Page 3 of The Hockey Pact

I busied myself with closing tasks while he ate, stealing glances at him periodically. With each bite, he seemed to unwind further, the tension gradually leaving his body. By the time he'd decimated all three appetizers, he looked like a different person—relaxed, maybe even happy.

When I brought his check, he glanced around the empty restaurant. "Construction keeping people away?"

I nodded, surprised he'd noticed. “Yeah—it’s been a rough couple of months.”

"That's tough," he said. The simple acknowledgment of my struggle felt unexpectedly validating.

He handed me a credit card without looking at the bill. When I returned with the receipt, he added a tip that made my eyes widen—it was nearly equal to the total.

"This is too much," I said automatically.

"No," he countered firmly, standing and gathering his cap. "It's not nearly enough. The food was exactly what I needed tonight."

As he headed for the door, he paused, turning back to face me. "I'll be back," he said, with a smile that warmed me.

"I'll be here," I replied. "At least for the next three months," I added under my breath after the door closed behind him.

Only after he'd gone did I realize I'd never asked his name.

Back in my small apartment above the restaurant, I dialed my brother, Danny as I made myself a sad dinner of leftover prep vegetables and hummus.

"Hey, big sis!" My brother's voice, always energetic, was particularly buoyant tonight.

"Hey, squirt. How's campus life treating you?"

"Amazing! Coach says NHL scouts will be at next weekend's game. Can you believe it?"

I pushed aside my own worries to focus on his excitement. "That's fantastic, Danny! Dad must be over the moon."

"Are you kidding? He's already planning his speech for when I get drafted." He laughed. "How's the restaurant?"

I considered lying, then sighed. "Still hanging on. Barely."

"The construction's still not finished? Jeez, Riley, that sucks."

"Yeah, well, city projects. You know how it goes." I tried to keep my tone light. "But hey, I had a customer tonight who ordered half the appetizer menu, so there's that."

"See? Things are looking up already," Danny said, his optimism undimmed. "Hey, when the scouts come, can you make it to the game? Dad's inviting everyone."

My heart sank at the thought of the gas money, the missed day of potential business, but I couldn't miss this. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, kiddo."

After we hung up, I opened my laptop to check my bank account, wincing at the numbers. The generous tip from my mystery customer had helped, but it was a drop in an ocean of debt. I had supplier payments due next week, and the quarterly tax payment looming after that.

I pulled up my spreadsheet of increasingly desperate options: taking on debt from shadier and shadier sources, selling kitchen equipment we technically needed, even closing down before the bank forced me to.

None of them were good. All of them hurt to contemplate.

As I finally crawled into bed, my thoughts drifted unexpectedly to my mystery customer. Something about the way he'd appreciated my food had momentarily made me remember why I'd started this journey in the first place—the pure joy of feeding people, of creating something that brought happiness.

I hoped he would return, not just for the business, but because his presence had somehow made my empty restaurant feel less lonely. His promise to come back was probably justpoliteness, but in my current situation, I'd take even the illusion of hope.

Chapter 2: Caleb

I sat ramrod straight in the leather chair across from Harold Whitman's expansive desk, trying to control my expression as the team owner's words sank in.

"I just think the captain should project a certain image, Caleb." Whitman's voice was mild but firm, his liver-spotted hands folded neatly on the polished mahogany. "Stability. Maturity. A sense of being... settled."

I nodded, keeping my face neutral despite the knot forming in my stomach. "I understand the importance of leadership, sir. My record on the ice—"

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