Page 52 of The Hockey Pact

Three weeks ago, I'd felt an immediate urge to tell Caleb. But finding him asleep on the couch, buried under scattered game notes, had stopped me cold. For days, the news remained a heavy secret, bottled up tight as my courage wavered, shrinking with each passing hour. At last, I realized I couldn't keep it to myself any longer.

"Caleb," I said one morning, perching on the edge of the couch beside him. "I have some news."

He'd looked up from his notes, immediately giving me his full attention. "What's up?"

"Remember that international culinary competition that Zoe always talked about? The one in Paris?" I'd twisted my wedding ring nervously. "I've been accepted as a contestant."

His initial reaction had been genuine happiness, his smile lighting up his tired face. "Riley, that's incredible! Congratulations!" He'd pulled me into a hug, asking enthusiastic questions about the competition and expressing pride in my selection.

Then reality had intruded. He'd checked the dates on his phone, his expression shifting subtly but unmistakably as he realized the timing.

"This is during our final push before playoffs," he'd said slowly. "You'd be gone for two weeks?"

The question had contained layers of unspoken concerns. I'd quickly reassured him that I would decline the opportunity.

But Caleb's response had surprised me. After a momentary struggle visible on his face, he'd insisted I should go.

"This is your career, Riley," he'd said firmly. "You can't pass up opportunities like this for..." He'd hesitated, seemingly unable to define exactly what I would be sacrificing for. Our marriage of convenience? Our evolving relationship? The uncertainty between us?

Whatever had remained unspoken, the conversation had ended with Caleb firmly supporting my participation, even offering to help with preparations. He'd contacted his nutritionist to help me plan competition-friendly meals that would keep my energy up, and had even arranged for the team's private jet to fly me to New York to catch my direct flight to Paris—a gesture that had left me speechless with gratitude.

Now, alone in Paris, I missed him with an intensity that transcended our contractual connection. We spoke daily via video chat, conversations that easily filled an hour despite our busy schedules. Caleb showed genuine interest in the competition details, asking specific questions about techniques and ingredients that revealed how closely he'd been paying attention to my work over our months together.

In turn, I watched Boston Blizzard’s matches streamed live at odd Paris hours, texting my observations to Caleb, who often incorporated my surprisingly insightful hockey analysis into his captain's feedback.

A knock on my hotel door interrupted these reflections. "Riley? Are you decent?" Zoe's voice called from the hallway.

"Come in," I answered, turning from the window.

Zoe entered, looking more relaxed than I'd seen her in years. Paris agreed with her; the usual sharp edges of her personality had been temporarily softened by the city's romantic atmosphere. She'd even stopped protesting when I teased her about her daily video calls with Max, which had become a fixture of our evenings here.

"Final prep session in thirty minutes," she reminded me, then paused, studying my expression. "But first, you need to see something."

She produced her tablet, opening to a sports news site featuring an article about the Blizzard. The headline caught my attention immediately: "Captain's Wife Missing Critical Games for European Vacation—Trouble in Hockey Paradise?"

The accompanying photos showed me in Paris juxtaposed with Caleb looking stern after a recent loss. The article insinuated that my absence during crucial games indicated relationship problems, citing "insider sources" suggesting our whirlwind romance may have cooled.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, scanning the text. Though the piece carefully avoided making direct accusations, the implications were clear—and I recognized Vincent's handiwork in the carefully phrased suggestions of trouble.

"What are you going to do?" Zoe asked, perching on the edge of the bed. "This looks like someone trying to stir up drama."

"Ignore it," I said decisively, though my stomach had knotted uncomfortably. "It's just gossip."

"Gossip that could affect Caleb's captaincy," Zoe pointed out gently. "You know how seriously he takes that."

I did know. I'd witnessed firsthand how deeply Caleb cared about his leadership role—how he stayed late reviewing game footage, how he tailored his approach to each teammate's needs, how he shouldered both victories and losses with equal responsibility.

"I need to call him," I said, already reaching for my phone.

"It's 5 AM in Boston," Zoe reminded me.

"He'll be up. Morning skate." I tapped Caleb’s contact and switched to video call. My heart pounded as it rang.

On the third ring, his face appeared, framed by early light and rumpled sheets. "Riley? Everything okay?"

"I saw the article," I said without preamble. "The one about me being in Paris."

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes heavy. "Yeah, I saw it too. It's nothing, just typical media garbage."

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