Page 19

Aging has taken on new significance since entering professional hockey. Each year brings me closer to the inevitable end of my career—a reality every player faces but few discuss openly. Now at thirty-one, I was still in my prime, but the clock was ticking louder with each passing season.

Previous birthdays were often overlooked or celebrated with a team dinner and perfunctory calls from family. I'd never been one for elaborate celebrations.

This morning, however, I woke to the scent of coffee and something cooking. Following the aroma to the kitchen, I found Riley at the counter, focused on creating what appeared to be a substantial breakfast.

She looked up with a bright smile when she noticed me. "Happy birthday! I was hoping to have this done before you woke up."

The kitchen island was already set for two, with fresh flowers and a small wrapped package beside my plate. Looking at the stove, I realized she'd prepared all my favorite breakfast foods, including my mother's Swedish meatballs that I'd mentioned only once in passing.

This thoughtfulness affected me more deeply than I wanted to admit.

"How did you know?" I finally asked, accepting the mug of coffee she handed me.

"That it's your birthday? I have my sources." She grinned, returning to the stove to flip what looked like perfect blueberry pancakes. "Actually, your mom mentioned it when they visited. I can't believe you weren't going to say anything."

I shrugged, settling onto a barstool. "It's not a big deal. Just another day."

"Turning thirty-one is absolutely a big deal," she insisted, sliding pancakes onto a plate. "Besides, birthdays should always be celebrated."

"Says who?"

"Says me, the birthday authority." She placed a loaded plate in front of me. "Now eat your breakfast, birthday boy. I have plans for you today."

"Plans?" I eyed the small package beside my plate. "You didn't have to do anything, Riley. The contract doesn't require birthday celebrations."

She rolled her eyes. "Not everything is about the contract, Caleb. Sometimes people do nice things because they want to."

The simple statement hung between us, loaded with implications neither of us was ready to address.

"So what are these mysterious plans?" I asked, changing the subject as I dug into my breakfast.

Riley looked pleased with herself. "I've arranged for Max to cover your media obligations today, so you're officially free. I thought we could celebrate properly with a day that combines relaxation with things you enjoy."

"That's suspiciously vague."

"It's supposed to be. It's a surprise." She nodded toward the package. "That's just the start."

I set down my fork and picked up the small box, carefully unwrapping it. Inside were a pair of custom cufflinks featuring tiny crossed hockey sticks and chef's knives—a perfect symbol of our unique partnership.

"Riley, these are..." I lifted one to examine the detailed craftsmanship. "These are incredible."

"You like them?" She looked genuinely nervous about my reaction. "I thought they'd be good for formal team events, but if they're too cheesy—"

"They're perfect," I interrupted, meeting her eyes. "Seriously. Thank you."

She smiled, visibly relieved. "You're welcome. Now eat up. We need to leave in an hour, and you'll need comfortable clothes. Something you can wear outdoors."

"Outdoor clothes? Now I'm really curious."

"Good." She took a bite of her own breakfast, looking smug. "Curiosity builds anticipation."

Her surprise turned out to be a guided fishing expedition on a private section of river outside the city—something I'd mentioned wanting to try but never prioritized during the demanding hockey season.

"How did you arrange this?" I asked as we pulled up to the secluded location where a guide waited with equipment. "This place is impossible to book without months of advance notice."

Riley smiled mysteriously. "Let's just say one of your teammates has a cousin who manages this place, and he was very willing to help arrange a birthday surprise for the Boston Blizzard's captain."

The guide, a weathered man named Hank, taught us fly fishing basics. To my surprise, Riley took to the activity with her usual determined focus, mastering the casting technique faster than I did.

When she caught a respectable trout before I even got a nibble, her triumphant grin sparked my competitive instinct.

"Beginner's luck," I called from my position downstream.

"Sore loser," she shot back, carefully releasing the fish after Hank took a quick photo.

"I haven't lost yet," I protested. "The day is young."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Captain."

Her playful trash talk continued throughout the afternoon, creating an unexpectedly perfect day. The quiet hours on the river fostered a companionable silence punctuated by occasional bursts of excitement when one of us caught something.

By late afternoon, we'd caught several fish between us, which Riley insisted on releasing despite immediately starting to plan how she would have prepared them.

"It would have been perfect with a brown butter herb sauce," she lamented as I released my largest catch of the day. "Maybe with roasted fingerling potatoes..."

"You can cook me fish another time," I smiled, washing my hands in the river. "This was about the experience."

"And the competition," she added with a grin. "Which I won, four fish to three."

