Page 44 of The Hockey Pact

"Treatment room. Want me to tell Coach why you disappeared mid-practice?"

"Thanks." Caleb nodded, already moving past him.

"Feel better, Riley!" Max called after us. "Tell Zoe I said hi!"

Despite the pain, I couldn't help but smile. "Still working on that, huh?"

"He's nothing if not persistent," Caleb muttered, but there was fondness in his voice.

Dr. Jenkins was a no-nonsense man in his fifties who assessed my ankle with efficient professionalism. After a thorough examination and several painful range-of-motion tests, he pronounced his verdict.

"Moderate ankle sprain. You're lucky—a little more force and we'd be looking at a fracture." He glanced at Caleb. "Same protocol as your players. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. She'll need a walking boot for at least a week, minimal weight-bearing for the first few days."

"A week?" I interjected. "I can't stay off my feet for a week. I have a restaurant to run!"

Both men turned to me with nearly identical expressions of disapproval.

"You can supervise from a chair," Dr. Jenkins said firmly. "But you need to let this heal properly, or you'll be dealing with it for months instead of days."

"He's right," Caleb added, his captain's voice in full effect. "And you know it."

I did know it, which was infuriating. "Fine," I conceded. "But I'm still going toHat Tricktonight for the preview."

Dr. Jenkins raised his eyebrows but said nothing, simply handing me a prescription for anti-inflammatories and fitting me with a walking boot. "Ice for twenty minutes every couple of hours," he instructed. "And elevate it whenever possible."

After thanking him, I attempted to walk on my own, boot and all. It was uncomfortable but manageable—until Caleb silently scooped me up again.

"This is completely unnecessary," I protested as he carried me back to the car. "The boot helps. I can walk."

"Minimal weight-bearing," he quoted. "Doctor's orders."

"Whose side are you on?" I grumbled, though secretly, the protective gesture warmed something inside me.

"Yours," he said simply. "Always yours."

The quiet certainty in his voice silenced my protests. By the time we reached the SUV, I'd relaxed against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the faint tang of hockey gear. It was disturbingly comforting.

As Caleb drove us home, I tried to ignore both the throbbing in my ankle and the awareness that he had abandoned practice to come to my rescue. That wasn't in our contract. Neither was the genuine concern evident in the tight set of his jaw and the way his eyes kept darting over to check on me.

"I'm really fine," I said finally, breaking the silence. "And I feel terrible about pulling you away from practice."

His eyes remained fixed on the road. "Do you really think I could have stayed on the ice knowing you were hurt?"

"It's just a sprained ankle. People get them all the time."

"Not people I—" He stopped himself, hands tightening on the steering wheel. "Not you."

The unfinished sentence hung between us as he pulled into the parking garage of our building.

At the penthouse, Caleb transformed into an unexpectedly capable nurse. He settled me on the couch with pillows beneath my ankle, fetched ice packs and water, and even remembered how I took my tea—one sugar, splash of milk. When I pointed out that none of this caretaking was required by our arrangement, hurt flashed across his face.

"Is that really what you think of me?" he asked quietly. "That I'd ignore you being injured because it's not in our contract?"

Put that way, it sounded awful. "No, I—" I sighed. "I'm just not used to being taken care of. It makes me feel... vulnerable."

His expression softened. "We all need help sometimes, Riley. Even stubborn chefs who think they can do everything alone."

I made a face at him, which earned me a smile in return.