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"Would you mind if I..." I gestured vaguely toward the offending pile.

Caleb looked even more confused. "If you what?"

"Put it somewhere else? Maybe the laundry room? Or at least hang it up to dry?"

Understanding dawned on his face. "Oh. Yeah, sure. I guess that makes sense." He looked slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, I'm used to living alone. Team habits die hard."

"And I'm used to a kitchen where one stray crumb might attract vermin," I countered with a small smile. "We'll figure it out."

Later, after I'd relocated his gear to the laundry room, I fell asleep thinking about the strange dance we were beginning—two people with established lives and habits trying to mesh them together, all while maintaining the fiction of a loving relationship.

I woke at my usual 5 AM, careful not to disturb Caleb as I slipped out of the guest room where I'd been sleeping. The kitchen called to me—I had new recipes to test for Hat Trick 's reopening, and early morning had always been my most creative time.

Within minutes, I was lost in the rhythm of cooking, the familiar routine grounding me in this unfamiliar setting. I'd just started the food processor when I heard a startled curse from the hallway.

Caleb stood in the kitchen doorway, hair rumpled from sleep, wearing only sweatpants and an expression of deep confusion. "What the hell? It's not even six in the morning. Why is there a... symphony of kitchen appliances happening right now?"

"Sorry!" I winced, turning down the food processor. "I'm testing new recipes for Hat Trick 's reopening. I always do my best recipe development in the early mornings."

He blinked slowly, clearly still half-asleep. "Early mornings? This isn't early. This is still technically night for normal people."

"Chefs aren't normal people," I explained, continuing to chop herbs with practiced efficiency. "Our body clocks are permanently damaged from years of weird hours."

Caleb shuffled further into the kitchen, eyeing my workstation with bleary curiosity. "What are you making that requires... whatever that torture device is doing?" He gestured toward the food processor.

"It's a new aioli for the Power Play Pasta," I explained. "I'm experimenting with roasted garlic and fresh herbs. Want to try it?"

To my surprise, instead of retreating back to bed, Caleb moved to the coffee machine and started brewing a pot. "If I'm up, I might as well eat." He leaned against the counter, watching me work with unexpected interest. "So this is your process? Creating new recipes at dawn?"

"It's when my brain works best," I admitted, spooning a small amount of the aioli onto a tasting spoon. "Here, tell me what you think."

He accepted the spoon, his fingers brushing mine in a moment of contact that shouldn't have felt significant but somehow did. His eyes widened as he tasted the sauce.

"Wow. That's... incredible. The garlic isn't overwhelming at all, and there's something almost... citrusy?"

I smiled, pleased by his perceptive palate. "Preserved lemon. Just a touch."

"It's perfect," he said, seeming fully awake now. "Are you always this productive before sunrise?"

"Usually," I admitted. "Though I can try to use the guest kitchenette for the early morning experiments if the noise bothers you."

He shook his head, pouring two cups of coffee and sliding one toward me. "No need. I should probably adjust my schedule anyway. Morning skate starts at nine, and Coach has been on my case about showing up more awake."

"So I'm helping your athletic performance?" I teased, accepting the coffee gratefully.

"Let's call it that," he agreed with a crooked smile that did strange things to my stomach. "Though maybe we could negotiate a slightly later start time? Say, 6 AM instead of 5?"

"I think I can work with that," I conceded, surprising myself with how easily we'd reached a compromise.

By the time he left for morning skate, we'd established a tentative domestic peace, with me promising to use the guest room kitchenette for extreme early morning projects and Caleb agreeing to a designated gear drop zone in the laundry room.

It wasn't exactly a traditional newlywed morning, but somehow it felt like progress.

That night, I attended my first Blizzard game as Caleb's wife.

Diane had arranged for a full makeover, insisting that my debut in the wives' section needed to make the right impression.

I barely recognized myself in the mirror—designer jeans, an expensive cashmere sweater, subtle makeup, and my usual messy bun transformed into an artfully tousled style.

