Page 25

The temperature in Paris was surprisingly cold for January.

From my hotel window, I could see the Eiffel Tower illuminated against the evening sky—a postcard-perfect view that should have thrilled me.

Instead, I felt a persistent hollow sensation in my chest despite having advanced to the finals of the prestigious International Culinary Excellence competition.

Three weeks ago, I'd felt an immediate urge to tell Caleb.

But finding him asleep on the couch, buried under scattered game notes, had stopped me cold.

For days, the news remained a heavy secret, bottled up tight as my courage wavered, shrinking with each passing hour.

At last, I realized I couldn't keep it to myself any longer.

"Caleb," I said one morning, perching on the edge of the couch beside him. "I have some news."

He'd looked up from his notes, immediately giving me his full attention. "What's up?"

"Remember that international culinary competition that Zoe always talked about? The one in Paris?" I'd twisted my wedding ring nervously. "I've been accepted as a contestant."

His initial reaction had been genuine happiness, his smile lighting up his tired face. "Riley, that's incredible! Congratulations!" He'd pulled me into a hug, asking enthusiastic questions about the competition and expressing pride in my selection.

Then reality had intruded. He'd checked the dates on his phone, his expression shifting subtly but unmistakably as he realized the timing.

"This is during our final push before playoffs," he'd said slowly. "You'd be gone for two weeks?"

The question had contained layers of unspoken concerns. I'd quickly reassured him that I would decline the opportunity.

But Caleb's response had surprised me. After a momentary struggle visible on his face, he'd insisted I should go.

"This is your career, Riley," he'd said firmly. "You can't pass up opportunities like this for..." He'd hesitated, seemingly unable to define exactly what I would be sacrificing for. Our marriage of convenience? Our evolving relationship? The uncertainty between us?

Whatever had remained unspoken, the conversation had ended with Caleb firmly supporting my participation, even offering to help with preparations.

He'd contacted his nutritionist to help me plan competition-friendly meals that would keep my energy up, and had even arranged for the team's private jet to fly me to New York to catch my direct flight to Paris—a gesture that had left me speechless with gratitude.

Now, alone in Paris, I missed him with an intensity that transcended our contractual connection.

We spoke daily via video chat, conversations that easily filled an hour despite our busy schedules.

Caleb showed genuine interest in the competition details, asking specific questions about techniques and ingredients that revealed how closely he'd been paying attention to my work over our months together.

In turn, I watched Boston Blizzard’s matches streamed live at odd Paris hours, texting my observations to Caleb, who often incorporated my surprisingly insightful hockey analysis into his captain's feedback.

A knock on my hotel door interrupted these reflections. "Riley? Are you decent?" Zoe's voice called from the hallway.

"Come in," I answered, turning from the window.

Zoe entered, looking more relaxed than I'd seen her in years.

Paris agreed with her; the usual sharp edges of her personality had been temporarily softened by the city's romantic atmosphere.

She'd even stopped protesting when I teased her about her daily video calls with Max, which had become a fixture of our evenings here.

"Final prep session in thirty minutes," she reminded me, then paused, studying my expression. "But first, you need to see something."

She produced her tablet, opening to a sports news site featuring an article about the Blizzard. The headline caught my attention immediately: "Captain's Wife Missing Critical Games for European Vacation—Trouble in Hockey Paradise?"

The accompanying photos showed me in Paris juxtaposed with Caleb looking stern after a recent loss. The article insinuated that my absence during crucial games indicated relationship problems, citing "insider sources" suggesting our whirlwind romance may have cooled.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, scanning the text. Though the piece carefully avoided making direct accusations, the implications were clear—and I recognized Vincent's handiwork in the carefully phrased suggestions of trouble.

"What are you going to do?" Zoe asked, perching on the edge of the bed. "This looks like someone trying to stir up drama."

"Ignore it," I said decisively, though my stomach had knotted uncomfortably. "It's just gossip."

"Gossip that could affect Caleb's captaincy," Zoe pointed out gently. "You know how seriously he takes that."

I did know. I'd witnessed firsthand how deeply Caleb cared about his leadership role—how he stayed late reviewing game footage, how he tailored his approach to each teammate's needs, how he shouldered both victories and losses with equal responsibility.

"I need to call him," I said, already reaching for my phone.

"It's 5 AM in Boston," Zoe reminded me.

"He'll be up. Morning skate." I tapped Caleb’s contact and switched to video call. My heart pounded as it rang.

On the third ring, his face appeared, framed by early light and rumpled sheets. "Riley? Everything okay?"

"I saw the article," I said without preamble. "The one about me being in Paris."

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes heavy. "Yeah, I saw it too. It's nothing, just typical media garbage."

But the shadows under his eyes suggested otherwise. He looked tired—more than just physically, but emotionally drained.

"How bad is it there?" I asked quietly. "Be honest."

"We've lost three of the last four. Nothing to do with you being gone, just... not executing our system properly." His attempt at a reassuring smile didn't reach his eyes. "Tomorrow's game against Philadelphia will turn things around."

I recognized the determined set of his jaw—the expression he wore when he was pushing through difficulty. "Caleb—"

"Don't worry about me," he interrupted gently. "Focus on your competition. You've worked too hard to be distracted by this nonsense."

"But—"

"Riley." Something in his voice stopped my protest. "Please. This is your moment. I'll be fine. Besides, you need to save your energy for tomorrow's final. I expect nothing less than first place from my wife."

"Okay," I conceded. "But will you at least try to get some actual sleep tonight?"

"Yes, Coach," he teased, the familiar banter easing some of the tension between us. "Good luck tomorrow. Knock 'em dead."

After ending the call, I turned to find Zoe watching me with an uncharacteristically gentle expression.

