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"Table eight says the Slap Shot Sliders are the best things they've ever eaten," Zoe announced, pushing through the swinging kitchen doors with an empty tray. "And table fifteen wants to know if the chef can come out so they can personally express their gratitude."

I glanced up from the dish I was plating—a new special featuring locally sourced mushrooms in a whiskey cream sauce. "Tell them I'm flattered but buried in orders. Maybe after the rush?"

"Already did." Zoe grabbed the freshly plated dish. "The place is packed, Riley. Again. We haven't had an empty table all week."

I allowed myself a moment to appreciate this fact as I moved to the next order.

Hat Trick wasn't just surviving—it was thriving.

The reopening event last week featuring Blizzard players had generated buzz throughout Boston, and the end of the endless road construction had finally made the restaurant accessible again.

But the real draw, if I was honest with myself, was the connection to the Blizzard's new captain. Being Caleb Matthews' wife had turned Hat Trick into the unofficial hockey hangout spot in the city.

"Chef," Tomas, my new line cook, called out. "Order in for three more Breakaway Burgers and a Penalty Box Poutine."

"On it," I responded, falling back into the rhythm of the kitchen.

Two hours later, the dinner rush was beginning to subside when I spotted him through the pass-through window—Vincent, the predatory loan shark who'd been pressuring me before my arrangement with Caleb.

He was sitting at the bar, sipping what looked like an expensive scotch and surveying the restaurant with calculating eyes.

My stomach tightened. I hadn't seen him since the charity gala where Caleb had first proposed our arrangement. Back then, I'd been desperate enough to consider his high-interest loan despite suspecting his "additional terms" involved more than financial commitments.

As I debated whether to confront him or ignore his presence, the kitchen doors swung open, and Caleb walked in with Max and several teammates. They'd just returned from an away-game victory against Pittsburgh, still riding the high of a comeback win.

Caleb's face lit up when he saw me, but his expression quickly hardened as he followed my gaze to the bar. Without a word, he changed direction, heading straight for Vincent.

I couldn't hear their conversation over the kitchen noise, but it was brief. Vincent knocked back his remaining scotch and left within minutes, throwing a dark look over his shoulder as he exited.

When Caleb rejoined the group in the kitchen, I raised a questioning eyebrow.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing important," he said with a shrug. "Just reminded him that my wife doesn't need his loan services anymore."

My wife . The possessive phrasing sent an unexpected warmth through me. It was just part of our act, I reminded myself. Just maintaining appearances.

"Well, thank you," I said, turning back to the grill. "Though I could have handled it."

"I know you could." He stole a potato wedge from a nearby plate, dodging my slap. "But why should you have to when your adoring husband is right here?"

"My adoring husband is going to lose a finger if he keeps stealing food before it's ready," I threatened, but I was smiling.

The team's enthusiasm turned the already lively restaurant into a full-blown celebration of their road win. I created impromptu specials named after players who had scored, starting with "Peterson's Power Play Pasta" and "Matthews' Mighty Meatballs."

When someone called for a toast, I found myself raised onto a chair, glass in hand, facing the packed dining room.

"To the Boston Blizzard," I began, "for bringing home a win... and for bringing me so many hungry customers."

Everyone laughed and cheered.

"And to their captain," I continued, finding Caleb's eyes in the crowd. "For leading on the ice with the same dedication and heart that he brings to everything else in his life."

Caleb's expression softened in a way that made my chest feel tight. This wasn't for show anymore. These words were just for him.

"To the captain!" Max shouted, raising his glass.

"To the captain!" the room echoed.

Hours later, after the last customer had left and most of the staff had gone home, Caleb and I lingered in the empty restaurant. I was teaching him how to properly care for the expensive Japanese knife he'd bought me as a reopening gift.

"You have to maintain the right angle," I explained, demonstrating the sharpening motion. "Too steep and you'll damage the edge. Too shallow and it won't sharpen properly."

Caleb stood close behind me, watching over my shoulder. "Show me again?"

I repeated the motion, hyper-aware of his proximity. When he reached around to try it himself, his chest pressed against my back, his arms bracketing mine as he gripped the knife and stone.

"Like this?" he asked, his breath warm against my ear.

"Almost." My voice sounded strained even to my own ears. "More like..." I placed my hands over his, guiding the motion. The contact sent tingles up my arms.

We'd been living together for months now. But something about this moment felt different. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with our arrangement.

When Caleb set down the knife and turned me to face him, his fingers tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, lingering against my cheek. I felt my pulse quicken and took a reflexive step back.

"We should clean up," I said, gesturing vaguely at the remaining dishes. "It's late."

A flash of disappointment crossed his face before he nodded. "You're right. Let me help."