"Stop fidgeting with your hair," Diane instructed as we walked through the VIP entrance of the arena. "You look perfect. Natural but elevated—exactly the image we want to project."

"I feel like an imposter," I muttered, suddenly terrified of meeting the other wives and girlfriends, who had been part of the Blizzard's inner circle for years.

"You're Caleb Matthews' wife," Diane reminded me firmly. "You belong here as much as any of them. More, even, since your husband is about to be named captain."

Before I could respond, a tall blonde in skinny jeans and a customized Blizzard jersey with "PETERSON" emblazoned across the back approached us, her smile wide and welcoming.

"You must be Riley!" she exclaimed, embracing me as if we were long-lost friends. "I'm Annabelle Peterson. We spoke on the phone about the catering event, remember? I'm so thrilled to finally meet you in person!"

I returned the hug awkwardly, thrown by her enthusiasm. "Yes, of course. Thank you again for the opportunity."

"Are you kidding? You saved that event. Everyone's still talking about those adorable hockey puck sliders.

" She linked her arm through mine, effectively separating me from Diane. "Come on, let me introduce you to everyone before the game starts. The first time in the wives’ section can be overwhelming.”

Diane nodded in approval. "I need to check on some things anyway. Have fun, Riley. Remember, just be yourself."

Easy for her to say. She wasn't pretending to be madly in love with someone she'd known for a few weeks.

Annabelle led me to a private section filled with stylish women in team colors, some with children in tow. "Everyone, this is Riley Matthews, Caleb's wife!" she announced, and I was immediately surrounded by curious faces.

"We were starting to think Caleb would never settle down," said a petite redhead with a toddler on her hip. "I'm Shannon, by the way. Johnson's wife."

"The wedding was so romantic," added another woman. "So intimate and personal. Much better than some of the over-the-top productions we've seen."

I smiled and nodded, offering brief thanks for their congratulations while trying to remember the background stories Diane and I had prepared. Yes, we'd had a whirlwind romance. No, we weren't planning on children right away. Yes, I would continue running my restaurant.

Annabelle steered me to a seat next to hers, explaining the unwritten rules and traditions as we settled in. "Usually the wives sit together, girlfriends in the row behind—hierarchy, you know. But since you're new, stick with me."

"Thanks," I said, grateful for her guidance. "This is all a bit... intense."

"Oh, honey, I know exactly how you feel," Annabelle said sympathetically. "When I first started dating Luke, I felt like I'd landed on another planet. The hockey world has its own culture, its own language. But you'll get the hang of it."

"How long have you and Luke been together?" I asked, curious about the woman whose husband was Caleb's competition for the captaincy.

"Eight years, married for six," she said with practiced smoothness.

"We met in college—he played hockey, I was in business school.

Very conventional story." She leaned closer, lowering her voice.

"Yours is much more romantic. Caleb discovering your restaurant, falling for the chef. .. it's like a movie."

I forced a smile, guilt gnawing at me. "It was unexpected," I said truthfully. "For both of us."

"The best ones always are," she agreed, squeezing my arm. "Oh, look! They're coming out for warmups."

The crowd roared as the Blizzard took the ice. Despite my nervousness about my role, I couldn't help being caught up in the excitement. I'd watched countless hockey games, but never from seats like these, never with the knowledge that one of those players was legally my husband.

I spotted Caleb immediately, his familiar number 22 jersey and smooth skating style instantly recognizable even among his teammates. He looked different somehow—more focused, more intense than the man who'd blearily accepted coffee in our kitchen that morning.

"They're in their element now," Annabelle commented, noticing my absorption. "Different people once they hit the ice."

"I can see that," I murmured, watching as Caleb executed a perfect drill, his movements powerful and precise.

When the game began, I found myself genuinely invested in every play. This wasn't just any Boston Blizzard game—it was Caleb's game, and suddenly that distinction mattered intensely. I cheered at good plays and gasped at near-misses, my reactions entirely unfeigned.

