Page 11 of The Hockey Pact

Zoe rolled her eyes but nodded. "Go ahead, Riley. You've been on your feet for fourteen hours straight. The cleanup can wait till morning."

Riley's resistance crumbled visibly. "One drink," she conceded. "And only because my feet are staging a rebellion against the concept of standing."

The hotel bar was quiet, most of the gala attendees having already departed. We found a corner table, away from the few remaining patrons who might recognize me.

Riley immediately kicked off her chef clogs under the table and released her hair from its tight bun, running her fingers through it with a sigh of relief. The transformation was striking—from efficient chef to young woman with warm eyes and an infectious smile.

"Better?" I asked, amused by her sudden relaxation.

"You have no idea," she groaned. "Those shoes are practical for kitchen work but basically instruments of torture after about hour ten."

"And yet you wore them for..." I checked my watch, "going on fifteen hours now?"

"The price of doing business," she said with a shrug. "Speaking of which, thank you again for the recommendation. Tonight's fee will cover this month's rent, at least."

"Your food was the hit of the event," I told her honestly. "I overheard at least a dozen people talking about visitingHat Trick."

"If they can find it through the construction maze," Riley said, but her tone was hopeful rather than bitter.

The server arrived, and Riley ordered a bourbon neat while I asked for my usual bourbon on the rocks.

"So," I said after our drinks arrived, "do you cater many events like this?"

"Not lately," she admitted. "When we first opened, we did a steady catering business alongside the restaurant. But with the construction strangling our cash flow, we've had to cut back on staff, which makes it hard to manage off-site events."

"How many people do you usually employ?"

"Before the construction? Six full-time staff plus part-timers for busy shifts. Now it's just me, Zoe, and one line cook who works part time." She took a sip of her drink. "Tonight I had to bring in former employees willing to work for cash. Not ideal, but—" She shrugged. "You do what you have to."

The way she described her struggle stirred something in me. Riley wasn't looking for sympathy; she was simply stating the reality of her situation.

"What about you?" she asked, clearly wanting to change the subject. "How's the off-season treating you?"

I hesitated, unsure how much to share. Something about the late hour and the quiet intimacy of the corner table made me unexpectedly candid.

"Complicated," I admitted. "The team's considering me for captain next season."

"That's fantastic!" Riley's enthusiasm was warming. "You'd be perfect for it."

“Thanks,” I said, caught off guard by how much her support meant. “But there’s a catch. Our owner—Harold Whitman—is… old school. He’s made it clear: if I want thecaptain’s “C,” I need to clean up my image. Specifically, I have to look more settled. More… family-oriented.”

“Meaning?”

“That Whitman thinks only married men should wear the ‘C,’” I replied with a wry grin. “Apparently my bachelor life doesn’t scream ‘franchise poster boy.’”

Riley’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? That’s absurd.”

“Welcome to hockey culture,” I shrugged. “Traditional to a fault.”

“It’s ridiculous,” she shot back, indignation in her voice. “Your performance on the ice should count—not your love life.”

“I agree,” I said, “but Whitman calls the shots. Unless my personal situation changes before the season opener, the captaincy will go to Luke Peterson.”

"Peterson? Really?" Her nose wrinkled slightly. "I mean, he's adequate, but he's no—" She stopped, gesturing vaguely toward me, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

"No me?" I finished for her, unable to suppress a smile at her assessment.

"Exactly," she said, lifting her chin defiantly. "And I say that as someone who watches every game, not just as someone you've bought drinks for."

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