Page 45 of The Hockey Pact

We spent the next hour devising a plan for how I could still participate in the preview despite my injured leg. The solution: a video call. Even with Zoe assuring me everything was under control atHat Trick, I couldn't shake the need to oversee the presentation myself, so I insisted on a live feed. Caleb, ever helpful, offered his tablet on a stand for a clearer view and promised to provide any remote assistance I might need.

"You don't have to stay with me," I told him. "I know you have team stuff."

"Canceled," he said, not meeting my eyes as he adjusted my ice pack. "Captain's prerogative."

I knew that wasn't true—Caleb never skipped team obligations—but I didn't call him on it. Instead, I found myself unexpectedly touched by his choice to stay with me.

By evening, we had a system in place. Zoe had positioned her tablet on the kitchen counter atHat Trick, angled to give me a clear view of the event. She would bring each dish to me for approval before service, and I could direct any last-minute adjustments.

"It feels so strange not being there," I admitted as we watched the restaurant fill with food critics, local chefs, and loyal customers from the livestream. "I hate not being in control."

"You're still in control," Caleb assured me, settling beside me on the couch. "Just remotely."

The preview was progressing smoothly until I noticed something alarming on screen. "Wait, what's happening with the juniper sauce? It looks like it's breaking!"

Zoe's harried face appeared in frame. "It is. The new line cook turned the heat up too high. We're trying to save it, but—"

"You need to lower the heat immediately and whisk in cold butter, a tablespoon at a time," I instructed, frustration mounting at being unable to fix it myself. "Make sure you—"

A familiar figure appeared behind Zoe, pushing into frame.

"Max?" I said incredulously. "What are you doing there?"

"Saving sauces and winning hearts," he replied with his trademark grin. "What temperature should this be at, Chef?"

To my astonishment, Max followed my directions perfectly, his hands steady as he whisked cold butter into the separating sauce. Within minutes, the emulsion was restored, silky and glossy as it should be.

"Since when do you know how to cook?" I asked, genuinely curious.

Max shrugged. "I watch a lot of Cooking shows on road trips. Also, Zoe called me." His eyes flicked to her with a softness I hadn't seen before.

"I did not call for your help specifically," Zoe protested, though her cheeks had flushed slightly. "But you insisted on coming over."

"Because I'm a gentleman," Max said solemnly. "And because your text said, and I quote,'Riley's hurt. Preview tonight. Help.'"

Zoe rolled her eyes, but I didn't miss the smile she tried to hide as she turned back to the kitchen.

Beside me on the couch, Caleb chuckled. "Ten bucks says they're dating by the end of the season."

"No bet needed," I replied. "I give it a month, max."

The rest of the preview went smoothly, with Max proving surprisingly useful in the kitchen. By the time the last dessert was served, reviews were already coming in on social media—overwhelmingly positive, with particular praise for the innovative winter cocktail pairings Zoe had created.

I closed the tablet with a mix of relief and lingering frustration. "I should have been there."

"You were there," Caleb insisted. "Just not physically."

"It's not the same," I sighed. "But thank you for helping me set everything up."

"That's what—" He paused. "That's what I'm here for."

The unspoken word hung between us:husband. That's what husbands are for. Except he wasn't really my husband, not in the ways that mattered.

"Are you hungry?" Caleb asked, breaking the momentary tension. "I can make something. Nothing fancy, but I won't poison you."

I laughed despite myself. "You've been taking notes when I cook, haven't you?"

"Maybe." His smile was almost shy. "I pay attention to things that matter."

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