Page 7 of The Hockey Pact

I turned to Caleb. "And for you?"

He studied the menu for a moment. "The Power Play Pasta sounds great. Whatever local beer you recommend is fine."

"Coming right up," I said, relieved to escape back to the familiar territory of my kitchen.

Zoe pounced the moment the door swung shut behind me. "Why didn't you tell me your mystery customer wasCaleb freaking Matthews?"

"Because I didn't know!" I protested, grabbing a clean apron. "He was wearing a cap pulled low, it was dark, and I was distracted by our imminent financial ruin, remember?"

"Well, he's not wearing a cap now, and he's been watching you like you're one of your desserts," Zoe said, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't be ridiculous," I muttered, though I felt my cheeks warm. "He's just a customer who likes the food."

"Uh-huh." Zoe's tone dripped disbelief. "And I'm just a sous chef who likes chopping things."

"Speaking of which," I said pointedly, "we have orders to prepare. Penalty Box Poutine and Power Play Pasta."

"Fine, changing the subject." Zoe moved to the prep station. "But just so you know, Mr. Rich Famous Hockey Man's friend keeps glancing this way too."

"He's probably just hungry and checking on his food," I said, focusing on assembling the poutine. “Not every guy out here is hunting for dates, Zoe.”

"Keep telling yourself that." Zoe expertly tossed pasta in a pan. "Meanwhile, I'll be over here, not being impressed by pretty boys who probably think passing a puck is the height of accomplishment."

I rolled my eyes but didn't argue.

When the food was ready, I carefully arranged it on our custom-made plates—the pasta on a dish shaped like a hockey rink, the poutine in a ceramic "box" designed to look like a penalty box.

"I'll take these out," I said, balancing both plates.

"Of course you will," Zoe muttered, but she was smiling as she turned back to prep for our evening service.

As I approached their table, I caught the tail end of what seemed like an intense conversation. Both men stopped talking abruptly when they noticed me.

"Here we go," I said, setting down their meals. "Penalty Box Poutine and Power Play Pasta."

"This looks amazing," Max said, his earlier intensity completely gone, replaced by an almost childlike enthusiasm for the food. "The plate is an actual penalty box! Caleb, look at this!"

"The details are impressive," Caleb agreed, examining his own hockey rink plate. "You didn't just slap hockey names on regular dishes, did you?"

"Absolutely not," I said, oddly touched that he'd noticed. "Everything from the plateware to the recipe development was intentional. My dad coached minor league hockey for years, so the sport's always been part of my life."

Caleb's eyebrows rose with genuine interest. "Really? What level did he coach?"

"AHL mostly. He was with Providence for a while before moving to Hartford."

"Jim Caldwell?" Caleb asked, surprising me. "I think he coached against my dad once or twice in exhibition games. Robert Matthews?"

"Wait, your dad is Robert Matthews? The Power Play Sniper?" I couldn't help the excitement in my voice. Robert Matthews had been legendary in the 80s and early 90s, known for his clutch goals during power plays. "My dad used to use videos of his positioning as teaching tools!"

Max sighed dramatically. "And now we're talking about ancient hockey history. Can I eat my fancy food before it gets cold, please?"

Caleb laughed. "Sorry. Go ahead." But his eyes stayed on me with new interest. "How much do you know about the game?"

"Enough to know that your third-period goal in Game 6 against Toronto last season was one of the prettiest breakaways I've ever seen," I said before I could stop myself.

His genuine smile of surprise and pleasure made something flutter in my stomach.

"You watched that game?" he asked.

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