Page 20

I stepped carefully along the icy Boston sidewalk, pulling my scarf tighter against the biting December wind.

Hat Trick was still four blocks away, and the lunch rush would be starting soon.

Tonight was our winter menu preview, and I still needed to finalize the plating for my new signature Arctic char dish.

Every step required concentration on the treacherous pavement.

My phone chimed in my pocket. Despite knowing better, I pulled it out while walking. It was a text from Caleb:

Good morning. Crushing morning skate. Can't wait to hear how the preview goes tonight.

Such a simple message shouldn't have made me smile like an idiot, but there I was, grinning at my phone like a teenager. Which is why I missed the patch of black ice directly in my path.

One moment I was walking; the next, my feet flew out from under me. I landed hard, pain shooting through my right ankle as it twisted beneath me. The shock of cold from the pavement seeped through my coat as I lay there, momentarily stunned.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" A passing couple hurried over, the woman crouching beside me with concern etched across her face.

"I'm fine," I said automatically, already trying to push myself up. "Just clumsy."

The man offered his hand, and I accepted, allowing him to pull me to my feet. The moment I put weight on my right ankle, searing pain shot up my leg, and I gasped, instinctively shifting to lean on my left foot.

"You're hurt," the woman said. "Do you need us to call someone?"

I was about to insist I was fine again—a lifelong habit—when I tried another tentative step. The pain was bad enough that spots danced in my vision.

Hat Trick was still four blocks away. I had inventory waiting to be checked, prep that needed supervision, and an entire winter menu preview that couldn't happen without me. I also couldn't walk more than a step without wanting to scream.

"I'll be fine," I told the concerned couple. "My restaurant is just down the street."

They exchanged skeptical glances. "At least let us help you to a café or somewhere you can sit," the man offered.

"Thank you, but I can manage." I forced a smile. "I appreciate your help."

They hesitated but eventually continued on their way, the woman glancing back worriedly before they turned the corner.

Once they were gone, I leaned against a building and assessed my situation.

The arena was only a block away, and Caleb was there for morning practice.

I could call Zoe, but she was already at Hat Trick handling deliveries.

After a brief internal debate between pride and practicality, I pulled out my phone again.

Caleb answered on the second ring. "Hey, what's up? Thought you'd be knee-deep in prep by now."

"I, uh... had a bit of an accident," I admitted, trying to keep my voice steady. "I slipped on some ice, and I think I've done something to my ankle. I can't really walk, and I'm about a block from the arena."

His tone changed instantly. "Where exactly are you?" All casualness vanished, replaced by focused intensity.

I gave him the address, adding quickly, "It's probably nothing serious. I just need—"

"Don't move," he interrupted. "I'm coming to get you. Five minutes."

Before I could reply, he ended the call.

I stood there, weight shifted awkwardly to my left side, feeling both grateful and annoyed at his commanding tone.

Exactly four minutes later, Caleb's black SUV pulled up to the curb.

He was out of the vehicle before it fully stopped, still in his practice clothes, hair damp from exertion.

His face, when he reached me, was a complex mix of concern and something that looked strangely like anger. His eyes scanned me from head to toe, lingering on how I was favoring my right foot.

"What happened?" he demanded, reaching for my arm to steady me.

"I was walking and texting. Rookie mistake." I tried to smile but winced as I shifted my weight. "I just need to get to Hat Trick . We have the winter menu preview tonight, and—"

"You need to get that ankle looked at," he cut in, his tone brooking no argument. Before I could respond, he bent slightly and swept me into his arms.

"Caleb!" I protested, automatically wrapping my arms around his neck for stability. "Put me down! I can hobble."

"Hobbling could make it worse," he said firmly, carrying me to the passenger side of his SUV as if I weighed nothing. "And I'm not putting you down until you're safely in the car."

The contrast between his gentle handling and the stern set of his jaw sent an unwelcome flutter through my stomach.

Once I was settled in the passenger seat, he closed the door and circled around to the driver's side. "The team orthopedist is at the facility this morning," he announced as he started the engine. "He can check your ankle."

"Caleb, I need to go to Hat Trick ," I insisted. "The preview—"

"Is ten hours away," he finished for me. "And Zoe is perfectly capable of handling things until we know what's going on with your ankle." His eyes softened slightly as he glanced at me. "Please, Riley. Just let me make sure you're okay. Then we'll figure out the rest."

