Page 53 of The Hockey Pact

But the shadows under his eyes suggested otherwise. He looked tired—more than just physically, but emotionally drained.

"How bad is it there?" I asked quietly. "Be honest."

"We've lost three of the last four. Nothing to do with you being gone, just... not executing our system properly." His attempt at a reassuring smile didn't reach his eyes. "Tomorrow's game against Philadelphia will turn things around."

I recognized the determined set of his jaw—the expression he wore when he was pushing through difficulty. "Caleb—"

"Don't worry about me," he interrupted gently. "Focus on your competition. You've worked too hard to be distracted by this nonsense."

"But—"

"Riley." Something in his voice stopped my protest. "Please. This is your moment. I'll be fine. Besides, you need to save your energy for tomorrow's final. I expect nothing less than first place from my wife."

"Okay," I conceded. "But will you at least try to get some actual sleep tonight?"

"Yes, Coach," he teased, the familiar banter easing some of the tension between us. "Good luck tomorrow. Knock 'em dead."

After ending the call, I turned to find Zoe watching me with an uncharacteristically gentle expression.

"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," she said, though her look spoke volumes. "We should head down to prep. Final session in fifteen minutes."

The next day passed in a blur of focused intensity. The competition's final round required us to create a signature dish that represented our culinary perspective, with just five hours to execute it perfectly.

My entry—a modern interpretation of classic New England flavors inspired by both my background and Caleb's Minnesota roots—required precision timing and specialized techniques. I'd incorporated maple from his home state with the freshest seafood from mine, creating a dish that represented our unlikely union.

The symbolism wasn't lost on me as I plated the final presentation, my hands steady despite the pressure. This dishwas about more than winning a competition; it had become a reflection of how my life had unexpectedly intertwined with Caleb's.

While awaiting the judges' decision, my phone vibrated with an incoming call. Seeing Diane's name on the screen, I stepped away from the other competitors to answer.

"Riley." Diane's voice was unusually tense. "We have a situation."

My stomach dropped. "What's happened?"

"Vincent has obtained physical evidence of your contract with Caleb," she said without preamble. "Specifically, photos extracted from security footage of you signing the paperwork in Caleb's penthouse."

The room seemed to tilt around me. "How is that possible?"

"The building's security system was apparently accessed remotely—illegal, of course, but that doesn't change the fact that he has the images." Diane's voice was grimly practical. "He's threatening to release them to sports media unless you agree to sell him controlling interest inHat Trick."

I felt physically ill at the thought of Vincent taking my restaurant—the dream I'd poured my life into. But the alternative—exposing Caleb to scandal and potentially costing him the captaincy he'd excelled at—seemed worse.

"What does Caleb say?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

"He doesn't know yet," Diane admitted. "He's in pre-game preparations, and I didn't want to disrupt his focus. But we need to make decisions quickly. Vincent has given us 72 hours."

"I need to talk to Caleb before doing anything," I insisted.

"Of course. But Riley—" Diane hesitated. "Don't do anything rash until we've discussed all options. Vincent may be bluffing about the quality of what he has."

After promising to wait for further discussion, I ended the call, my mind reeling. When I returned to the competition area, the head judge was already announcing results.

Despite my distraction, I was awarded second place—an extraordinary achievement that would normally have thrilled me. I accepted congratulations mechanically, my thoughts in Boston with Caleb.

That evening, I sat cross-legged on my hotel bed, laptop open to the livestream of the Blizzard game. Zoe had offered to stay with me, but I'd needed space to think about the Vincent situation.

The game started poorly, with Philadelphia scoring twice in the first period. The camera frequently cut to Caleb on the bench, his expression intensely focused as he talked to teammates. He was playing with uncharacteristic aggression, his usual strategic precision replaced by riskier moves.

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