Page 37 of The Hockey Pact

The question caught me off guard. "What do you mean?"

"You and Riley." Diane's expression was unreadable. "This doesn't look like performance, Caleb."

I didn't respond, unsure what to say.

Diane sighed, patting my arm. "Just remember the contract has an expiration date. Hearts don't renegotiate as easily as paperwork."

Before I could formulate a response, she drifted away to speak with one of the team's sponsors, leaving me with her warning echoing in my head.

When photographers caught us leaving later that night, my hand rested naturally at the small of Riley's back. The resulting photos, which circulated on social media almost immediately, showed a couple completely in sync, smiling at a private joke—no acting required.

Back at the penthouse, Riley kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief, instantly losing several inches of height. I found the transformation endearing—from elegant gala attendee back to my Riley.

My Riley.The thought came unbidden and unsettling.

"Nightcap?" I offered, already moving toward the bar cart.

"God, yes," she agreed, reaching up to remove her earrings. "My feet are killing me, but I'm too wired to sleep."

I poured us each a finger of good whiskey, and we moved to the balcony with our glasses, looking out over the city lights. It was a clear night, unusually warm for November, with just enough breeze to be pleasant.

The conversation flowed easily at first, humorously reviewing the evening's highlights—the board member who got into a bidding war with his own wife, Max's outrageous flirtation with a seventy-year-old donor, the host's hilariously bad dancing.

Eventually, we lapsed into comfortable silence, sipping our drinks and enjoying the view.

"We've gotten good at this," Riley said finally, her voice soft.

I looked over at her, studying her profile in the dim light. "At what?"

"This." She gestured vaguely between us. "The whole... married couple thing."

I carefully asked, "You mean the performance?"

Riley didn't answer immediately, swirling her whiskey thoughtfully. "Is it still a performance? Sometimes I can't tell anymore."

The question hung between us, dangerous and tempting. Before I could formulate a response that wouldn't reveal too much, Riley's phone chimed with a message.

She checked it quickly. "It's Zoe. There's an issue with tomorrow's early delivery." She drained the last of her whiskey. "I should get some sleep if I need to be at the restaurant by five."

"Right," I said, trying to hide my disappointment at the interrupted moment. "Early morning."

"Thanks for tonight," she said, pausing at the balcony door. "I had a really good time."

"Me too."

She hesitated, as if wanting to say more, then simply smiled. "Goodnight, Caleb."

"Goodnight."

I remained on the balcony long after she'd gone, replaying the evening in my mind and wondering exactly when the line between acting and reality had begun to disappear.

Diane's warning echoed in my thoughts:Hearts don't renegotiate as easily as paperwork.She was right, of course. The contract had been clear from the beginning—a temporary arrangement with mutual benefits and a definite end date.

We'd both gotten what we wanted. I had the captaincy. Riley's restaurant was thriving. There was no logical reason to complicate things with feelings neither of us had anticipated.

But as I finished my whiskey alone under the stars, logic seemed increasingly irrelevant to the situation I found myself in—falling for my own wife, with no idea if she felt the same way.

Chapter 13: Riley

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