Page 4 of The Hockey Pact

"Is impeccable," Whitman finished for me, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Eleven seasons with us. Four All-Star selections. Olympic silver. Nobody questions your athletic credentials, son."

The "but" hung in the air between us, unspoken but deafening.

Whitman leaned forward, his expensive suit jacket stretching across shoulders that had once carried the Boston Blizzard to a championship in the 1970s. Now in his seventies, he'd transitioned from player to businessman with ruthless efficiency.

"You're thirty, Caleb. Most men your age have put down roots."

I felt my jaw tighten. "With all due respect, sir, I'm fully committed to this team. I've turned down better offers to stay in Boston."

"And we appreciate that loyalty," Whitman acknowledged, tapping manicured fingernails against his desk. "But the face of the franchise needs to represent our values. Family. Community. Stability."

The implication was crystal clear, even if he was too diplomatic to state it outright. My bachelor lifestyle—however exaggerated by the press—was the one thing standing between me and the captaincy I'd worked my entire career to earn.

"Luke Peterson has expressed interest in the position," Whitman continued, watching my reaction carefully.

I kept my face blank through sheer force of will. Peterson was a solid second-line center, respected in the locker room but nowhere near my caliber on the ice. His greatest achievements were his picture-perfect family photos and community service record.

"I see," was all I trusted myself to say.

"Nothing's decided yet," Whitman said. "We have until the season opener in October. Just... give some thought to the kind of image you want to project as a leader. The kind of legacy you want to leave."

I recognized the dismissal in his tone and stood, extending my hand automatically. "Thank you for your candor, sir."

His grip was firm, his smile practiced. "Always a pleasure, Caleb. Give my regards to your father next time you speak with him."

The mention of my father—a former NHL player himself—felt deliberate, another reminder of unmet expectations.

I walked out of Whitman's office with my game face intact, nodding politely to his secretary as I passed. Only in theprivacy of the empty stairwell did I allow my fist to connect with the concrete wall, the dull pain a welcome distraction from my frustration.

The locker room was mostly empty this time of year, with only a few players using the facilities for off-season training. I found Max exactly where I expected—sprawled on the bench in front of his locker, watching game tape on his tablet while eating something that violated at least three of our nutritionist's rules.

"If that's another one of your peanut butter and pickle abominations, I'm reporting you to Coach," I said, dropping onto the bench beside him.

Max Ferguson, our star goalie and my best friend since rookie year, grinned without looking up. "It's cucumber today, technically. More hydrating." He paused the video and finally glanced at me, his smile fading. "Whoa. What happened to you? Your 'someone just slashed me and the ref missed it' face is showing."

I considered downplaying it, then remembered this was Max—the one person who could always see through my bullshit. "Just had a meeting with Whitman about the captaincy."

"And?" Max prompted, shoving the sandwich aside.

"And apparently my hockey skills, stats, and decade-plus with the team aren't enough. I need to 'put down roots' and 'project stability.'"

Max stared at me for a beat, then burst into laughter. "Are you kidding me? He wants you to get married?"

"He didn't say those exact words," I admitted, "but the message was pretty clear."

"Let me get this straight." Max sat up, eyes dancing with wicked amusement. "Harold Whitman is making the captaincy contingent on you getting a ring on your finger?"

"He mentioned that Peterson is also being considered."

Max's amusement vanished. "Peterson? The guy couldn't lead a conga line, let alone a hockey team."

"He's got a wife, 2.5 kids, and a golden retriever," I pointed out. "Apparently that counts for more than my point totals."

"So what, you're supposed to find some nice girl and settle down in the next—when's the deadline?"

"Season opener. October."

Max whistled. "Three months to find true love? That's some fairy tale timeline."

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