Page 58 of The Hockey Pact

Caleb stepped forward, took the offered marker, and signed his name on the jersey with a confident flourish. My heart swelled ridiculously at the sight. What was wrong with me? It was just a signature, for heaven's sake.

Then Caleb turned and our eyes met across the room. His serious expression melted into a smile that felt like it was just for me. He crossed the room in a few long strides, still holding the marker.

"Your turn," he said, holding it out to me.

I blinked, confused. "What?"

"Captain's wife goes next," Max called out, grinning. "It's tradition!"

"Since when?" Johnson asked.

"Since right now," Max shot back. "Don't ruin the moment, Johnson."

I looked around at the faces watching us. "Is this really okay?"

Coach Evans nodded. "The jersey hangs in our locker room through the playoffs. The signatures represent our team family. You're part of that now."

With trembling fingers, I took the marker from Caleb. Our hands brushed, the contact sent warmth racing up my arm.

"Don't mess it up," Caleb whispered in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "No pressure."

I shot him a look that made him laugh, then carefully signed my name next to his on the jersey. Riley Matthews. When had seeing my name alongside his stopped feeling strange?

The team broke into applause and cheers. As I handed the marker to the next player, I caught Annabelle's eye. She was smiling at me with something that looked like approval, maybe even happiness. I'd been accepted into this unusual family, not because of a contract or arrangement, but because they genuinely saw me as one of their own.

The next day, I found myself in a very different setting. The Boston Blizzard's executive conference room felt cavernously empty with just six of us seated around a table designed for twenty. I sat beside Caleb, facing Diane, team owner Harold Whitman, his wife Gloria, and a stone-faced man introduced as the club's legal counsel.

I studied Whitman as Diane began speaking. I'd met him several times at team functions, but always in crowded settings where our interactions were limited to polite pleasantries. Upclose, I could see the calculating intelligence in his eyes that had built his empire before he'd acquired the Boston Blizzard.

Beneath the table, Caleb's knee pressed reassuringly against mine. His hand found mine, our fingers intertwining in what had become our secret signal of support. I squeezed back, drawing strength from his touch.

"We have a sensitive matter to discuss," Diane was saying, her professional tone betraying nothing of the panic she'd expressed in private.

Last week’s confrontation with Vincent had forced our hand. Coming clean to management before the potential leak was our only defense.

"Mr. Matthews has something he needs to share with you," Diane continued, nodding to Caleb.

I felt his leg tense against mine as he leaned forward.

"Sir," Caleb began, addressing Whitman directly. "When we spoke last year about the captaincy, you made it clear that my personal life was a consideration in your decision."

Whitman's expression remained neutral, but he nodded once in acknowledgment.

"I made a decision that wasn't entirely honest," Caleb continued. "I want to take full responsibility for that now, before you hear it from anyone else."

I watched Whitman's face as Caleb explained our arrangement—the contract, the financial components, the predetermined timeline. His expression hardened progressively, the lines around his mouth deepening into furrows of disapproval.

"So you're telling me," Whitman finally said when Caleb concluded, "that you entered into a fraudulent marriage to secure the captaincy?"

"The marriage is legally binding," Diane interjected smoothly. "All paperwork was filed appropriately."

"That's hardly the point!" Whitman's fist came down on the table with enough force to make me jump. "This is deception, plain and simple. This is not how the Boston Blizzard conducts its business."

The silence that followed felt suffocating. I stared at my hands, too afraid to look up and see the judgment in their eyes. Then, unexpectedly, Gloria Whitman laughed.

It wasn't a mocking laugh, but genuine amusement that made us all turn to her in surprise.

"Harold," she said, placing a manicured hand on her husband's arm, "this sounds remarkably familiar, doesn't it?"

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