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I sat ramrod straight in the leather chair across from Harold Whitman's expansive desk, trying to control my expression as the team owner's words sank in.

"I just think the captain should project a certain image, Caleb." Whitman's voice was mild but firm, his liver-spotted hands folded neatly on the polished mahogany. "Stability. Maturity. A sense of being... settled."

I nodded, keeping my face neutral despite the knot forming in my stomach. "I understand the importance of leadership, sir. My record on the ice—"

"Is impeccable," Whitman finished for me, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Eleven seasons with us. Four All-Star selections. Olympic silver. Nobody questions your athletic credentials, son."

The "but" hung in the air between us, unspoken but deafening.

Whitman leaned forward, his expensive suit jacket stretching across shoulders that had once carried the Boston Blizzard to a championship in the 1970s. Now in his seventies, he'd transitioned from player to businessman with ruthless efficiency.

"You're thirty, Caleb. Most men your age have put down roots."

I felt my jaw tighten. "With all due respect, sir, I'm fully committed to this team. I've turned down better offers to stay in Boston."

"And we appreciate that loyalty," Whitman acknowledged, tapping manicured fingernails against his desk. "But the face of the franchise needs to represent our values. Family. Community. Stability."

The implication was crystal clear, even if he was too diplomatic to state it outright. My bachelor lifestyle—however exaggerated by the press—was the one thing standing between me and the captaincy I'd worked my entire career to earn.

"Luke Peterson has expressed interest in the position," Whitman continued, watching my reaction carefully.

I kept my face blank through sheer force of will. Peterson was a solid second-line center, respected in the locker room but nowhere near my caliber on the ice. His greatest achievements were his picture-perfect family photos and community service record.

"I see," was all I trusted myself to say.

"Nothing's decided yet," Whitman said. "We have until the season opener in October. Just... give some thought to the kind of image you want to project as a leader. The kind of legacy you want to leave."

I recognized the dismissal in his tone and stood, extending my hand automatically. "Thank you for your candor, sir."

His grip was firm, his smile practiced. "Always a pleasure, Caleb. Give my regards to your father next time you speak with him."

The mention of my father—a former NHL player himself—felt deliberate, another reminder of unmet expectations.

I walked out of Whitman's office with my game face intact, nodding politely to his secretary as I passed. Only in the privacy of the empty stairwell did I allow my fist to connect with the concrete wall, the dull pain a welcome distraction from my frustration.

The locker room was mostly empty this time of year, with only a few players using the facilities for off-season training.

I found Max exactly where I expected—sprawled on the bench in front of his locker, watching game tape on his tablet while eating something that violated at least three of our nutritionist's rules.

"If that's another one of your peanut butter and pickle abominations, I'm reporting you to Coach," I said, dropping onto the bench beside him.

Max Ferguson, our star goalie and my best friend since rookie year, grinned without looking up.

"It's cucumber today, technically. More hydrating.

" He paused the video and finally glanced at me, his smile fading.

"Whoa. What happened to you? Your 'someone just slashed me and the ref missed it' face is showing. "

I considered downplaying it, then remembered this was Max—the one person who could always see through my bullshit. "Just had a meeting with Whitman about the captaincy."

"And?" Max prompted, shoving the sandwich aside.

"And apparently my hockey skills, stats, and decade-plus with the team aren't enough. I need to 'put down roots' and 'project stability.'"

Max stared at me for a beat, then burst into laughter. "Are you kidding me? He wants you to get married?"

"He didn't say those exact words," I admitted, "but the message was pretty clear."

"Let me get this straight." Max sat up, eyes dancing with wicked amusement. "Harold Whitman is making the captaincy contingent on you getting a ring on your finger?"

"He mentioned that Peterson is also being considered."

Max's amusement vanished. "Peterson? The guy couldn't lead a conga line, let alone a hockey team."

"He's got a wife, 2.5 kids, and a golden retriever," I pointed out. "Apparently that counts for more than my point totals."

"So what, you're supposed to find some nice girl and settle down in the next—when's the deadline?"

"Season opener. October."

Max whistled. "Three months to find true love? That's some fairy tale timeline."