"I caught the biggest one," I pointed out. "Quality over quantity."

"Keep telling yourself that." She glanced at her watch. "We should head back. We have somewhere to be at seven."

As we returned to the city, I assumed we'd have a quiet dinner at home or perhaps at Hat Trick . Instead, Riley directed me to a nondescript building in an industrial area that looked abandoned.

"Are you planning to murder me and dump my body?" I joked as we parked. "Because I have to warn you, people will notice if the team captain goes missing."

"Very funny. Come on, birthday boy."

She led me to an unmarked door and knocked. It swung open to reveal a man I immediately recognized from television—Chef Antonio, whose cooking shows I secretly binge-watched during road trips.

"You must be Caleb," he said in his distinctive accent, extending his hand. "Your wife has arranged something special."

I turned to Riley in astonishment. "How did you—"

"I noticed how you watch his shows when you think I'm not paying attention," she explained with a smile. "Chef Antonio has agreed to give us a private cooking class, focusing on creating the perfect steak."

"You enjoy steak, yes?" Chef Antonio asked, ushering us inside to a stunning industrial kitchen. "Riley tells me you have been learning to cook. Tonight, we make you expert with beef."

The next few hours flew by in a blur of culinary instruction, wine, and increasingly competitive attempts to outdo each other's dishes. Chef Antonio was clearly amused by our dynamic, declaring us "the most entertaining couple" he'd ever taught.

"You balance each other perfectly," he observed as we plated our final creations—my ribeye with red wine reduction and Riley's filet with blue cheese compound butter. "He is precision, you are intuition. Together, perfection."

The comment lingered in my mind as we walked home along the Charles River afterward, carrying containers of our creations. It was a clear night, unusually warm for November, with just enough breeze to be pleasant.

Riley walked close beside me, occasionally bumping my shoulder companionably as she recounted her favorite parts of the day.

I suddenly stopped walking, turning to face her. "Riley, I need to thank you."

"For what?" she asked, her face curious.

"For today. All of it." I paused, searching for words to express what the day had meant to me. "It's been the best birthday I've ever had. Not because of the fishing or the famous chef, but because you paid attention to things I care about. No one's ever done that before."

She stepped closer, reaching up to adjust my scarf against the slight chill. "You deserve to be celebrated, Caleb Matthews."

The gesture felt intimate and significant. For a moment, I considered closing the distance between us, curious about how her lips would feel against mine.

The moment stretched, charged with possibility, until I couldn't resist any longer. I leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted.

She didn't.

Our lips met softly at first, tentative and questioning.

Then, as if a dam had broken, the kiss deepened.

My hands found her waist, pulling her closer as her arms wrapped around my neck.

It was nothing like our previous kisses—this was hungry, desperate, revealing feelings neither of us had been ready to acknowledge.

We broke apart only when sounds from a nearby couple reminded us we were in public. I cleared my throat, slightly dazed.

"Sorry," I said automatically. "I was just, uh... maintaining appearances." I gestured vaguely toward the passing couple. "For the witnesses."

Riley's smile was knowing. "Of course. Very professional of you."

"I thought so," I agreed, offering my arm again with exaggerated formality to lighten the moment. "Shall we continue homeward, Mrs. Matthews?"

"Lead on, Captain." She took my arm, still smiling.

We walked the rest of the way home discussing lighter topics, as if by mutual agreement to delay examining what had just happened. I told her a lengthy story about Max's latest failed attempt to impress Zoe, which had involved an ill-advised hockey stick serenade outside Hat Trick 's kitchen doors.

"He actually sang a cheesy song while using the stick as a microphone," I explained, delighting in Riley's laughter. "Zoe just stared at him for a solid minute, then closed the blinds in his face."

"That poor man," Riley giggled. "He's hopelessly outclassed."

"Don't tell him that. He thrives on delusion."

Back at the penthouse, Riley disappeared briefly into the kitchen, returning with a small cupcake topped with a single candle.

"Make a wish," she said, holding it up.

I really looked at her, taking in the woman who had entered my life as a business arrangement and somehow become essential to my happiness. As I blew out the flame, I wished for something I had no right to want—that when our contract ended, Riley might choose to stay.

Later that night, after Riley had gone to sleep, I sat on the balcony with a glass of whiskey, replaying the day in my mind. My phone lit up with a text from Max:

Birthday celebrations - good or great? Details required. Spare nothing.

I stared at the message, unable to articulate even to my closest friend the confusing reality of falling for the woman I married for convenience.

Instead, I typed a simple reply:

Different. In the best way possible.