Back at the penthouse apartment, we fell into our usual nighttime routine. Caleb reviewed game footage on his tablet while I prepped ingredients for the next day's lunch service, trying to distract myself from the unsettling closeness we’d just shared.

"The children's hospital visit is tomorrow," he reminded me, breaking through my thoughts. "We should leave by nine."

I nodded, continuing to chop vegetables. Annabelle, the unofficial leader of the hockey wives, had recruited me for the Blizzard's regular visits to Boston Children's Hospital, insisting the kids would love meeting a "real chef" alongside the players.

Pausing, I glanced at him over my shoulder. "I made hockey-themed cookies for the pediatric ward. Nothing too sweet—hospital nutritionists approved the recipe."

"They'll love that." Caleb smiled. "The kids, I mean. Not the nutritionists. Though they'll probably appreciate it too."

The next morning, we arrived at the hospital with boxes of cookies and the Boston Blizzard’s merchandise. The team's community coordinator paired us up for the visit rotations, and I found myself with Caleb as we moved from room to room.

I'd seen many sides of him over our months together—the focused athlete, the natural leader, the surprisingly thoughtful partner in our arrangement. But watching him with the children revealed a completely new dimension.

The intensity that characterized him on ice melted away, replaced by a gentle playfulness. He knelt to eye level with each child, remembering their names and details from previous visits. He took genuine interest in their drawings, their favorite games, their opinions on the Blizzard's season.

I followed his lead, teaching simple decorating techniques for the cookies I'd brought, delighting in the children's creativity and enthusiasm.

In one room, we met a particularly quiet boy named Eli. He'd had major surgery the previous week and hadn't spoken much since, according to the nurse who briefed us before we entered.

When our usual approaches failed to engage him, Caleb asked me for one of my plain cookies. To my surprise, he laid it on the rolling tray table and began an impromptu "shootout," using the cookie as a puck and his fingers as players.

"Matthews steals the puck, dekes around the defender," he narrated dramatically. "He's on a breakaway! He shoots—"

The cookie slid across the tray toward me, and I caught on immediately, using my hand as a goalie to block it.

"—and an amazing save by Goalie Riley!" Caleb exclaimed. "The crowd goes wild!"

A small smile appeared on Eli's face.

"But wait," Caleb continued, retrieving the cookie. "Matthews gets another chance. He passes to his teammate—" He nudged the cookie toward Eli, who hesitated, then used his finger to push it toward the edge of the tray where I was positioned as goalie.

"—who scores!" Caleb cheered as the cookie evaded my block. "Goal by Eli the Great! The crowd is on their feet!"

By the end of our visit, Eli was fully engaged in our cookie hockey game, laughing as Caleb's play-by-play became increasingly outlandish.

As we prepared to leave, Eli whispered something to Caleb, who smiled and glanced my way.

"Yes, she really is my wife," he confirmed, putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me close. "I'm the luckiest guy in Boston."

The words were for Eli's benefit, I knew. Part of the performance. So why did they make my heart race?

In the car afterward, I remained quiet, watching the city pass by outside the window.

"You okay?" Caleb asked, glancing over with concern. "Was that too much? The hospital visits can be intense, especially if you're not used to them."

"No, it was wonderful," I assured him. "You were wonderful with them. Especially Eli."

"You weren't so bad yourself, Goalie Riley." He grinned. "Nice save technique."

I smiled despite my conflicted feelings. "Years of watching Danny's games, I guess."

"The kids loved you. Annabelle was right to recruit you."

I nodded, still distracted by the tumult of emotions the visit had stirred up. The line between our contractual arrangement and something real felt increasingly blurred, and I didn't know how to navigate it.

Rather than explain this confusion, I changed the subject. "Annabelle mentioned the annual team charity auction is coming up. She said wives traditionally contribute items?"

"Right." Caleb seemed to accept the topic shift. "It's a fancy gala, raised over two hundred thousand for youth hockey programs last year. Everyone donates something for the auction—signed gear, experience packages, that kind of thing."

"What about a series of private cooking lessons?" I suggested. "I could teach someone to make a few signature dishes, maybe at Hat Trick after hours?"

"That's perfect," Caleb said enthusiastically. "People go crazy for unique experiences at these things."

We spent the rest of the drive discussing logistics for the auction item, the conversation returning to safer territory.

But beneath the practical planning, I couldn't shake the image of Caleb kneeling beside Eli's bed, creating magic out of a simple cookie—or the way it had made me feel to be introduced as his wife with such evident pride.

Our arrangement had no provision for developing genuine feelings. It was a business transaction with a ticking clock—mutual benefits with a predetermined end date.

So why was I suddenly dreading that expiration date with every fiber of my being?