Put that way, it was difficult to argue. I nodded reluctantly and sent a quick text to Zoe explaining the situation. Her response was immediate:

OMG are you okay? Don't worry about anything here. Just take care of that ankle and let Hockey Husband pamper you for once. I've got things covered.

Caleb drove directly to the players' entrance of the arena, where security waved us through immediately. He came around to my side and, despite my protests, carried me again—this time through hallways full of curious staff and a few lingering teammates.

"Dude, I know you're the captain now, but carrying her everywhere seems excessive," called a familiar voice. Max appeared around a corner, his goalie pads still on from practice. His smirk faded when he saw my pained expression. "Whoa, what happened?"

"Slipped on ice," Caleb replied tersely. "Where's Dr. Jenkins?"

"Treatment room. Want me to tell Coach why you disappeared mid-practice?"

"Thanks." Caleb nodded, already moving past him.

"Feel better, Riley!" Max called after us. "Tell Zoe I said hi!"

Despite the pain, I couldn't help but smile. "Still working on that, huh?"

"He's nothing if not persistent," Caleb muttered, but there was fondness in his voice.

Dr. Jenkins was a no-nonsense man in his fifties who assessed my ankle with efficient professionalism. After a thorough examination and several painful range-of-motion tests, he pronounced his verdict.

"Moderate ankle sprain. You're lucky—a little more force and we'd be looking at a fracture." He glanced at Caleb. "Same protocol as your players. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. She'll need a walking boot for at least a week, minimal weight-bearing for the first few days."

"A week?" I interjected. "I can't stay off my feet for a week. I have a restaurant to run!"

Both men turned to me with nearly identical expressions of disapproval.

"You can supervise from a chair," Dr. Jenkins said firmly. "But you need to let this heal properly, or you'll be dealing with it for months instead of days."

"He's right," Caleb added, his captain's voice in full effect. "And you know it."

I did know it, which was infuriating. "Fine," I conceded. "But I'm still going to Hat Trick tonight for the preview."

Dr. Jenkins raised his eyebrows but said nothing, simply handing me a prescription for anti-inflammatories and fitting me with a walking boot. "Ice for twenty minutes every couple of hours," he instructed. "And elevate it whenever possible."

After thanking him, I attempted to walk on my own, boot and all. It was uncomfortable but manageable—until Caleb silently scooped me up again.

"This is completely unnecessary," I protested as he carried me back to the car. "The boot helps. I can walk."

"Minimal weight-bearing," he quoted. "Doctor's orders."

"Whose side are you on?" I grumbled, though secretly, the protective gesture warmed something inside me.

"Yours," he said simply. "Always yours."

The quiet certainty in his voice silenced my protests. By the time we reached the SUV, I'd relaxed against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the faint tang of hockey gear. It was disturbingly comforting.

As Caleb drove us home, I tried to ignore both the throbbing in my ankle and the awareness that he had abandoned practice to come to my rescue. That wasn't in our contract. Neither was the genuine concern evident in the tight set of his jaw and the way his eyes kept darting over to check on me.

"I'm really fine," I said finally, breaking the silence. "And I feel terrible about pulling you away from practice."

His eyes remained fixed on the road. "Do you really think I could have stayed on the ice knowing you were hurt?"

"It's just a sprained ankle. People get them all the time."

"Not people I—" He stopped himself, hands tightening on the steering wheel. "Not you."

The unfinished sentence hung between us as he pulled into the parking garage of our building.

At the penthouse, Caleb transformed into an unexpectedly capable nurse.

He settled me on the couch with pillows beneath my ankle, fetched ice packs and water, and even remembered how I took my tea—one sugar, splash of milk.

When I pointed out that none of this caretaking was required by our arrangement, hurt flashed across his face.

"Is that really what you think of me?" he asked quietly. "That I'd ignore you being injured because it's not in our contract?"

Put that way, it sounded awful. "No, I—" I sighed. "I'm just not used to being taken care of. It makes me feel... vulnerable."

His expression softened. "We all need help sometimes, Riley. Even stubborn chefs who think they can do everything alone."

I made a face at him, which earned me a smile in return.