Page 67 of The Hockey Pact

Over the next few days,Hat Trickbecame a battleground of curiosity-seekers and paparazzi, making normal operation nearly impossible. Riley tried to maintain her usual schedule, but I could see the strain taking its toll. Each day, she returned home a little more subdued, a little more withdrawn.

Photographers camped outside our building, shouting invasive questions whenever we entered or left. I could handle it—media harassment was part of professional sports—but Riley wasn't accustomed to such intrusion. The breaking point came when she called me in tears after a particularly aggressive photographer had cornered her outsideHat Trick, asking if she "married for money or actually believes he loves her now."

That night, I found her packing a small bag in our bedroom.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my stomach dropping at the sight.

"I think I should stay at my apartment above the restaurant for a while," she said without looking up, her voice carefully neutral. "Just until the media craziness dies down."

"Riley, you don't have to do that," I said, moving to stop her hands from folding another shirt. "We can increase security, or—"

"It's not just the media," she interrupted, finally meeting my eyes. "I need some space to think, Caleb. Everything's happening so fast—the scandal, the interview, your playoffs starting. I just need to breathe."

"You want to be away from me?" I couldn't keep the hurt from my voice.

"I want to be sure," she corrected gently. "About us, about whether we make sense beyond the contract and the crisis management." She touched my face, her expression softening. "I don't regret anything, but I think we both deserve to know if what we feel is real or just a response to all this pressure."

"I know what I feel," I insisted, covering her hand with mine. "It's not going to change if you're across town."

"Then it won't hurt to have a little distance," she reasoned, though her eyes betrayed her own uncertainty. "Just for a short while."

I wanted to argue, to persuade her to stay, but I recognized the quiet determination in her expression. Riley needed this space, and if I truly respected her as I claimed, I had to give it to her.

"Okay," I said finally, letting my hand drop. "If that's what you need."

She nodded, relief and sadness mingling in her eyes. "I'll stay in touch. We'll reevaluate after you've had some time to focus on playoffs and I've got the restaurant situation under control."

"Reevaluate," I repeated, the word sitting like lead in my stomach. "Right."

"Caleb," she said, coming to stand directly in front of me. "This isn't an ending. It's just...a pause to make sure whatever comes next is what we both really want."

I nodded, unable to articulate the fear that once she stepped away, she might prefer her life without the complications I brought to it.

After she left, I stood in our bedroom—my bedroom —surrounded by the lingering scent of her perfume and the empty spaces where her things had been.

For the first time since this whole arrangement began, I was truly alone, without the buffer of performance or contract to define my next move. The irony wasn't lost on me: I'd finally achieved everything I'd wanted professionally but none of it meant anything without Riley to share it with.

As I moved through the empty apartment, turning off lights and preparing for a night of restless sleep, my phone buzzed with a message from her.

Got to the apartment safely. The restaurant's quiet tonight. Sleep well. - R

The simple text shouldn't have provided as much comfort as it did. I typed back:

Thanks for letting me know. Miss you already. Good night. - C

I set the phone down, wondering if she'd respond, knowing I shouldn't expect it. When it buzzed again a minute later, I lunged for it embarrassingly quickly.

Miss you too. More than I expected. - R

A small ember of hope kindled in my chest at those words. Maybe this separation wasn't the beginning of the end, but a necessary step toward whatever came next.

The following days were a strange blend of hyper-focused hockey and aching personal emptiness. I channeled my emotional turmoil into relentless play, driving myself and my teammates with an intensity that left even our coaches impressed. On the ice, I could lose myself in the clean simplicity of the game; off it, everything reminded me of Riley's absence.

We spoke daily, brief conversations that maintained connection without addressing the underlying questions about our future. I didn't push, giving her the space she'd requested, but each call ended with the same hollow feeling—like holding my breath, waiting for a decision I couldn't control.

After a particularly brutal game against our most physical rivals, I took a vicious hit along the boards that left me momentarily stunned on the ice. Though I managed to finish the game, the team doctor recommended observation for potential concussion symptoms, requiring someone to check on me periodically throughout the night.

I hesitated only briefly before calling Riley.

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