"It doesn't have to be true love," I muttered. "It just has to look good for the cameras."

"Whoa." Max held up his hands. "Tell me you're not considering some Vegas chapel situation with a willing puck bunny."

I shot him a disgusted look. "Of course not. I've seen how those end." Too many teammates had made hasty relationship decisions that led to messy, expensive divorces. "I'm talking about my legacy, Max. The captaincy I've worked my entire career for."

"So what's the plan, then?"

"I don't know yet," I admitted. "I need to think."

"Well, think over drinks later," Max suggested. "Sullivan's at eight? I'll text the guys."

"Not tonight," I said, suddenly needing solitude. "I think I'm going to drive for a while. Clear my head."

Max nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Call if you change your mind."

I spent the afternoon driving aimlessly through Boston's streets, the familiar landscape blurring as my mind churned.

The captaincy had been my goal since I was traded to the Boston Blizzard eleven years ago.

I'd put in the time, earned the respect of my teammates, proven myself on the ice.

And now, just as it felt undeniably within reach, Whitman was moving the goalposts.

The sun was setting when I finally returned to my penthouse apartment overlooking the Charles River.

I poured myself a generous bourbon and stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching boats navigate the water below.

The space was immaculately designed—all clean lines, leather, and glass, with hockey memorabilia tastefully displayed.

Tonight, though, it felt hollow, its perfect emptiness an indictment.

My phone rang, Diane's name flashing on the screen. My agent had a sixth sense for trouble.

"Hey," I answered, not bothering with pleasantries.

"You were supposed to call me after the meeting with Whitman," she said, her tone more concerned than accusatory. "His assistant said you left hours ago. What happened?"

I swirled the bourbon in my glass. "He's considering Peterson for captain."

The silence on the other end spoke volumes. Diane had been my agent for eight years; she knew exactly what the captaincy meant to me.

"Because of your contract demands?" she finally asked.

"Because I'm single."

Another pause. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Apparently the face of the franchise needs to project 'stability' and 'maturity,'" I said, not bothering to keep the bitterness from my voice. "Translation: wife, kids, Christmas card."

"That's... unexpected," Diane said, her tone shifting to the calculating one I recognized from negotiations. "But potentially manageable."

"Manageable how? I'm supposed to find a wife before October."

"Not necessarily a wife," Diane said slowly. "Just someone who gives the appearance of having settled you down. Whitman doesn't need to know the details of the arrangement."

I frowned, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "What exactly are you suggesting, Diane?"

"Contracts," she replied smoothly. "Arrangements. Temporary solutions. It's not uncommon in this business, Caleb. You'd be surprised how many of those perfect Hollywood marriages are carefully negotiated deals."

"You want me to hire someone to pretend to be my wife?" The idea left a bad taste in my mouth.

"I want you to consider all your options before letting Peterson take what you've earned," Diane corrected. "Think about it. You need three months to convince Whitman you're settled enough to lead. After that, things can... evolve naturally."

I took a long swallow of bourbon. "I'll think about it."

"Please do," Diane said firmly. "And Caleb? Don't wait too long. We need time to vet anyone we bring into this situation."

After we hung up, I poured another drink and resumed my position at the window. Diane's suggestion felt manipulative, calculated—everything I tried not to be off the ice. But as much as I wanted to dismiss it outright, a small part of me couldn't help considering the possibilities.

Three months. A temporary arrangement. A transaction that could secure the captaincy I'd worked my entire career to achieve.

As I contemplated this unsavory solution, my thoughts drifted unexpectedly to the small hockey-themed restaurant I'd stumbled upon earlier.

Hat Trick , with its cleverly named menu items and the chef who hadn't recognized me—or if she had, hadn't cared.

There had been something refreshingly genuine about the place, about her.

The food had been incredible too, those Stanley Cup-shaped sliders far better than they had any right to be.

I made a mental note to return soon, maybe bring Max. Good food might help clear my mind for the difficult decisions ahead. And somehow, the thought of those sliders and the straight-talking chef who'd stayed late to feed me lifted my mood just a fraction.