"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," she said, though her look spoke volumes. "We should head down to prep. Final session in fifteen minutes."

The next day passed in a blur of focused intensity. The competition's final round required us to create a signature dish that represented our culinary perspective, with just five hours to execute it perfectly.

My entry—a modern interpretation of classic New England flavors inspired by both my background and Caleb's Minnesota roots—required precision timing and specialized techniques.

I'd incorporated maple from his home state with the freshest seafood from mine, creating a dish that represented our unlikely union.

The symbolism wasn't lost on me as I plated the final presentation, my hands steady despite the pressure. This dish was about more than winning a competition; it had become a reflection of how my life had unexpectedly intertwined with Caleb's.

While awaiting the judges' decision, my phone vibrated with an incoming call. Seeing Diane's name on the screen, I stepped away from the other competitors to answer.

"Riley." Diane's voice was unusually tense. "We have a situation."

My stomach dropped. "What's happened?"

"Vincent has obtained physical evidence of your contract with Caleb," she said without preamble. "Specifically, photos extracted from security footage of you signing the paperwork in Caleb's penthouse."

The room seemed to tilt around me. "How is that possible?"

"The building's security system was apparently accessed remotely—illegal, of course, but that doesn't change the fact that he has the images." Diane's voice was grimly practical. "He's threatening to release them to sports media unless you agree to sell him controlling interest in Hat Trick ."

I felt physically ill at the thought of Vincent taking my restaurant—the dream I'd poured my life into. But the alternative—exposing Caleb to scandal and potentially costing him the captaincy he'd excelled at—seemed worse.

"What does Caleb say?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

"He doesn't know yet," Diane admitted. "He's in pre-game preparations, and I didn't want to disrupt his focus. But we need to make decisions quickly. Vincent has given us 72 hours."

"I need to talk to Caleb before doing anything," I insisted.

"Of course. But Riley—" Diane hesitated. "Don't do anything rash until we've discussed all options. Vincent may be bluffing about the quality of what he has."

After promising to wait for further discussion, I ended the call, my mind reeling. When I returned to the competition area, the head judge was already announcing results.

Despite my distraction, I was awarded second place—an extraordinary achievement that would normally have thrilled me. I accepted congratulations mechanically, my thoughts in Boston with Caleb.

That evening, I sat cross-legged on my hotel bed, laptop open to the livestream of the Blizzard game. Zoe had offered to stay with me, but I'd needed space to think about the Vincent situation.

The game started poorly, with Philadelphia scoring twice in the first period. The camera frequently cut to Caleb on the bench, his expression intensely focused as he talked to teammates. He was playing with uncharacteristic aggression, his usual strategic precision replaced by riskier moves.

In the second period, he took a particularly vicious check that sent him crashing into the boards. He remained motionless on the ice for several terrifying seconds. I was on my feet, hands pressed to my mouth, heart pounding so hard I could barely breathe.

When he finally skated off under his own power, relief washed through me so strongly I had to sit down. But his grimace of pain was visible even through the grainy stream, and he spent several minutes in the tunnel before returning to the bench.

The Boston Blizzard ultimately lost in overtime, dealing a devastating blow to their playoff positioning. Immediately after the game, I called Caleb and was relieved when he answered from the medical room.

"Hey, Paris," he greeted me, attempting brightness despite the obvious exhaustion in his voice. "Did you watch?"

"Of course I did," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Are you okay? That hit looked terrible."

"Just bruised," he assured me, wincing as someone off-screen examined him. "Nothing broken, no concussion. I'll be sore tomorrow, that's all."

I studied his face through the screen—the shadows under his eyes more pronounced, a small cut on his cheekbone, the strain evident in the tightness around his mouth.

"I'm coming home," I announced firmly.

"What? No, you have the post-competition events, the media interviews. That's important for your career." He shook his head. "I'm fine, Riley. Really."

"The restaurant needs me there," I countered. "And so does the team." I paused, gathering courage. "And you do too."

His expression softened. "Riley—"

"I've already made up my mind," I interrupted gently. "I'm booking a flight tonight. We'll handle Vincent together."

What remained unspoken, though increasingly clear to both of us, was that we needed each other beyond the parameters of our contract. The realization was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"Okay," he said finally, a small smile breaking through his weariness. "Come home."

My flight landed in Boston late the following evening.

Despite my messages insisting he rest after the game, I wasn't entirely surprised to see Caleb waiting at the arrival gate.

He was wearing jeans and a simple navy sweater rather than his usual suit, and his bruised cheekbone was more visible in person than it had been on the video call.

But what struck me most was his expression when he spotted me—relief and joy transforming his tired features into something so genuine it made my heart ache.

I dropped my carry-on and closed the distance between us at a run, abandoning any pretense of professional distance. He caught me against him, arms wrapping tightly around my waist.

"Hi," I whispered.

"Hi yourself," he murmured, and then his mouth was on mine.

The kiss began tenderly, then deepened, unfolding with a natural grace that felt years in the making.

Our fingers wove together, finding a familiar rhythm.

The weight of competition, the facade of our marriage, the shadow of Vincent—everything extraneous receded, lost to the singular, intoxicating pull of our mouths.

When we eventually broke apart, both catching our breath, he rested his forehead against mine.

"It's for appearances," he finally managed, his voice slightly rough, as he subtly tilted his head towards the bustling crowd of travelers around us.

My initial rush of emotion stalled. "Of course," I replied, a small, perhaps too-bright smile pasted on my face. But a quiet voice in my head questioned: were these excuses really needed anymore?

His concerned eyes stared into mine. "You didn't have to come back early."

I pulled back just enough to see his face. "Yes, I did."

His slow smile was like dawn breaking, full of cautious hope and something deeper that made my pulse race. "Let's go home," he said simply, taking my hand in his.