Page 6 of The Hockey Pact

As I contemplated this unsavory solution, my thoughts drifted unexpectedly to the small hockey-themed restaurant I'd stumbled upon earlier.Hat Trick, with its cleverly named menu items and the chef who hadn't recognized me—or if she had, hadn't cared. There had been something refreshingly genuine about the place, about her. The food had been incredible too, those Stanley Cup-shaped sliders far better than they had any right to be.

I made a mental note to return soon, maybe bring Max. Good food might help clear my mind for the difficult decisions ahead. And somehow, the thought of those sliders and the straight-talking chef who'd stayed late to feed me lifted my mood just a fraction.

Chapter 3: Riley

"One brunoise, not macedoine! If I wanted chunky carrots, I'd have asked for chunky carrots!" I called over my shoulder, elbow-deep in a complicated sauce reduction.

"I'm going as fast as I can with this dull knife!" Zoe shot back, the rhythmic sound of her chopping never faltering despite her complaint.

It was mid-afternoon, and we were prepping for a private event that “might” actually bring in enough money to cover next week's payroll. The industrial-sized mixer whirred in the background, kneading dough for mini pretzel bites shaped like hockey pucks.

“Riley!” Zoe’s shout jolted me so hard I nearly scorched the sauce.

“I’m a tad busy here—whatever it is can wait,” I grumbled, eyes glued to the simmering pot.

“No, you need to see this. Now.” Her tone cut through me, sharp as her knife.

I turned, and there she stood in the doorway—eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “Your mystery tipper is back… and they’ve brought a friend.”

"So? That's good news. We need customers," I said, though I felt a small flutter of pleasure that he'd actually kept his promise to return.

"You don't understand," Zoe insisted, grabbing a clean towel and practically shoving it at me. "Wipe your hands and come see."

Sighing, I passed the sauce spoon to my part-time cook and wiped my hands. "Fine, but can’t it wait for—"

"Just come!" Zoe interrupted, practically dragging me through the doors.

I stepped into the dining room, automatically scanning for my returning customer. He was sitting at the same table as yesterday, this time without the baseball cap. Without that shadow, I could finally see his face clearly—and the recognition hit me like a slap.

Caleb Matthews. Boston Blizzard's star center. The man whose face was plastered across half the promotional materials in the city.

And beside him, sporting a grin that could only be described as mischievous, was Max Ferguson, the team's notorious goalie.

I froze, mortified that I hadn't recognized Caleb yesterday. I'd served him ordinary food, chatted with him like he was any customer, completely oblivious to the fact that one of Boston's biggest hockey stars was sitting in my hockey-themed restaurant.

Caleb spotted me and waved, his smile both familiar and newly intimidating now that I knew who he was.

Taking a deep breath, I approached their table, hyperaware of the flour dusting my chef's coat and the wisps of hair escaping my hasty bun.

"Welcome back," I managed, proud that my voice sounded almost normal. "I see you brought company this time."

"I couldn't stop talking about those sliders," Caleb said, his voice exactly as I remembered—warm, a little gravelly. "Max insisted I bring him to try them."

"Insisted is an understatement," Max interjected, extending his hand. "I threatened bodily harm. Max Ferguson. And you must be the chef who impressed the unimpressable."

I shook his hand, still feeling off-balance. "Riley Caldwell. And I'm... I'm really sorry about yesterday," I said, turning to Caleb. "I didn't recognize you without your... I mean, with the hat, and it was late, and—"

"Please," Caleb interrupted, his expression genuinely amused rather than offended. "It was actually refreshing. Most people in Boston either stare too long or pretend too hard they're not staring."

"I just thought you were a regular guy who really needed dinner," I admitted.

"I was," he said simply.

Max cleared his throat dramatically. "While you two have this moment, I'm literally starving. What do you recommend, Chef Riley?"

His interruption broke the strange tension, and I slipped into professional mode. "The Hat Trick Sliders were a hit yesterday, but if you're really hungry, I'd suggest our Penalty Box Poutine. Hand-cut fries, Quebec cheese curds, and short rib gravy."

"Sold," Max said immediately. "And whatever beer you think goes best with it."

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