Page 15

"To the captain!" Max bellowed, raising his beer high above his head.

The team roared in response, glasses and bottles lifted in a chaotic toast that sloshed beer onto Max's hardwood floors. No one seemed to care, least of all Max, who was enjoying his role as host of this impromptu celebration at his place.

I grinned and raised my own drink in acknowledgment, surveying the crowded living room. Nearly the entire team had shown up, along with coaches, a few management staff, and various significant others. The only person missing was—

The front door opened, and Riley walked in, still wearing her chef's coat with " Hat Trick " embroidered on the pocket. Her hair was pulled back in its usual work bun, and she looked tired but pleased to be there. Something in my chest tightened at the sight of her.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, making her way to me through the crowd. "Dinner service ran long, and then I had to deal with a supplier issue."

"No worries." I handed her a glass of wine I'd been saving for her. "You're here now."

She took the glass gratefully. “Congratulations again, Captain.”

"Thanks." I clinked my beer against her wine. "I'm glad you could make it."

She smiled. "Couldn't miss the post-game chaos, could I?"

I laughed. "Fair warning—Max is already three beers in and threatening karaoke."

Her eyes glinted with amusement as she sipped her wine. “Oh, that I’ve got to see.”

We hadn't really talked about what happened after the celebration dinner two nights ago—the kiss that had turned into several kisses which had turned into making out.

When we woke up the next morning and when I tried to address our intimate night, Riley's phone rang with an emergency call from Zoe about a kitchen crisis.

By the time she'd returned from dealing with it, we'd both retreated to our separate spaces, leaving the topic unaddressed.

Now, standing in Max's overcrowded apartment, I wasn't sure where we stood. The contract hadn't changed. The end date remained the same. But something between us definitely had shifted.

"Matthews!" Max shouted from across the room. "Stop hogging your wife and come settle a debate about the power play lineup!"

Riley nudged me. "Go. Captain duties call."

I hesitated. "You'll be okay?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm a big girl, Caleb. Besides, I see at least three rookies by the food table who look terrified of the dip. I should go explain that it's supposed to be that color."

"Alright," I said, still reluctant to leave her side. "Find me if you need rescuing."

"Shouldn't that be my line?" she teased, already moving toward the anxious rookies.

I watched her go, admiring how confidently she navigated the party. For someone who'd been thrust into the hockey world just months ago, she'd adapted remarkably well.

The power play debate with Max and the others lasted longer than expected, devolving into a heated discussion about zone entries that had Coach Evans joining in, whiteboard marker in hand, using Max's coffee table as an impromptu tactical board.

When I finally extracted myself, I spotted Riley across the room, deep in conversation with several of our defensemen. She was gesturing animatedly, and they were all leaning in, clearly engaged in whatever she was explaining.

"She fits in well."

I turned to find Luke Peterson standing beside me, beer in hand. Luke had been the other contender for the captaincy.

"Yeah, she does," I agreed cautiously, unsure where this conversation was headed.

"Relax, Matthews." Luke chuckled. "I'm not here to challenge you to a duel for the 'C' or anything."

"Sorry," I said, embarrassed at being so transparent. "I just—"

"I get it. But honestly? Whitman was always going to pick you once you got your personal life sorted. You're the better leader."

I blinked, surprised by his candor. "I appreciate that, Luke."

He nodded toward Riley, who was now demonstrating what appeared to be proper knife technique to a rapt audience. "She's good for you. Team's noticed you seem... steadier since she came along."

Before I could respond to that loaded observation, Zoe arrived carrying several large bags emblazoned with the Hat Trick logo. Riley immediately went to help her, taking one of the bags.

"Cavalry's here!" Riley announced. "Fresh Hat Trick appetizers for everyone who's tired of chips and questionable dip!"

The team cheered as Riley and Zoe began unpacking containers of food. I watched as Max immediately gravitated toward Zoe, his face lighting up with mischief.

"If it isn't my favorite chef's intimidating sidekick," he said, sidling up to her. "Still determined to resist my charms?"

Zoe didn't even look up from the container she was opening. "Still determined to pretend you have any."

"Ouch." Max clutched his chest dramatically. "Your words wound me deeply."

"And yet, you keep coming back for more." Zoe finally glanced up, her expression stern but with the hint of a smile. "Glutton for punishment or just plain stupid?"

"I prefer 'optimistic,'" Max said, reaching for one of the appetizers. Zoe slapped his hand away.

