slump onto one of the bar stools.

"Riley." Zoe's voice softened as she leaned against the counter opposite me. "We need to talk about—"

"The numbers. I know." I pulled out the small notebook I'd been avoiding all day. "I was just doing some calculations."

"And?"

"And we made exactly enough today to cover the electric bill. Maybe the water bill too, if nobody flushes the toilets for the rest of the month."

Zoe didn't laugh. "That's what I thought. Let's close up early. No sense wasting electricity on an empty dining room."

I wanted to argue but couldn't find a rational reason to stay open. The lunch rush—if three tables could be called a "rush"—had been our only real business. The construction crew outside had jackhammered away any hope of a dinner service, barricading the sidewalk and makingHat Tricklook like it was quarantined rather than open for business.

"Fine," I sighed. "But I need to go over the books again later. Maybe I missed something."

"You've gone over those books so many times you could recite them like poetry," Zoe said gently. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll stay and help."

"No," I shook my head firmly. "You've already stayed late every night this week. Go home to your cat and that disgustingly healthy meal prep you love so much."

"You sure?"

I nodded, forcing brightness into my voice. "Absolutely. I'll just finish up here and lock up."

Zoe hesitated, then came around the bar to hug me. "It's going to work out, Riley. Somehow."

I returned the hug, grateful for her optimism. "Thanks, Zoe. See you tomorrow?"

"Bright and early. Though maybe not too early, since..." She gestured around the empty restaurant.

"Eight should be fine. We've still got that small catering order for the law firm."

After Zoe left, I moved through the familiar closing routine on autopilot.Hat Trickhad been my dream for so long—a restaurant that combined my two passions: food and hockey. The names of dishes made me smile despite everything—Blue Line Burgers, Hat Trick Sliders, Penalty Box Poutine.

I'd poured everything into this place—my life savings, my culinary school training, and the small inheritance from my grandmother. For the first year, it had actually worked. We weren't exactly printing money, but we'd built a steady clientele, earned some good reviews.

Then the city decided to completely overhaul the water main that ran directly in front of the restaurant. What was supposed to be a six-week project had stretched into its fifth month, with no end in sight. The construction created a dusty, noisy barrier that only the most determined customers were willing to breach.

I was three months away from losing everything.

The crash of the front door slamming open jolted me from my miserable calculations. I spun around, heart pounding, to see a man standing in the entryway.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing jeans and a dark hoodie with a baseball cap pulled low. His posture radiated tension, like he was braced for impact.

"I'm sorry," I started automatically, assuming he was lost. "We're actually cl—"

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