Page 15 of The Hockey Pact

The terms were laid out clearly—I would receive enough money to coverHat Trick's debts plus operating capital for the next year, deposited in installments to avoid raising red flags with the IRS. In exchange, I'd move into Caleb's penthouse apartment, attend all home games and key team functions, and generally play the role of devoted hockey wife. The marriage would last exactly one year, followed by a quiet, amicable divorce.

As I reviewed the contract, the enormity of what I was considering finally hit me. I'd be legally binding myself to a near-stranger, constructing an elaborate lie that could damage both our reputations if discovered.

"I need a moment," I said, interrupting Diane's explanation of the social media strategy she'd developed. "Alone. With Caleb."

Diane nodded crisply. "Of course. I'll step out to make some calls."

Once she'd left, I turned to Caleb, the question that had been bothering me finally spilling out. "Why me? You could find any number of women willing to enter this kind of arrangement with you."

Caleb was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Because you see me as a customer who tips well, not as Caleb Matthews, hockey star," he said finally. "You didn't even recognize me that first night. Do you know how rare that is in my life?"

His candor surprised me.

"And," he continued, "you work harder than anyone I've ever met. You pour everything into your restaurant, just like I pour everything into hockey. I respect that. This kind of arrangement needs to be with someone I actually respect."

"So this is about mutual respect?" I asked, oddly touched by his assessment.

"Partly," he nodded. "We'd need to convince people our relationship is genuine, which requires some foundation of mutual regard. We don't have to fake that part."

I returned to the contract, reviewing the clauses that governed our behavior. One in particular caught my attention—neither party could become romantically involved with others during the arrangement. The stipulation made practical sense; public dating would undermine our story. Still, the idea of a year without romantic possibilities gave me pause. I hadn't dated much since openingHat Trick, but the deliberate foreclosing of that option felt significant.

"The no-dating clause," I said, tapping the page. "That's a long time."

"We can adjust that if it's a deal-breaker," Caleb offered. "Though it would complicate the narrative if either of us were seen with other people."

"No, it makes sense," I conceded. "I'm just..." I gestured vaguely. "Processing."

Diane returned, sensing we'd reached a decision point. "Well? Are we moving forward?"

I took a deep breath and picked up the pen she'd placed beside the contract. "We are."

As I signed my name on the dotted line, I experienced a surreal blend of emotions—anxiety about the deception we were undertaking, relief at the financial salvation the arrangement offered, and a strange, unexpected flutter of excitement about the year ahead.

Diane efficiently signed as witness and gathered the papers. "I'll file these and begin the necessary arrangements. We'll need to move quickly. How soon can you move in?"

"I'll need a few days to pack and explain the situation to Zoe," I said, still trying to absorb the reality of what I'd just agreed to.

"Perfect," Diane nodded. "Meanwhile, we'll need to establish your relationship timeline. You met at your restaurant,which has the benefit of being true. A whirlwind romance, culminating in a proposal last week. We'll arrange a small, private ceremony—nothing that screams publicity stunt."

As Diane continued outlining our fabricated love story, I caught Caleb watching me with an unreadable expression. When our eyes met, he offered a small, reassuring smile that surprisingly did ease some of my tension.

"We should probably get to know each other better," he suggested after Diane left with her copy of our contract. "If we're going to convince people we fell madly in love."

"Probably," I agreed. "Twenty questions?"

"Why not?" He grabbed two waters from the refrigerator—a top-of-the-line model that made me irrationally jealous—and settled beside me on the couch. "Favorite color?"

"Starting with the hard-hitting questions, I see," I teased. "Blue. Yours?"

"Green," he replied. "But not any green—forest green."

"Specific," I noted. "Favorite food?"

"My mom's Swedish meatballs," he answered without hesitation. "Family recipe passed down for generations. Yours?"

"Two things come to mind," I told him. "Bánh mì, for one. And my dad's postgame chili. He made it after every home game, win or lose. Said it was the only way to restore balance."

"Siblings?"

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