Page 21 of The Hockey Pact

We settled into an awkward routine, carefully maintaining physical distance as we unpacked. I claimed the bathroom first, grateful for privacy to collect myself. I changed into the least revealing pajamas I'd packed—cotton pants and a Boston College t-shirt—before emerging to find Caleb had constructed a barricade of pillows down the center of the bed.

The absurdity of the situation finally broke the tension, and I burst into laughter. "Is that your pillow Berlin Wall?"

Caleb grinned sheepishly, looking unfairly handsome in sweatpants and a worn Blizzard t-shirt. "I thought it might make you more comfortable."

"Because nothing says 'genuine newlyweds' like a pillow barricade," I teased, moving to my designated side of the bed.

"Hey, plenty of happily married couples sleep with pillow barriers," he countered, settling onto his side. "Snoring, blanket stealing, temperature preferences—all valid reasons for sleep segregation."

"Do you snore?" I asked, oddly curious.

"According to Max, only when I've been checked into the boards too many times in one game," Caleb replied. "You?"

"Zoe claims I talk in my sleep, but only about food. Apparently, I once gave a detailed dissertation on proper risotto technique at three in the morning."

Caleb laughed. "That's actually kind of adorable."

Despite the contract's clear "no intimacy" clause, the physical reality of sharing a bed created an unacknowledged tension. We lay rigidly on our respective sides, making stilted conversation about safe topics—tomorrow's whale watching excursion, restaurant recommendations from the concierge.

Eventually, exhaustion overcame awkwardness, and I drifted to sleep to the sound of Caleb's steady breathing.

I woke hours later to find the pillow wall collapsed and myself curled against Caleb's side, his arm wrapped around me. For a moment, still half-asleep, I enjoyed the warmth and solidity of him—until full consciousness hit and I realized our position.

We sprang apart simultaneously, both mumbling embarrassed apologies.

"Sorry, I must have—in my sleep—" I stammered, retreating to the edge of my side.

"No, it was probably me. I've been told I'm a heat-seeking missile when unconscious," Caleb said, equally flustered.

"It's fine. Natural, even. Bodies seek warmth during sleep," I said, forcing a clinical tone despite the flutter in my chest.

"Exactly. Just... biology." Caleb cleared his throat. "I'm going to grab a shower."

For the rest of the weekend, we maintained a careful distance in private while performing convincing affection in public for the cameras—holding hands on the whale watching boat, sharing bites of food at restaurants where we might be recognized, taking selfies for social media that suggested romantic bliss.

By Sunday evening, I was exhausted from the constant performance, but also disturbed by how natural some moments had felt. When Caleb wrapped his jacket around my shoulders during a chilly sunset walk, his hands lingering briefly, I'd leaned into him without thinking. These unguarded moments felt more dangerous than the orchestrated displays.

Back in Boston, I faced the daunting task of moving into Caleb's penthouse apartment. Zoe helped, offering running commentary on Caleb's sleek bachelor decor while carrying boxes from my small apartment aboveHat Trick.

"I'm just saying," Zoe continued, setting down a box labeled 'Kitchen - Specialty Tools,' "everything is gray, black, or white. It's like living inside a hockey puck."

"It's minimalist," I defended, though I'd had similar thoughts before. The apartment was beautiful but sterile, lacking the personal touches that made a space feel lived-in.

"It's a decorator's idea of what a bachelor hockey star should live in," Zoe countered, running a finger along the pristine kitchen counter. "Does he actually cook in here? Everything looks untouched."

"Not really," I admitted. "He says he can make exactly three meals: scrambled eggs, protein shakes, and something he calls 'emergency pasta' that involves jarred sauce and pre-cooked chicken."

Zoe shuddered dramatically. "The horror."

"At least the kitchen is amazing," I said, admiring the professional-grade appliances I'd been mentally cataloging since I arrived. "That range alone probably cost more than all the equipment atHat Trickcombined."

"True," Zoe conceded. "Although... where exactly are you going to put all your stuff?" She gestured to the boxes of cookbooks, specialty ingredients, and kitchen tools I'd brought with me.

I'd been wondering the same thing. The kitchen, while beautiful, was organized for someone who rarely cooked. There was no spice rack, no cookbook shelf, minimal storage for the various gadgets I considered essential.

"We'll figure it out," I said with more confidence than I felt. "It's only for a year."

A year. The thought was simultaneously reassuring and depressing. This elaborate charade had a defined endpoint—which was good. But it also meant I was essentially putting my real life on hold for twelve months, living in a space that didn't feel like mine, with a man I was married to but not truly married to.

---