Page 2 of The Hockey Pact

"Are you still serving?" His voice was low and oddly desperate.

I hesitated. Every business instinct screamed to say yes—I needed every dollar I could get. But I'd already turned off half the kitchen equipment, and Zoe was gone.

"I—" I began, then stopped as he looked up, finally making eye contact.

Even shadowed by the cap brim, his face was striking—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw darkened by stubble, and eyes that managed to look both intense and weary. Something about his expression—hungry, almost pleading—made my refusal die in my throat.

"Please," he added, and that single word carried a weight I couldn't quite understand. "It's been a really long day, and I just need something that isn't room service or takeout."

I shouldn't have found his desperation for a home-cooked meal charming, but somehow I did.

"Sure," I heard myself say. "Kitchen's still open. Just... sit wherever you'd like."

Relief washed across his features. "Thank you."

He chose a table in the corner, as far from the windows as possible. I grabbed a menu and a water glass, mentally reviewing what I could still prepare quickly.

"Here you go," I said, placing the menu before him. "The kitchen's partially shut down, but I can still make most of the appetizers and a few entrées."

He glanced at the menu, a slight smile touching his lips as he read the hockey-themed dish names. "You a fan?" he asked, looking up at me.

I shrugged with a grin. “You could say that.”

He nodded appreciatively. "Cool concept."

"Thanks," I said, warmth spreading through me at the simple compliment. "Can I get you something to drink while you decide?"

"Bourbon. Neat." He looked back at the menu. "Make it a double of whatever your best is."

I returned with his drink—Breakaway Bourbon—and found him scowling at his phone.

"Ready to order?" I asked.

He set the phone facedown on the table with perhaps more force than necessary. "I'll take the Hat Trick Sliders, the Blue Line Nachos, and the..." he squinted at the menu, "Five Hole Five-Spice Wings."

I blinked. That was half our appetizer menu. "Hungry?"

A genuine smile crossed his face, transforming his features from merely handsome to downright devastating. "Starving, actually. And everything sounds great."

"Coming right up," I said, feeling oddly flustered as I headed to the kitchen.

As I worked, questions about my mystery customer tumbled through my mind. He clearly had money—that bourbon wasn't cheap, and he'd ordered enough food for two people. But there was something almost furtive about him, from the low-pulled cap to the corner table. Maybe he was avoiding paparazzi? A minor celebrity? Or just someone having a spectacularly bad day?

Whatever his story, I found myself putting extra care into his food. The sliders—served on mini Stanley Cup-shaped buns I'd designed myself—got a perfect sear. The nachos received an extra sprinkle of our house-smoked brisket. The wings glistened with the precise balance of five-spice and honey glaze.

When I returned with the first plate, he was hunched over his phone again, his brow furrowed. He barely looked up as I set down the sliders.

"Here you go," I said. "The nachos and wings will be out shortly."

He mumbled thanks, his attention clearly elsewhere.

I should have been annoyed by his distraction—I was staying late to cook for him, after all—but something in his posture spoke of a burden I couldn't understand. So, I simply returned to the kitchen to finish his order.

By the time I brought out the wings, he was halfway through the sliders, his phone forgotten. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable—his shoulders had relaxed, his expression softened.

"These are incredible," he said, gesturing with a half-eaten slider. "Seriously, some of the best I've had."

"Thanks," I said, smiling for the first time that day. "Enjoy the rest."

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