Page 54 of The Hockey Pact

In the second period, he took a particularly vicious check that sent him crashing into the boards. He remained motionless on the ice for several terrifying seconds. I was on my feet, hands pressed to my mouth, heart pounding so hard I could barely breathe.

When he finally skated off under his own power, relief washed through me so strongly I had to sit down. But his grimace of pain was visible even through the grainy stream, and he spent several minutes in the tunnel before returning to the bench.

The Boston Blizzard ultimately lost in overtime, dealing a devastating blow to their playoff positioning. Immediatelyafter the game, I called Caleb and was relieved when he answered from the medical room.

"Hey, Paris," he greeted me, attempting brightness despite the obvious exhaustion in his voice. "Did you watch?"

"Of course I did," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Are you okay? That hit looked terrible."

"Just bruised," he assured me, wincing as someone off-screen examined him. "Nothing broken, no concussion. I'll be sore tomorrow, that's all."

I studied his face through the screen—the shadows under his eyes more pronounced, a small cut on his cheekbone, the strain evident in the tightness around his mouth.

"I'm coming home," I announced firmly.

"What? No, you have the post-competition events, the media interviews. That's important for your career." He shook his head. "I'm fine, Riley. Really."

"The restaurant needs me there," I countered. "And so does the team." I paused, gathering courage. "And you do too."

His expression softened. "Riley—"

"I've already made up my mind," I interrupted gently. "I'm booking a flight tonight. We'll handle Vincent together."

What remained unspoken, though increasingly clear to both of us, was that we needed each other beyond the parameters of our contract. The realization was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"Okay," he said finally, a small smile breaking through his weariness. "Come home."

My flight landed in Boston late the following evening. Despite my messages insisting he rest after the game, I wasn'tentirely surprised to see Caleb waiting at the arrival gate. He was wearing jeans and a simple navy sweater rather than his usual suit, and his bruised cheekbone was more visible in person than it had been on the video call.

But what struck me most was his expression when he spotted me—relief and joy transforming his tired features into something so genuine it made my heart ache.

I dropped my carry-on and closed the distance between us at a run, abandoning any pretense of professional distance. He caught me against him, arms wrapping tightly around my waist.

"Hi," I whispered.

"Hi yourself," he murmured, and then his mouth was on mine. The kiss began tenderly, then deepened, unfolding with a natural grace that felt years in the making. Our fingers wove together, finding a familiar rhythm. The weight of competition, the facade of our marriage, the shadow of Vincent—everything extraneous receded, lost to the singular, intoxicating pull of our mouths.

When we eventually broke apart, both catching our breath, he rested his forehead against mine.

"It's for appearances," he finally managed, his voice slightly rough, as he subtly tilted his head towards the bustling crowd of travelers around us.

My initial rush of emotion stalled. "Of course," I replied, a small, perhaps too-bright smile pasted on my face. But a quiet voice in my head questioned:were these excuses really needed anymore?

His concerned eyes stared into mine. "You didn't have to come back early."

I pulled back just enough to see his face. "Yes, I did."

His slow smile was like dawn breaking, full of cautious hope and something deeper that made my pulse race. "Let's go home," he said simply, taking my hand in his.

Chapter 18: Caleb

I sat beside Riley in Diane's sleek downtown office, trying to appear calmer than I felt. Under the polished conference table, Riley's hand found mine, our fingers intertwining naturally.

The past 24 hours since Riley's return from Paris had been a whirlwind. We'd barely had time to discuss what had happened at the airport—that kiss that had shattered the last pretenses between us—before Diane had called an emergency meeting to address Vincent's threat.

Now we waited for him to arrive, the tension in the room thick enough to skate on. Riley's thumb traced small circles on the back of my hand, whether to comfort me or herself, I wasn't sure. Either way, I was grateful for her presence.

"Remember," Diane said, straightening a perfectly aligned stack of papers, "let me do most of the talking. Vincent thinks he has leverage, but we need to assess exactly what he's got before determining our response."

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