Page 73 of The Hockey Pact

"Riley," he began, "this isn't performance or calculation or contractual obligation. This is choice. I want forever with you, without end dates or terms or conditions."

My hand flew to my mouth, tears now falling freely. This wasn't a renewal of our arrangement or a strategic response to public scrutiny—this was Caleb, asking for a real marriage built on love rather than convenience.

"Our story started in the strangest way imaginable," he continued, seemingly oblivious to the growing crowd around us. "But that beginning doesn't define where we go from here. I'm asking you to marry me again—not for captaincy or restaurant finances or public image, but because I want to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of my life."

"Yes," I whispered, then louder as joy bubbled up within me. "Yes!"

Caleb slipped the ring onto my finger—my left hand, which had worn his initial ring as part of our arrangement but had felt strangely bare these past weeks of separation. The sapphire caught the fluorescent airport lighting, sending blue fire dancing across our joined hands.

When he rose and pulled me into his arms, our kiss contained all the authentic connection we'd found through months of pretending. We were no longer performing for anyone, not even ourselves—just two people who had found love through the strangest of beginnings.

We became aware of applause surrounding us, travelers caught up in what appeared to be a spontaneous romantic moment. Someone recognized Caleb, triggering excited whispers about the Boston Blizzard's captain and his chef wife. A teenage girl nearby squealed, "Oh my god, it's Caleb Matthews!" while her companion frantically took photos.

"I think we've just created another media moment," I murmured against Caleb's lips, not particularly concerned about the potential headlines.

"Good," he said firmly. "Let them see the real thing for once."

Within minutes of leaving the terminal, both our phones began buzzing incessantly. Diane called before we reached the parking garage, her voice a mixture of exasperation and admiration.

"Airport proposal?" she said without preamble. "You two have either the worst or best instincts for public relations I've ever encountered."

"Sorry?" Caleb offered, not sounding sorry at all as he navigated through airport traffic with one hand, the other firmly entwined with mine.

"Don't be," Diane sighed. "The images are already trending. Perfect timing, actually—transforms the scandal narrative into romantic redemption story. I couldn't have scripted it better myself."

After assuring Diane we'd be available for a proper statement tomorrow, we hung up only to immediately receive a video call from Max, with Zoe leaning into frame beside him.

"Smooth move, Captain," Max grinned as soon as we answered. "The team group chat is exploding. Johnson's actually crying, the big softie."

"Congratulations," Zoe added, her usual sarcasm softened by genuine happiness. "Though I'm a little offended you didn't give me advanced warning, Riley. I thought we were friends."

"It was spontaneous," I explained, catching Caleb's eye with a smile. "Very spontaneous."

"Well, it's all over social media," Max informed us. "The Boston Blizzard's PR team is already retweeting the best photos with hockey puns about 'scoring for life' and stuff."

After promising to celebrate properly once we were home, we ended the call, both laughing at the absurdity of our relationship constantly playing out in public view.

As we drove towards the penthouse, conversation flowed naturally between updates and emotional revelations. I described the competition experience, detailing culinary techniques and challenges that Caleb followed with genuine interest, asking insightful questions that reflected how closelyhe'd paid attention to my cooking processes over our months together.

In turn, Caleb recounted the crucial game and playoff qualification, his normally measured descriptions more animated than usual. I found myself interjecting with hockey observations that Caleb found interesting.

At the stoplight, Caleb’s hand enveloped mine, his thumb gently brushing against my new engagement ring. “I have something else to tell you,” he said, eyes alight with excitement. “The Boston Blizzard’s owners called yesterday—they’ve been impressed with how well your concession stand at the arena is doing.”

"It's just glorified stadium food," I said modestly, though pride warmed me at the recognition.

"They don't see it that way," Caleb continued. "They're proposing expanded culinary opportunities throughout the arena, including a secondHat Tricklocation with playoff-themed offerings."

"Are you serious?" I gasped, mind immediately racing with possibilities. "That would be incredible exposure."

"Plus," he added with a grin, "it means you'll have legitimate business at the arena, so no one can claim you're just there as the captain's wife."

"As if I'd ever be 'just' anything," I retorted.

Arriving at the penthouse, we entered together, absorbing the rightness of being there simultaneously after weeks of separation.

Dropping our bags in the entryway, we moved toward each other with the magnetic pull that had characterized our relationship from the beginning—initial attraction evolving intosomething deeper, more substantial than either of us had anticipated.

Caleb's kiss was gentle at first, mindful of his injuries, but quickly deepened as weeks of separation and uncertainty channeled into physical connection. My hands found the hem of his shirt, carefully navigating around his injured shoulder as I helped him remove it.

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