Page 69 of The Hockey Pact

I sat there long after she'd left, the remains of breakfast growing cold between us, wondering how something that felt so right could be so complicated.

Chapter 22: Caleb

The Blizzard's locker room vibrated with tense energy before the season's most crucial game. As captain, it was my job to project confident calm while navigating the distinct personalities that made up our team. I moved purposefully around the room, offering individualized encouragement—a joke to ease a rookie's nerves, a specific tactical reminder for a veteran, a silent nod of acknowledgment to the defenseman who preferred minimal pre-game interaction.

"Big one tonight, Captain," Cooper said as I stopped by his stall, his weathered face serious beneath his graying playoff beard.

"Just another game," I replied with the practiced nonchalance that belied the stakes. Win tonight, and we'd clinch our playoff position with breathing room; lose, and we'd be scrambling in our final regular-season games.

Cooper snorted, seeing through the facade. "Sure it is." He paused, lowering his voice. "Team's with you, you know. All the noise outside—we're blocking it out."

I nodded, grateful for the support but unwilling to discuss the personal turmoil that had dominated my life off the ice. "Appreciate it. Let's just focus on what we can control."

"That's why you got the C," he said, tapping my chest where the captain's letter was sewn. "Keep the bullshit outside where it belongs."

If only it were that simple. The "bullshit" had permeated every aspect of my life for weeks now—reporters shouting questions about my marriage at every public appearance, socialmedia dissecting Riley's and my relationship based on crumbs of information, even opposing fans chanting "Contract husband!" during away games.

And through it all, the hollow ache of Riley's absence. It had been nearly two weeks since she'd temporarily moved back to her apartment aboveHat Trick, and while we spoke daily, the distance between us felt like more than the few miles of Boston streets that separated us physically.

I'd respected her request for space, limiting our conversations to brief check-ins rather than the deeper discussions my heart craved. She'd even participated in a prestigious cooking competition in New York the previous week, where she'd advanced to the finals.

I'd watched portions of the competition via livestream between practices and team meetings, bursting with pride that I could share with no one but Max. She deserved the recognition, the chance to showcase her talents beyond the hockey connection that had initially boosted her restaurant's profile. Yet selfishly, I wished she were here tonight—not for appearances, but because games felt incomplete without knowing she was watching from the family section.

"Matthews," a voice interrupted my thoughts. I turned to find Diane standing at the locker room entrance, gesturing for me to join her.

"Everything okay?" I asked as I approached, immediately concerned by her presence just before game time.

"Just a quick update," she said, keeping her voice low. "The media focus is shifting somewhat from your personal situation to playoff implications. That's good news."

I nodded, though it hardly felt like a major victory. "And?"

"And I've spoken with team ownership. They're satisfied with your on-ice performance despite the..." she paused, choosing her words carefully, "personal complications. The captaincy remains secure."

The news should have brought relief, yet I found myself surprisingly indifferent. Captaincy meant far less now than it once had, a distant priority compared to the uncertainty of my future with Riley.

"Thanks," I said, unable to muster more enthusiasm. "Anything else?"

Diane's gaze softened with concern. "Just focus on the game, Caleb. The rest will sort itself out."

I nodded again and returned to the locker room to finish preparing. Twenty minutes later, I stood at center ice for the opening face-off, channeling my complicated emotions into heightened competitive focus. The first period passed in a blur of controlled aggression, each shift a welcome reprieve from the thoughts that plagued me off the ice.

Midway through the second period, I intercepted a sloppy cross-ice pass from the opposing defenseman and broke away toward their goal. The goalie committed too early; I deked right, then lifted a backhand shot into the top corner. The red light flashed, the arena erupted, and my teammates mobbed me along the boards.

My celebration was automatic but subdued, eyes instinctively searching the family section before remembering Riley's absence. The gesture didn't go unnoticed by the commentators, who referenced the "ongoing personal situation" with barely disguised speculation.

The third period became a defensive battle as we protected our one-goal lead against increasingly desperateopposition. With minutes remaining, I took a punishing hit while clearing our defensive zone—a legal but brutally effective check that sent me heavily into the boards. My shoulder absorbed most of the impact, sending a searing pain down my arm that momentarily stole my breath.

Max was immediately beside me, concern evident even through his goalie mask. "You good?"

I nodded, regaining my feet quickly. "I'm fine. Let's finish this."

The adrenaline carried me through the final minutes, awareness of the game's importance overriding physical discomfort. When the final horn sounded, signaling victory and playoff qualification, the locker room erupted in jubilant celebration.

I participated with genuine pleasure despite growing discomfort, fulfilling captain's duties with media and ownership while concealing the extent of my injury. Only during the medical examination afterward did I acknowledge the significant shoulder strain, requiring treatment and potential imaging.

"Ice it tonight, limit movement," the team doctor instructed after manipulating my shoulder. "We'll reevaluate before next practice. Might need to get scans if it's still this tender tomorrow."

I nodded, too exhausted to argue for a more optimistic prognosis. In the quiet of the training room, I finally checked my phone, hoping for messages from Riley about her competition results. Instead, I found a travel notification—a forwarded itinerary showing her flight from New York to Boston, departing soon.

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