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I wiped the same spot on the table for the fifth time, pretending the circular motion could somehow polish away my problems. The pristine surface already gleamed under the pendant lights, but keeping my hands busy was better than giving in to the tears threatening behind my eyes.

Hat Trick was empty. Again.

"That table's going to file a restraining order if you don't stop harassing it," Zoe said, emerging from the kitchen with her apron already untied.

I forced a smile. "Just making sure we maintain our standards, even if no one's here to appreciate them."

Zoe, my best friend since culinary school and the only sous chef willing to stick with me through this disaster, raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Right. And I'm just wearing this bandana because it brings out my eyes, not because we can't afford to repair the air conditioning."

"It does bring out your eyes, though," I offered, finally abandoning the table to slump onto one of the bar stools.

"Riley." Zoe's voice softened as she leaned against the counter opposite me. "We need to talk about—"

"The numbers. I know." I pulled out the small notebook I'd been avoiding all day. "I was just doing some calculations."

"And?"

"And we made exactly enough today to cover the electric bill. Maybe the water bill too, if nobody flushes the toilets for the rest of the month."

Zoe didn't laugh. "That's what I thought. Let's close up early. No sense wasting electricity on an empty dining room."

I wanted to argue but couldn't find a rational reason to stay open.

The lunch rush—if three tables could be called a "rush"—had been our only real business.

The construction crew outside had jackhammered away any hope of a dinner service, barricading the sidewalk and making Hat Trick look like it was quarantined rather than open for business.

"Fine," I sighed. "But I need to go over the books again later. Maybe I missed something."

"You've gone over those books so many times you could recite them like poetry," Zoe said gently. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll stay and help."

"No," I shook my head firmly. "You've already stayed late every night this week. Go home to your cat and that disgustingly healthy meal prep you love so much."

"You sure?"

I nodded, forcing brightness into my voice. "Absolutely. I'll just finish up here and lock up."

Zoe hesitated, then came around the bar to hug me. "It's going to work out, Riley. Somehow."

I returned the hug, grateful for her optimism. "Thanks, Zoe. See you tomorrow?"

"Bright and early. Though maybe not too early, since..." She gestured around the empty restaurant.

"Eight should be fine. We've still got that small catering order for the law firm."

After Zoe left, I moved through the familiar closing routine on autopilot. Hat Trick had been my dream for so long—a restaurant that combined my two passions: food and hockey. The names of dishes made me smile despite everything—Blue Line Burgers, Hat Trick Sliders, Penalty Box Poutine.

I'd poured everything into this place—my life savings, my culinary school training, and the small inheritance from my grandmother. For the first year, it had actually worked. We weren't exactly printing money, but we'd built a steady clientele, earned some good reviews.

Then the city decided to completely overhaul the water main that ran directly in front of the restaurant.

What was supposed to be a six-week project had stretched into its fifth month, with no end in sight.

The construction created a dusty, noisy barrier that only the most determined customers were willing to breach.

I was three months away from losing everything.

The crash of the front door slamming open jolted me from my miserable calculations. I spun around, heart pounding, to see a man standing in the entryway.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing jeans and a dark hoodie with a baseball cap pulled low. His posture radiated tension, like he was braced for impact.

"I'm sorry," I started automatically, assuming he was lost. "We're actually cl—"

"Are you still serving?" His voice was low and oddly desperate.

I hesitated. Every business instinct screamed to say yes—I needed every dollar I could get. But I'd already turned off half the kitchen equipment, and Zoe was gone.

"I—" I began, then stopped as he looked up, finally making eye contact.

Even shadowed by the cap brim, his face was striking—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw darkened by stubble, and eyes that managed to look both intense and weary. Something about his expression—hungry, almost pleading—made my refusal die in my throat.

"Please," he added, and that single word carried a weight I couldn't quite understand. "It's been a really long day, and I just need something that isn't room service or takeout."

I shouldn't have found his desperation for a home-cooked meal charming, but somehow I did.

"Sure," I heard myself say. "Kitchen's still open. Just... sit wherever you'd like."

Relief washed across his features. "Thank you."

He chose a table in the corner, as far from the windows as possible. I grabbed a menu and a water glass, mentally reviewing what I could still prepare quickly.

"Here you go," I said, placing the menu before him. "The kitchen's partially shut down, but I can still make most of the appetizers and a few entrées."

He glanced at the menu, a slight smile touching his lips as he read the hockey-themed dish names. "You a fan?" he asked, looking up at me.

I shrugged with a grin. “You could say that.”

He nodded appreciatively. "Cool concept."

"Thanks," I said, warmth spreading through me at the simple compliment. "Can I get you something to drink while you decide?"

"Bourbon. Neat." He looked back at the menu. "Make it a double of whatever your best is."

