Page 25 of The Hockey Pact

"Of course I did," I replied, oddly touched by his apparent pleasure at seeing me. "Great game. That goal was incredible."

For the benefit of watching eyes, I rose on tiptoes to kiss his lips, a brief, practiced touch meant to appear affectionate without being inappropriately passionate for the setting. "Congratulations," I whispered.

"Thanks," he murmured back, his hand settling naturally at the small of my back as we turned to face various teammates who approached to introduce themselves to me.

Max appeared, grinning wickedly. "So the chef finally sees Caleb in his natural habitat. Impressed?"

"Moderately," I replied with mock indifference. "The skating was adequate."

Caleb choked on a laugh while Max clutched his chest dramatically. "She wounds me with her indifference! Matthews, your wife has ice in her veins."

"Only when it comes to overconfident goaltenders," I retorted, surprising myself with how easily the banter came.

"I like her," declared a tall defenseman whose name I vaguely recalled as Johnson. "She's not impressed by any of this. That's refreshing."

Caleb's arm tightened slightly around my waist. "Riley's got her own impressive career. She's just humoring us hockey guys."

On the drive home, we briefly discussed the game before lapsing into comfortable silence. I watched Caleb's profile in the passing streetlights, struck by how natural it felt to be returninghome together after his game, as if we'd been doing this for years rather than days.

"Thank you," he said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

"For what?"

"For being there tonight. For making such a good impression with the team and the other wives. Especially Annabelle—her opinion carries a lot of weight with Whitman."

"She was very kind," I said, feeling another twinge of guilt. "They all were."

"They liked you," Caleb said simply. "Not the performance, not the role we prepared—they likedyou."

Something in his emphasis made me look at him more closely. "Is that surprising?"

He seemed to consider the question seriously. "No," he finally said. "Not surprising. Just... nice to see."

We'd reached his—our—building, and as the valet took the car, we walked into the lobby together, a matched pair in the eyes of the doorman who greeted "Mr. and Mrs. Matthews" with a respectful nod.

In the elevator, Caleb leaned against the wall, studying me with an expression I couldn't read. "I meant what I said, you know. About being glad you were there."

"I know," I replied softly, understanding that we'd reached an unexpected milestone—comfortable quiet after a long day, returning home together as partners, even if the partnership was built on legal documents rather than love.

The thought was both comforting and unsettling as the elevator carried us upward, away from the watching world and into the private space where we could stop performing—orwhere, perhaps more dangerously, we were starting to forget it was a performance at all.

Chapter 8: Caleb

I sat rigid in Coach Evans' office, my knees practically touching his cluttered desk, as the words I'd been waiting eleven seasons to hear finally came out of his mouth.

"Matthews, the 'C' is yours. Harold Whitman approved it this morning."

The captaincy. Mine. Finally.

I should have been wholly focused on this moment but my first thought was of Riley. I needed to tell her. She was the reason this was happening, after all.

"Thank you, Coach." I managed to keep my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through me. "I won't let you down."

"You better not," Evans said. "Press conference at three. Don't be late, Captain."

Captain. The word sent a thrill through me that was almost physical.

As soon as I left his office, I pulled out my phone to text Riley.

---