Page 8 of The Hockey Pact

"I watch all the games," I admitted. "Hence..." I gestured around the restaurant.

"I thought maybe the hockey theme was just a gimmick for being near the arena," Max said around a mouthful of poutine. "But holy shit, this is good. Like,reallygood." He pointed his fork at me. "You actually care about both parts—the hockeyandthe food."

"That was the idea," I said, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "Great food in a place where hockey fans could feel at home."

"Well, mission accomplished," Caleb said, twirling pasta around his fork. After taking a bite, his eyes widened slightly. "This is incredible. The pancetta is house-cured, isn't it?"

I blinked, impressed by his palate. "Yes, actually. We do all our charcuterie in-house."

"My mother insisted I learn to cook properly before I left home," he explained, noticing my surprise. "Said no son of herswas going to live on protein shakes and takeout, professional athlete or not."

"Smart woman," I said with a smile.

Max excused himself to use the restroom, and I was about to return to the kitchen when Caleb asked about the construction outside.

I hesitated before answering honestly. "It's been brutal. What was supposed to be a six-week project is in its fifth month. Our foot traffic is down about eighty percent."

His brow furrowed with genuine concern. "That's rough. The city provide any compensation for businesses affected?"

I laughed without humor. "That would require them admitting they're behind schedule and over budget. So far it's just empty promises about how great the street will be when it's done—if any of us are still in business by then."

Before Caleb could respond, the kitchen door swung open and Zoe emerged, carrying a small tray of what I recognized as the new dessert she'd been experimenting with—chocolate mousse shaped like hockey pucks with red raspberry sauce.

At the same moment, Max returned from the restroom, and their paths intersected near the bar. I watched with amusement as Max's expression transformed from casual interest to exaggerated charm.

"Well, hello there," he said, stepping directly into Zoe's path. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. Max Ferguson, goalie extraordinaire and connoisseur of excellent poutine."

Zoe's expression didn't change as she expertly sidestepped him. "Congratulations on mastering basic manners.If you're returning to your table, it's still over there where you left it."

Instead of being deterred, Max looked delighted by her dismissal. "And you are...?"

"Busy," Zoe replied crisply, continuing toward a table of customers who had arrived while I was talking with Caleb and Max.

"Your friend doesn't seem easily impressed," Caleb observed, his tone amused.

"Zoe's my sous chef and best friend. And no, professional athletes don't impress her—good tippers do."

Max, who had returned to our vicinity, perked up at this. "Is that a challenge? Because I love challenges."

"It wasn't meant to—" I began, but Max was already pulling out his wallet.

Caleb shook his head, a gesture of fond exasperation directed at his friend. “Max never passes up a competition—real or imagined—without trying to win.”

"I heard that," Max called over his shoulder as he headed to the register, where Zoe was now stationed, her expression distinctly unimpressed.

Left alone with Caleb, I found myself oddly tongue-tied. Talking had felt effortless when he was just another customer, but now every detail jumped out at me—the mounting piles of unpaid bills, the faded upholstery, the whisper of collapse hanging overHat Trick.

"I meant to ask," Caleb said, interrupting my spiral of self-consciousness, "would you be interested in catering an event?"

I stared at him, certain I'd misheard. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The team's wives' association is organizing a charity event for local schools," he explained. "They're looking for a caterer. Based on the food here, I think you'd be perfect."

"Are you serious?" I couldn't keep the hope from my voice.

"Completely." He reached into his pocket and produced a business card, scribbling a number on the back. "This is Annabelle Peterson's contact information. She's heading the committee. If you call her and mention I suggested you, I'm sure she'd at least want to discuss options."

I took the card, fighting the urge to clutch it to my chest like a lifeline. A catering gig for the Boston Blizzard's charity event would not only provide much-needed income but also exposure to exactly the kind of clients who could help keepHat Trickafloat.

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