Page 75 of The Hockey Pact

"Thanks," I said, making a final adjustment to my collar. "How's everything downstairs?"

"Your wife is terrorizing the catering staff she hired to supplement her own cooking," Max reported with a grin. "Apparently no one cuts chives to her exact specifications."

I laughed, unsurprised. Despite expanding to three locations across Boston this past year, Riley remained hands-on with every aspect of her culinary empire. Her perfectionism was legendary among her staff, but so was her generosity and mentorship.

"And Zoe?" I asked, knowing Max's girlfriend had been helping with the event planning.

"Keeping Riley from firing the entire waitstaff," he replied. "Those two are scary efficient together."

The year had brought professional triumphs for both Riley and me. I’d captained the Boston Blizzard through our most successful playoff run in a decade—falling agonizingly short of the Championship, yet cementing my reputation as one of the league’s elite leaders. Along the way, I’d unearthed a new passion for food and restaurant operations, opening doors I’d never imagined beyond my hockey career.

Meanwhile, Riley had turnedHat Trickinto a Boston institution. Her flagship shop by the arena thrived on the energy of game nights, and her “Champions Corner” in the main concourse—where fans could sample hockey-themed fare while watching live action—became wildly popular. Her latest venture, a waterfront restaurant dedicated to sustainable New England seafood, earned critical acclaim for reimagining classic dishes.

And then there was Vincent—his schemes finally catching up with him. Last month, he was arrested for attempting to blackmail a rising baseball star. Separately, Diane had also pressed a litany of charges against him: blackmail, extortion, harassment, and attempted coercion. He's now behind bars, awaiting trial.

Through every high and low, our partnership only grew stronger. The scandal that once threatened our careers has since become Boston sports legend—our airport proposal and the redemption that followed are now part of the city’s lore, a reminder that the right narrative can transform even the toughest storm into a triumph.

“Caleb?” Riley called from the stairs. “Could you help me with this necklace?”

I slipped away from Max, who’d gone down for more “quality control” on the appetizers, and joined Riley at the full-length mirror. She wore a deep burgundy gown, her hair cascading in loose waves that perfectly framed her face.

"You look incredible," I said, momentarily forgetting the necklace request as I admired my wife.

She smiled, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. After a year of marriage she still responded to my compliments with the same mixture of pleasure and slight embarrassment that I found endlessly endearing.

"The necklace?" she prompted, holding up the delicate platinum chain with a hockey stick pendant I'd given her last year.

I moved behind her, taking the necklace and carefully fastening it around her neck. Our eyes met in the mirror as I completed the task, my hands lingering at the nape of her neck.

"Better?" I asked.

"Perfect," she replied, turning within my arms to face me. Her hands automatically smoothed my already-perfect tie, a habitual gesture of affection that had developed early in our relationship.

"Nervous about tonight?" I asked, noting the slight tension in her shoulders.

"A little," she admitted. "It's silly, I know. We've hosted bigger events, more important people."

"But this is personal," I finished for her, understanding completely. Tonight wasn't about hockey or restaurants or public relations, it was about celebrating the unexpected journey that had brought us together.

The doorbell interrupted our moment, announcing the arrival of our first anniversary guests.

"Ready?" I asked, offering my arm with exaggerated formality that made Riley laugh.

"As I'll ever be," she replied, taking my arm as we moved toward the door.

Before we even reached the entrance downstairs, Max eased the door open to reveal a foyer buzzing with eager, hungry guests. Zoe stood ready—clipboard in hand, excitement barely concealed.

“Perfect timing,” Zoe said. “The hors d’oeuvres are prepped, but the caterers need our final sign-off on the passed-appetizer lineup, and the florist just delivered the centerpieces.”

Riley snapped to attention. “I’ll handle it,” she said, slipping into chef mode as she followed Zoe.

"And I need you," Max said, clapping me on the shoulder, "to help with the bourbon selection for the toast. Critical team captain decision."

I laughed, recognizing the transparent attempt to separate us before the party. "Let me guess—you and Zoe have anniversary surprises that require us to be apart for fifteen minutes?"

"Closer to twenty," Max admitted with a grin. "Just play along, man. Do you know how hard it is to surprise two of the most detail-oriented people in Boston?"

I raised my hands in surrender, following him to the kitchen where a selection of premium bourbons awaited "inspection." As Max poured small tasting samples, I found myself reflecting on the remarkable year behind us.

---