Page 32 of The Hockey Pact

I grinned. "Look at you, enforcing team discipline. Maybe you should be wearing the 'C'."

"Please. I have enough trouble running one kitchen. I don't need an entire hockey team."

The party continued late into the night. Riley fit seamlessly into team dynamics, discussing gameplay with veterans, offering cooking tips to rookies interested in nutrition, and generally charming everyone. By the time we finally headed home, I was struck by how effortlessly she'd adapted to my world.

Early one morning, I faced my first true test as captain. I’d just finished breakfast when my phone buzzed—Coach Evans, voice tight with urgency, explaining that our promising rookie Marcus—the very player Riley had stopped from spiking the punch last week—had been spotted at a club well past curfew on game night. And, to make matters worse, the photos were already going viral on social media.

"Handle it, Matthews," Evans said. "I don't want to have to make this official if we can avoid it."

I paced the apartment after the call, trying to figure out the right approach. Marcus was talented but immature—pushing him too hard might make him defensive, but letting it slide would set a bad precedent.

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," Riley observed from the kitchen island where she was reviewing supplier invoices. "What's wrong?"

I hesitated, then explained the situation.

"What are you thinking of saying to him?" she asked when I finished.

"That's the problem. I'm not sure. If I come down too hard, I'll lose his trust. Too soft, and it undermines everything we're trying to build."

Riley considered this. "You know, it reminds me of when I got my first sous chef position. There was this line cook—brilliant with flavors but chronically late and disorganized."

"What did you do?"

"I took him to breakfast—neutral territory, not the restaurant—and asked him about his goals. Where he saw himself in five years. Then I explained exactly how his behavior was preventing him from getting there."

"Did it work?"

She smiled. "Not immediately. But it established that I was investing in him, not just disciplining him. Eventually he got it together."

I mulled this over. "So instead of just laying down the law..."

"Make it about his development, not your authority," she finished. "You're the captain because you earned it through dedication and hard work. Help him see the connection."

I nodded slowly. "That might actually work. Thanks, Riley."

"Anytime, Captain." She smiled, returning to her invoices.

I followed her advice, meeting Marcus at a coffee shop near the practice facility rather than calling him into the more intimidating team offices. Following Riley's template, I focused on his potential and how his choices would either advance or hinder his career. The approach worked—by the end of our talk, the kid was not only apologetic but seemed genuinely motivated to prove himself.

Over the next few weeks, Riley and I settled into a rhythm. Her restaurant reopened with a special event featuring Boston Blizzard players signing autographs. With the road construction finally complete and the hockey connection drawing interest,Hat Trickwas busier than ever.

I found myself spending more time there, bringing teammates after practice or games, watching with something like pride as Riley commanded her kitchen. She was in her element there—confident, creative, completely herself.

Our home life developed patterns too. I started adjusting my schedule to match her early mornings, sometimes joining her cooking sessions. We created shorthand signals for public appearances—subtle cues for when to amp up the affection or when one of us needed space.

What I hadn't anticipated was how quickly the boundaries between performance and reality would blur. When I absently kissed Riley's temple before leaving for a road trip, ittook me half the journey to realize no one had been watching to necessitate the gesture. After a brutal 4-1 loss to Toronto, I found myself turning to her for comfort rather than retreating into solitude as I usually did after defeats.

Most troubling, I started measuring my day by when I'd see her again.

These realizations hit me hardest one night after returning from a short road trip to find Riley asleep on the couch, an open cookbook on her chest, the TV still playing softly in the background. She looked so peaceful, so completely at home in my space.

I carefully removed the book and draped a blanket over her, resisting the urge to carry her to bed. Our sleeping arrangement remained strictly separate despite sharing the master bedroom—a practical decision after too many close calls with unexpected visitors.

Chapter 11: Riley

"Table eight says the Slap Shot Sliders are the best things they've ever eaten," Zoe announced, pushing through the swinging kitchen doors with an empty tray. "And table fifteen wants to know if the chef can come out so they can personally express their gratitude."

I glanced up from the dish I was plating—a new special featuring locally sourced mushrooms in a whiskey cream sauce. "Tell them I'm flattered but buried in orders. Maybe after the rush?"

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