Page 28 of The Hockey Pact

He grinned, his momentary speechlessness forgotten. "Is 'captainly' a word?"

"It is now," I said, reaching for my small clutch purse. "I decree it as the captain's wife."

"The captain's wife," he repeated, offering me his arm with exaggerated gallantry. "I like the sound of that."

I took his arm, trying to ignore the warmth that spread through me at the contact. This was all part of the act, I reminded myself. The flirting, the compliments—just convincing window dressing for our arrangement.

The restaurant was as exclusive as rumors suggested—all soft lighting, hushed conversations, and servers who appeared and disappeared with ghostly efficiency. Diane had not only secured us a reservation but arranged for us to be seated at what was clearly the best table in the house—visible enough to be seen by Boston's elite, but with enough privacy for conversation.

"This place is intimidating," I whispered to Caleb as we were led to our table. "I feel like I should have brought a translator for the menu."

"Scared, Chef?" he teased. "I thought you culinary school graduates knew all the fancy French terms."

"Cooking French food and deciphering a pretentious French menu are different skills," I retorted, settling into my chair as he held it for me.

The sommelier appeared to discuss wine options, speaking almost exclusively to Caleb despite my being the one with culinary training. I was about to say something when Caleb surprised me.

"My wife is the expert here," he said smoothly. "She's a chef with remarkable taste. I defer to her judgment completely."

The sommelier turned to me with new respect, and I shot Caleb a grateful smile as I selected a wine that wouldn't bankrupt even an NHL captain.

Once we were alone with our wine, Caleb leaned forward slightly. "So, Chef Riley, what exactly are we eating tonight? Themenu descriptions are mostly adjectives with very few nouns I recognize."

I laughed. "From what I gathered, it's a twelve-course tasting menu featuring seasonal ingredients prepared with techniques so complicated they require their own scientific notation."

"Sounds filling," he deadpanned.

"Oh, definitely. Each course will be approximately three bites served on plates the size of car tires."

He chuckled, then raised his wine glass. "To the captaincy—and to the woman who made it possible."

"To the captain," I echoed, clinking my glass against his. "You earned it, Caleb."

The first few courses came and went in a parade of artfully arranged morsels. As predicted, they were beautiful, delicious, and utterly insufficient to satisfy a professional athlete's appetite. Caleb's running commentary on each dish kept me laughing.

"This one looks like something that washed up on the beach," he whispered as the server presented a seafood course decorated with foam.

"Be nice," I scolded, but I was smiling. "That foam probably took someone hours to perfect."

"I'm just saying, food shouldn't look like the aftermath of a dog with stomach issues."

I nearly choked on my wine.

As the meal progressed, our conversation shifted from the food to more personal topics.

"Tell me more about growing up with Coach Jim as a dad," Caleb said. "Was he as intense about parenting as he was about hockey?"

I smiled, thinking about my father. "Yes and no. He brought the same passion to everything—coaching, parenting, grilling burgers, fixing the roof. But he was fair. He never pushed me toward sports the way he did Danny."

"What did he think when you decided to become a chef?"

"He was confused at first," I admitted. "Cooking was just a life skill to him, not a career. But once he understood how much it meant to me, he became my biggest supporter. Used to drive four hours to taste-test my final projects at culinary school."

"That's amazing," Caleb said, his expression softening. "My dad would have considered that enabling."

"What was it like, having an NHL player for a father?" I asked.

Caleb took a sip of wine, considering. "Complicated. He was hardest on me because he knew the path, knew exactly what it would take. Every skate, every shot, every game—there was always feedback, always something to improve."

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