Page 16 of The Hockey Pact

"Just my younger brother Danny—he's finishing his senior year playing hockey at Boston College. You?"

“I have one sister, Megan,” Caleb replied.

I hesitated. “So, you’re not telling your parents this is just an arrangement?”

He shook his head. "My father would be pissed off about deceiving others. And my mother would be heartbroken when we eventually get divorced."

"I'm not telling my family either," I confirmed. "They'd never approve, especially my dad. He's big on integrity."

Caleb nodded with a smile.

The conversation flowed naturally as we exchanged favorite movies, music preferences (he surprised me with his love of classic jazz), and embarrassing childhood stories. By the time I checked my watch, three hours had passed, and I'd learned enough about Caleb Matthews to convince me that, arrangement aside, he was someone I genuinely enjoyed talking to.

"I should go," I said reluctantly. "I need to start packing, and Zoe's probably wondering if you've locked me in a dungeon."

"No dungeons," Caleb assured me with a grin. "Though I do have a gym in the building that might qualify based on the pain it causes."

As he walked me to the elevator, he suddenly seemed uncertain. "So we're really doing this?"

"Apparently so," I confirmed, feeling equally amazed at the turn my life had taken. "I just agreed to marry a man I met a week ago for money. My culinary school classmates are living in Paris and New York, and I'm entering a contract marriage with a hockey player to save my failing restaurant."

"When you put it that way, it sounds like a bad movie plot," Caleb laughed.

"Or a good one, depending on the ending," I replied, surprising myself with the optimism in my voice.

As the elevator doors closed between us, I leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly. I'd just made the most practical business decision of my career by agreeing to the most impractical personal arrangement imaginable. Yet somehow, I felt more hopeful than I had in months.

Chapter 6: Caleb

I pulled into the driveway of the modest colonial house in southern New Hampshire, my palms inexplicably sweaty against the steering wheel. Riley had insisted on telling her parents about our engagement in person, though we'd agreed to keep the arranged nature of it secret.

"Stop looking so nervous," Riley said from the passenger seat, though she didn't appear entirely calm herself. "They don't bite. Usually."

"It's not every day I meet my fiancée's parents for the first time," I pointed out, turning off the engine. "Especially when we've only been 'dating' for three weeks."

Riley's laugh held a touch of hysteria. "And engaged for two days. Trust me, I'm aware of how this looks."

I reached over and squeezed her hand, trying to offer reassurance. "We've got this. We've been practicing our story. It'll be fine."

Our official narrative was close to the truth—I'd discovered her restaurant, been impressed by the food and her hockey knowledge, and we'd started dating after the charity event. The timeline was wildly accelerated, but that could be attributed to the whirlwind nature of attraction. At least, that's what we were hoping her family would believe.

"Ready?" I asked.

Riley nodded, visibly steeling herself. "As I'll ever be."

We'd barely reached the front steps when the door flew open, revealing a tall man in his early sixties with Riley's darkhair, now shot through with gray, and the weathered look of someone who'd spent decades in cold ice rinks.

"There's my girl!" he boomed, sweeping Riley into a bear hug that lifted her off her feet. "And you must be the hockey player who's stolen her heart," he added, setting Riley down and fixing me with an assessing stare that made me feel like a rookie at tryouts.

"Dad, this is Caleb Matthews," Riley said, a slight tremor in her voice. "Caleb, my father, Jim Caldwell."

I extended my hand, summoning every ounce of media training to appear relaxed. "It's an honor to meet you, sir. I've heard a lot about your coaching career."

His handshake was firm but not aggressive—the kind that evaluated rather than intimidated. "Come on in," he said, his expression giving nothing away. "Ellen's just finishing lunch."

The inside of the Caldwell home was warm and inviting, with comfortable furniture that looked well-used and walls covered in hockey memorabilia and family photos. Riley appeared in most of them, from childhood through culinary school graduation, often alongside a younger boy I assumed was her brother Danny.

A petite woman with Riley's warm brown eyes emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "You must be Caleb," she said, her smile genuine but evaluating. "I'm Ellen, Riley's mom. Hope you're hungry. I always cook too much."

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