Page 24 of The Hockey Pact

Diane nodded in approval. "I need to check on some things anyway. Have fun, Riley. Remember, just be yourself."

Easy for her to say. She wasn't pretending to be madly in love with someone she'd known for a few weeks.

Annabelle led me to a private section filled with stylish women in team colors, some with children in tow. "Everyone, this is Riley Matthews, Caleb's wife!" she announced, and I was immediately surrounded by curious faces.

"We were starting to think Caleb would never settle down," said a petite redhead with a toddler on her hip. "I'm Shannon, by the way. Johnson's wife."

"The wedding was so romantic," added another woman. "So intimate and personal. Much better than some of the over-the-top productions we've seen."

I smiled and nodded, offering brief thanks for their congratulations while trying to remember the background stories Diane and I had prepared. Yes, we'd had a whirlwind romance. No, we weren't planning on children right away. Yes, I would continue running my restaurant.

Annabelle steered me to a seat next to hers, explaining the unwritten rules and traditions as we settled in. "Usually the wives sit together, girlfriends in the row behind—hierarchy, you know. But since you're new, stick with me."

"Thanks," I said, grateful for her guidance. "This is all a bit... intense."

"Oh, honey, I know exactly how you feel," Annabelle said sympathetically. "When I first started dating Luke, I felt like I'd landed on another planet. The hockey world has its own culture, its own language. But you'll get the hang of it."

"How long have you and Luke been together?" I asked, curious about the woman whose husband was Caleb's competition for the captaincy.

"Eight years, married for six," she said with practiced smoothness. "We met in college—he played hockey, I was in business school. Very conventional story." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Yours is much more romantic. Caleb discovering your restaurant, falling for the chef... it's like a movie."

I forced a smile, guilt gnawing at me. "It was unexpected," I said truthfully. "For both of us."

"The best ones always are," she agreed, squeezing my arm. "Oh, look! They're coming out for warmups."

The crowd roared as the Blizzard took the ice. Despite my nervousness about my role, I couldn't help being caught up in the excitement. I'd watched countless hockey games, but never from seats like these, never with the knowledge that one of those players was legally my husband.

I spotted Caleb immediately, his familiar number 22 jersey and smooth skating style instantly recognizable even among his teammates. He looked different somehow—more focused, more intense than the man who'd blearily accepted coffee in our kitchen that morning.

"They're in their element now," Annabelle commented, noticing my absorption. "Different people once they hit the ice."

"I can see that," I murmured, watching as Caleb executed a perfect drill, his movements powerful and precise.

When the game began, I found myself genuinely invested in every play. This wasn't just any Boston Blizzard game—it was Caleb's game, and suddenly that distinction mattered intensely. I cheered at good plays and gasped at near-misses, my reactions entirely unfeigned.

Midway through the second period, Caleb scored on a beautiful breakaway, slipping the puck past the goalie with a quick flick of his wrist that seemed almost casual in its perfection. The arena erupted, and I jumped to my feet with a cheer that came straight from my heart.

Annabelle squeezed my arm excitedly. "That's your husband out there!"

The words hit me with unexpected force. That was my husband. Not in any real sense, of course. But in this moment,watching him celebrate with his teammates, pride swelled within me that had nothing to do with our agreement.

After the Blizzard's 3-1 victory, Annabelle led me to the family room where wives and girlfriends waited for the players to emerge from post-game meetings and press obligations.

"First time in the family room?" she asked, guiding me to a comfortable seating area.

"Is it that obvious?" I laughed nervously.

"Only a little," she assured me. "You have that 'trying to look like I know what I'm doing' expression we all had at first. Don't worry, it gets easier."

I was grateful for her kindness, even as guilt nagged at me. These women were welcoming me into their circle, assuming I was just like them—a woman who had fallen in love with a hockey player and committed to the complicated life that entailed.

Players began trickling in, freshly showered but still bearing the marks of the game—a bruise here, a small cut there. Some immediately scooped up waiting children, others greeted wives or girlfriends with easy familiarity born of established routines.

When Caleb emerged, his hair still damp from the shower, his face tired but satisfied, I felt suddenly nervous. We'd practiced how to act in public, but this was different—this was his world, these were his colleagues and friends.

His exhausted expression brightened when he spotted me, and he made his way directly over, ignoring reporters who called his name from the permitted media section. Without hesitation, he wrapped me in a hug that lifted me slightly off my feet.

"You came," he said, his voice low near my ear.

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