"Wait your turn, goalie. Team gets first dibs."

"I am team! Very important part of team!"

Their bickering continued as I made my way over to Riley, who was arranging food on the platters Max had provided.

"Need any help?" I asked.

"Can you grab some napkins? These are the messy sliders that—" She stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening as she looked past me.

I turned to see what had caught her attention. Our rookie center, Marcus, was tipping a flask into the punch bowl.

"Excuse me," Riley said, handing me the tray and marching directly toward the rookie. I couldn't hear what she said, but whatever it was made Marcus look properly chastised as he pocketed the flask.

She returned a moment later, taking the tray back from me. "Sorry about that. Someone needed to tell him that spiking the communal punch is a college move, not a professional one."

I grinned. "Look at you, enforcing team discipline. Maybe you should be wearing the 'C'."

"Please. I have enough trouble running one kitchen. I don't need an entire hockey team."

The party continued late into the night.

Riley fit seamlessly into team dynamics, discussing gameplay with veterans, offering cooking tips to rookies interested in nutrition, and generally charming everyone.

By the time we finally headed home, I was struck by how effortlessly she'd adapted to my world.

Early one morning, I faced my first true test as captain.

I’d just finished breakfast when my phone buzzed—Coach Evans, voice tight with urgency, explaining that our promising rookie Marcus—the very player Riley had stopped from spiking the punch last week—had been spotted at a club well past curfew on game night.

And, to make matters worse, the photos were already going viral on social media.

"Handle it, Matthews," Evans said. "I don't want to have to make this official if we can avoid it."

I paced the apartment after the call, trying to figure out the right approach. Marcus was talented but immature—pushing him too hard might make him defensive, but letting it slide would set a bad precedent.

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," Riley observed from the kitchen island where she was reviewing supplier invoices. "What's wrong?"

I hesitated, then explained the situation.

"What are you thinking of saying to him?" she asked when I finished.

"That's the problem. I'm not sure. If I come down too hard, I'll lose his trust. Too soft, and it undermines everything we're trying to build."

Riley considered this. "You know, it reminds me of when I got my first sous chef position. There was this line cook—brilliant with flavors but chronically late and disorganized."

"What did you do?"

"I took him to breakfast—neutral territory, not the restaurant—and asked him about his goals. Where he saw himself in five years. Then I explained exactly how his behavior was preventing him from getting there."

"Did it work?"

She smiled. "Not immediately. But it established that I was investing in him, not just disciplining him. Eventually he got it together."

I mulled this over. "So instead of just laying down the law..."

"Make it about his development, not your authority," she finished. "You're the captain because you earned it through dedication and hard work. Help him see the connection."

I nodded slowly. "That might actually work. Thanks, Riley."

"Anytime, Captain." She smiled, returning to her invoices.

I followed her advice, meeting Marcus at a coffee shop near the practice facility rather than calling him into the more intimidating team offices.

Following Riley's template, I focused on his potential and how his choices would either advance or hinder his career.

The approach worked—by the end of our talk, the kid was not only apologetic but seemed genuinely motivated to prove himself.

Over the next few weeks, Riley and I settled into a rhythm. Her restaurant reopened with a special event featuring Boston Blizzard players signing autographs. With the road construction finally complete and the hockey connection drawing interest, Hat Trick was busier than ever.

I found myself spending more time there, bringing teammates after practice or games, watching with something like pride as Riley commanded her kitchen. She was in her element there—confident, creative, completely herself.

Our home life developed patterns too. I started adjusting my schedule to match her early mornings, sometimes joining her cooking sessions. We created shorthand signals for public appearances—subtle cues for when to amp up the affection or when one of us needed space.

What I hadn't anticipated was how quickly the boundaries between performance and reality would blur.

When I absently kissed Riley's temple before leaving for a road trip, it took me half the journey to realize no one had been watching to necessitate the gesture.

After a brutal 4-1 loss to Toronto, I found myself turning to her for comfort rather than retreating into solitude as I usually did after defeats.

Most troubling, I started measuring my day by when I'd see her again.

These realizations hit me hardest one night after returning from a short road trip to find Riley asleep on the couch, an open cookbook on her chest, the TV still playing softly in the background. She looked so peaceful, so completely at home in my space.

I carefully removed the book and draped a blanket over her, resisting the urge to carry her to bed. Our sleeping arrangement remained strictly separate despite sharing the master bedroom—a practical decision after too many close calls with unexpected visitors.