Page 13 of The Hockey Pact

Chapter 5: Riley

I knelt on my kitchen floor, surrounded by puddles of water and spoiled food, trying to absorb the disaster with already-soaked towels. The ancient refrigerator—the one I'd been nursing along for months to avoid the expense of replacing it—had finally died overnight, taking with it thousands of dollars in catering ingredients for a corporate lunch I was supposed to prepare today.

"No, no, no," I muttered, as if my desperation could somehow resurrect the dead appliance. The compressor had given out completely, transforming the interior into a lukewarm soup of ruined proteins and wilted produce.

The bell above the restaurant door jingled, and I heard Zoe's familiar footsteps crossing the dining room.

"Riley?" she called. "Why is it so quiet in here? Shouldn't you be prepping for the Hancock lunch?"

When I didn't answer, her pace quickened. She appeared in the kitchen doorway, took one look at me kneeling amid the disaster, and wordlessly grabbed more towels.

For several minutes, we worked in silence, mopping up the mess and sorting what little could be salvaged. Finally, when the floor was merely damp rather than flooded, Zoe sat back on her heels beside me.

"How bad?" she asked quietly.

"Everything's gone," I said, my voice hollow. "About three thousand in ingredients. Plus whatever a new commercial refrigerator costs, which we can't afford. And I had to call andcancel the Hancock lunch, so that's another two thousand in revenue we won't see."

Zoe winced. "Can we rent a refrigerated truck for today? Try to salvage the job?"

I shook my head. "Already tried. Nothing available on such short notice, and we can't prep in a truck anyway." I gestured to the dead refrigerator. "Besides, that was our last cushion. Without that money coming in..."

I didn't need to finish the sentence. Zoe had seen the books. She knew exactly how precarious our situation was.

"What are you going to do?" she asked simply.

I stared at the pile of ruined food, then at the stack of past-due notices on my desk visible through the office door. For a week, I'd been dismissing Caleb's drunken marriage proposal as absurd, a product of late-night desperation and too many drinks. But with each new financial disaster, the idea seemed less outlandish and more like my only remaining option.

"I think," I said slowly, "I need to make a phone call."

Zoe's eyes widened as understanding dawned. "You mean to..."

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?" Her voice held no judgment, only concern.

"What choice do I have?" I asked, more rhetorically than anything. "Vincent Carelli and his 'special terms'? Selling equipment we need to function? Closing down entirely?"

Zoe was quiet for a moment, then gave a single nod. "For what it's worth, I think he's one of the good ones. As professional athletes go."

Coming from Zoe, this was practically a glowing endorsement. I pulled my phone from my pocket, surprised to find my hands steady as I scrolled to the number Caleb had given me after our drink at the hotel.

He answered on the second ring, as if he'd been waiting for my call. "Riley?"

"The refrigerator died," I said without preamble. "Everything's ruined, including the catering job that was supposed to pay this month's utilities."

There was a beat of silence, then: "I'm sorry to hear that."

"I need to know if you were serious," I continued, my voice surprisingly calm given the magnitude of what I was considering. "About your... proposal."

"I was," he said simply. "I still am."

I closed my eyes briefly. "Then I think we should talk about terms."

Something in his voice shifted, a mix of relief and anticipation. "Of course. Do you want to meet at my place? I can send a car."

"I can get there on my own," I said, not wanting to feel beholden before we'd even begun negotiating. "Just text me the address."

"Two o'clock?"

---