Page 22 of The Hockey Pact

"Earth to Riley," Zoe's voice broke into my thoughts. "Where should we put these?" She held up the box containing my prized collection of vintage cookbooks.

Before I could answer, the elevator doors opened, and Caleb stepped into the apartment, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He looked tired but brightened when he saw us.

"Hey," he said, dropping his bag by the door. "How's the moving going?"

"Just trying to figure out where everything fits," I said, gesturing to the organized chaos of boxes.

Caleb's gaze fell on the cookbooks Zoe was still holding. "Those look important."

"Riley's cookbook collection," Zoe explained. "Some of them were her grandmother's."

Caleb considered for a moment, then nodded decisively. "They should go in the office. I've got bookshelves in there that are half empty." He led us down the hall to a room I hadn't explored yet, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves containing hockey reference books, biographies, and strategic manuals.

"I can clear these shelves," he offered, already beginning to consolidate his books to make room. "There's no reason they should be in boxes."

The simple kindness of the gesture— his sacrifice of personal space—caught me off guard. "Thank you," I said softly. "That's really thoughtful."

He shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. "It's your home too, for now. You should have your things around you."

After Zoe left, promising to openHat Trickfor lunch the next day, Caleb and I ordered takeout and ate at the kitchen island, both too tired to cook or go out.

"So," he said between bites ofpad Thai, "what else do you need to make this place feel like yours? More shelf space? Different furniture? Just say the word."

"It's your apartment," I pointed out. "I don't want to change everything."

"It'sourapartment for the next year," he corrected. "And honestly, the team’s housing coordinator chose most of it."

I looked around the sleek space, seeing it with new eyes. "It is a bit... impersonal," I admitted.

"Exactly. So if you want to add things, change things—go for it."

"Well," I said slowly, "I do have some framed vintage hockey posters that might look good in the hallway. And maybe a few more colorful throw pillows for the couch?"

Caleb grinned. "Now you're talking. Not too many pillows, though. Max already makes fun of me for having 'decorative towels' in the guest bathroom."

"The horror," I deadpanned, making him laugh.

Just as we were falling into a comfortable rhythm, Caleb dropped his sweaty practice gear in the middle of the living room floor, casually explaining that his cleaning service would deal with it tomorrow.

I stared at the damp pile, my neat-freak chef instincts screaming in protest. "You're just going to leave that there? Overnight?"

He looked genuinely confused. "The cleaners come in the morning."

"But it's... wet. And smelly. On the carpet."

"It'll dry," he said with the confidence of someone who'd clearly done this many times before.

I pressed my lips together, trying to remember that this was his space long before it was mine. But the thought of smelly hockey gear festering on the floor all night was more than I could bear.

"Would you mind if I..." I gestured vaguely toward the offending pile.

Caleb looked even more confused. "If you what?"

"Put it somewhere else? Maybe the laundry room? Or at least hang it up to dry?"

Understanding dawned on his face. "Oh. Yeah, sure. I guess that makes sense." He looked slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, I'm used to living alone. Team habits die hard."

"And I'm used to a kitchen where one stray crumb might attract vermin," I countered with a small smile. "We'll figure it out."

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