I returned with his drink—Breakaway Bourbon—and found him scowling at his phone.

"Ready to order?" I asked.

He set the phone facedown on the table with perhaps more force than necessary. "I'll take the Hat Trick Sliders, the Blue Line Nachos, and the..." he squinted at the menu, "Five Hole Five-Spice Wings."

I blinked. That was half our appetizer menu. "Hungry?"

A genuine smile crossed his face, transforming his features from merely handsome to downright devastating. "Starving, actually. And everything sounds great."

"Coming right up," I said, feeling oddly flustered as I headed to the kitchen.

As I worked, questions about my mystery customer tumbled through my mind.

He clearly had money—that bourbon wasn't cheap, and he'd ordered enough food for two people.

But there was something almost furtive about him, from the low-pulled cap to the corner table.

Maybe he was avoiding paparazzi? A minor celebrity?

Or just someone having a spectacularly bad day?

Whatever his story, I found myself putting extra care into his food.

The sliders—served on mini Stanley Cup-shaped buns I'd designed myself—got a perfect sear.

The nachos received an extra sprinkle of our house-smoked brisket.

The wings glistened with the precise balance of five-spice and honey glaze.

When I returned with the first plate, he was hunched over his phone again, his brow furrowed. He barely looked up as I set down the sliders.

"Here you go," I said. "The nachos and wings will be out shortly."

He mumbled thanks, his attention clearly elsewhere.

I should have been annoyed by his distraction—I was staying late to cook for him, after all—but something in his posture spoke of a burden I couldn't understand. So, I simply returned to the kitchen to finish his order.

By the time I brought out the wings, he was halfway through the sliders, his phone forgotten. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable—his shoulders had relaxed, his expression softened.

"These are incredible," he said, gesturing with a half-eaten slider. "Seriously, some of the best I've had."

"Thanks," I said, smiling for the first time that day. "Enjoy the rest."

I busied myself with closing tasks while he ate, stealing glances at him periodically. With each bite, he seemed to unwind further, the tension gradually leaving his body. By the time he'd decimated all three appetizers, he looked like a different person—relaxed, maybe even happy.

When I brought his check, he glanced around the empty restaurant. "Construction keeping people away?"

I nodded, surprised he'd noticed. “Yeah—it’s been a rough couple of months.”

"That's tough," he said. The simple acknowledgment of my struggle felt unexpectedly validating.

He handed me a credit card without looking at the bill. When I returned with the receipt, he added a tip that made my eyes widen—it was nearly equal to the total.

"This is too much," I said automatically.

"No," he countered firmly, standing and gathering his cap. "It's not nearly enough. The food was exactly what I needed tonight."

As he headed for the door, he paused, turning back to face me. "I'll be back," he said, with a smile that warmed me.

"I'll be here," I replied. "At least for the next three months," I added under my breath after the door closed behind him.

Only after he'd gone did I realize I'd never asked his name.

Back in my small apartment above the restaurant, I dialed my brother, Danny as I made myself a sad dinner of leftover prep vegetables and hummus.

"Hey, big sis!" My brother's voice, always energetic, was particularly buoyant tonight.

"Hey, squirt. How's campus life treating you?"

"Amazing! Coach says NHL scouts will be at next weekend's game. Can you believe it?"

I pushed aside my own worries to focus on his excitement. "That's fantastic, Danny! Dad must be over the moon."

"Are you kidding? He's already planning his speech for when I get drafted." He laughed. "How's the restaurant?"

I considered lying, then sighed. "Still hanging on. Barely."

"The construction's still not finished? Jeez, Riley, that sucks."

"Yeah, well, city projects. You know how it goes." I tried to keep my tone light. "But hey, I had a customer tonight who ordered half the appetizer menu, so there's that."

"See? Things are looking up already," Danny said, his optimism undimmed. "Hey, when the scouts come, can you make it to the game? Dad's inviting everyone."

My heart sank at the thought of the gas money, the missed day of potential business, but I couldn't miss this. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, kiddo."

After we hung up, I opened my laptop to check my bank account, wincing at the numbers. The generous tip from my mystery customer had helped, but it was a drop in an ocean of debt. I had supplier payments due next week, and the quarterly tax payment looming after that.

I pulled up my spreadsheet of increasingly desperate options: taking on debt from shadier and shadier sources, selling kitchen equipment we technically needed, even closing down before the bank forced me to.

None of them were good. All of them hurt to contemplate.

As I finally crawled into bed, my thoughts drifted unexpectedly to my mystery customer. Something about the way he'd appreciated my food had momentarily made me remember why I'd started this journey in the first place—the pure joy of feeding people, of creating something that brought happiness.

I hoped he would return, not just for the business, but because his presence had somehow made my empty restaurant feel less lonely. His promise to come back was probably just politeness, but in my current situation, I'd take even the illusion of hope.