Midway through the second period, Caleb scored on a beautiful breakaway, slipping the puck past the goalie with a quick flick of his wrist that seemed almost casual in its perfection. The arena erupted, and I jumped to my feet with a cheer that came straight from my heart.

Annabelle squeezed my arm excitedly. "That's your husband out there!"

The words hit me with unexpected force. That was my husband. Not in any real sense, of course. But in this moment, watching him celebrate with his teammates, pride swelled within me that had nothing to do with our agreement.

After the Blizzard's 3-1 victory, Annabelle led me to the family room where wives and girlfriends waited for the players to emerge from post-game meetings and press obligations.

"First time in the family room?" she asked, guiding me to a comfortable seating area.

"Is it that obvious?" I laughed nervously.

"Only a little," she assured me. "You have that 'trying to look like I know what I'm doing' expression we all had at first. Don't worry, it gets easier."

I was grateful for her kindness, even as guilt nagged at me. These women were welcoming me into their circle, assuming I was just like them—a woman who had fallen in love with a hockey player and committed to the complicated life that entailed.

Players began trickling in, freshly showered but still bearing the marks of the game—a bruise here, a small cut there. Some immediately scooped up waiting children, others greeted wives or girlfriends with easy familiarity born of established routines.

When Caleb emerged, his hair still damp from the shower, his face tired but satisfied, I felt suddenly nervous. We'd practiced how to act in public, but this was different—this was his world, these were his colleagues and friends.

His exhausted expression brightened when he spotted me, and he made his way directly over, ignoring reporters who called his name from the permitted media section. Without hesitation, he wrapped me in a hug that lifted me slightly off my feet.

"You came," he said, his voice low near my ear.

"Of course I did," I replied, oddly touched by his apparent pleasure at seeing me. "Great game. That goal was incredible."

For the benefit of watching eyes, I rose on tiptoes to kiss his lips, a brief, practiced touch meant to appear affectionate without being inappropriately passionate for the setting. "Congratulations," I whispered.

"Thanks," he murmured back, his hand settling naturally at the small of my back as we turned to face various teammates who approached to introduce themselves to me.

Max appeared, grinning wickedly. "So the chef finally sees Caleb in his natural habitat. Impressed?"

"Moderately," I replied with mock indifference. "The skating was adequate."

Caleb choked on a laugh while Max clutched his chest dramatically. "She wounds me with her indifference! Matthews, your wife has ice in her veins."

"Only when it comes to overconfident goaltenders," I retorted, surprising myself with how easily the banter came.

"I like her," declared a tall defenseman whose name I vaguely recalled as Johnson. "She's not impressed by any of this. That's refreshing."

Caleb's arm tightened slightly around my waist. "Riley's got her own impressive career. She's just humoring us hockey guys."

On the drive home, we briefly discussed the game before lapsing into comfortable silence. I watched Caleb's profile in the passing streetlights, struck by how natural it felt to be returning home together after his game, as if we'd been doing this for years rather than days.

"Thank you," he said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

"For what?"

"For being there tonight. For making such a good impression with the team and the other wives. Especially Annabelle—her opinion carries a lot of weight with Whitman."

"She was very kind," I said, feeling another twinge of guilt. "They all were."

"They liked you," Caleb said simply. "Not the performance, not the role we prepared—they liked you ."

Something in his emphasis made me look at him more closely. "Is that surprising?"

He seemed to consider the question seriously. "No," he finally said. "Not surprising. Just... nice to see."

We'd reached his—our—building, and as the valet took the car, we walked into the lobby together, a matched pair in the eyes of the doorman who greeted "Mr. and Mrs. Matthews" with a respectful nod.

In the elevator, Caleb leaned against the wall, studying me with an expression I couldn't read. "I meant what I said, you know. About being glad you were there."

"I know," I replied softly, understanding that we'd reached an unexpected milestone—comfortable quiet after a long day, returning home together as partners, even if the partnership was built on legal documents rather than love.

The thought was both comforting and unsettling as the elevator carried us upward, away from the watching world and into the private space where we could stop performing—or where, perhaps more dangerously, we were starting to forget it was a performance at all.