Page 27

"You look like you're about to pass out," Annabelle whispered, sliding her hand over mine. "Breathe, honey."

I nodded and sucked in a deep breath, but then immediately gasped as Caleb stole the puck at center ice. The entire arena seemed to hold its breath as he deked around one defender, then another.

"Come on," I whispered, rising to my feet without realizing it.

Caleb faked left, went right, and fired a wrist shot that sailed over the goalie's shoulder. The red light flashed. The arena erupted.

"YESSS!" I screamed, jumping up and down like a maniac. "THAT'S MY HUSBAND!"

The Boston Blizzard clung to their lead until the final horn blared, and by then, my throat was raw from screaming alongside the crowd.

Swept up in the post-game energy, I followed Annabelle and a few others down towards the family room, the usual waiting spot.

But instead, we were surprisingly ushered past it, deeper into the arena's restricted areas.

"Caleb will be thrilled to see you now that they’ve won!" Annabelle grinned, nudging me.

I hesitated. "I'm not sure. He must be completely drained after a game like that..."

Her hand landed firmly on my arm. "Hey, no excuses! You're his wife! You deserve to be right there by his side!"

The locker room smelled exactly like you'd expect. The team stood in a circle, still in their gear, faces flushed with victory. In the center, Coach Evans held up a vintage Boston Blizzard jersey, the kind they wore in the team's inaugural season.

From where I stood, I could see Caleb's profile—the strong line of his jaw, the intensity of his focus. My chest tightened with pride.

"Matthews," Coach Evans called. "Captain first."

Caleb stepped forward, took the offered marker, and signed his name on the jersey with a confident flourish. My heart swelled ridiculously at the sight. What was wrong with me? It was just a signature, for heaven's sake.

Then Caleb turned and our eyes met across the room. His serious expression melted into a smile that felt like it was just for me. He crossed the room in a few long strides, still holding the marker.

"Your turn," he said, holding it out to me.

I blinked, confused. "What?"

"Captain's wife goes next," Max called out, grinning. "It's tradition!"

"Since when?" Johnson asked.

"Since right now," Max shot back. "Don't ruin the moment, Johnson."

I looked around at the faces watching us. "Is this really okay?"

Coach Evans nodded. "The jersey hangs in our locker room through the playoffs. The signatures represent our team family. You're part of that now."

With trembling fingers, I took the marker from Caleb. Our hands brushed, the contact sent warmth racing up my arm.

"Don't mess it up," Caleb whispered in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "No pressure."

I shot him a look that made him laugh, then carefully signed my name next to his on the jersey. Riley Matthews. When had seeing my name alongside his stopped feeling strange?

The team broke into applause and cheers.

As I handed the marker to the next player, I caught Annabelle's eye.

She was smiling at me with something that looked like approval, maybe even happiness.

I'd been accepted into this unusual family, not because of a contract or arrangement, but because they genuinely saw me as one of their own.

The next day, I found myself in a very different setting.

The Boston Blizzard's executive conference room felt cavernously empty with just six of us seated around a table designed for twenty.

I sat beside Caleb, facing Diane, team owner Harold Whitman, his wife Gloria, and a stone-faced man introduced as the club's legal counsel.

I studied Whitman as Diane began speaking.

I'd met him several times at team functions, but always in crowded settings where our interactions were limited to polite pleasantries.

Up close, I could see the calculating intelligence in his eyes that had built his empire before he'd acquired the Boston Blizzard.

Beneath the table, Caleb's knee pressed reassuringly against mine. His hand found mine, our fingers intertwining in what had become our secret signal of support. I squeezed back, drawing strength from his touch.

"We have a sensitive matter to discuss," Diane was saying, her professional tone betraying nothing of the panic she'd expressed in private.

Last week’s confrontation with Vincent had forced our hand. Coming clean to management before the potential leak was our only defense.

"Mr. Matthews has something he needs to share with you," Diane continued, nodding to Caleb.

I felt his leg tense against mine as he leaned forward.

"Sir," Caleb began, addressing Whitman directly. "When we spoke last year about the captaincy, you made it clear that my personal life was a consideration in your decision."

Whitman's expression remained neutral, but he nodded once in acknowledgment.

"I made a decision that wasn't entirely honest," Caleb continued. "I want to take full responsibility for that now, before you hear it from anyone else."

I watched Whitman's face as Caleb explained our arrangement—the contract, the financial components, the predetermined timeline. His expression hardened progressively, the lines around his mouth deepening into furrows of disapproval.

"So you're telling me," Whitman finally said when Caleb concluded, "that you entered into a fraudulent marriage to secure the captaincy?"

"The marriage is legally binding," Diane interjected smoothly. "All paperwork was filed appropriately."

"That's hardly the point!" Whitman's fist came down on the table with enough force to make me jump. "This is deception, plain and simple. This is not how the Boston Blizzard conducts its business."

The silence that followed felt suffocating. I stared at my hands, too afraid to look up and see the judgment in their eyes. Then, unexpectedly, Gloria Whitman laughed.

It wasn't a mocking laugh, but genuine amusement that made us all turn to her in surprise.

"Harold," she said, placing a manicured hand on her husband's arm, "this sounds remarkably familiar, doesn't it?"

Whitman's face flushed. "It was entirely different, Gloria."

"Was it really?" she asked, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched in challenge.

She turned to face us, her expression softening. "Mr. and Mrs. Matthews, would it surprise you to learn that Harold and I had a 'suitable arrangement' when we married?"

I couldn't hide my surprise. "You did?"

Gloria nodded, a wry smile playing on her lips. "My father owned textile factories that Harold's shipping business needed access to. Our marriage solved several business problems at once." She patted her husband's hand. "The difference is, we had a five-year contract, not just one."

I glanced at Caleb, who looked equally stunned by this revelation.

"It was another era," Whitman muttered, though without real conviction. "Different circumstances entirely."

"The packaging may change, but human nature remains remarkably consistent," Gloria replied. She fixed us with a direct gaze. "The real question isn't how your marriage started, but what it is now."

Caleb's knee pressed more firmly against mine. "What's between us now is genuine," he said, his voice steady and sure. "That wasn't part of our plan, but it happened anyway."

A rush of warmth spread through me at his words. I felt brave enough to add, "We didn't expect or plan for actual feelings to develop, but they have."

The legal counsel, who had been silent throughout most of the conversation, finally spoke up.

"While this is all very touching, we need to discuss the practical aspects.

If this arrangement becomes public knowledge, we could be facing serious PR issues.

Not to mention potential complications with Mr. Matthews' contract if there were clauses related to his personal conduct. "

Diane leaned forward, immediately in business mode.

"We've prepared for various scenarios. If necessary, we can control the narrative by emphasizing the genuine relationship that developed.

We have substantial visual evidence of their connection throughout the season—charitable events, team functions, interviews. "

The discussion continued for another hour, with strategies proposed and rejected, potential media responses crafted and refined. Throughout it all, Caleb's hand remained firmly around mine, anchoring me.

Finally, Whitman leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh.

"The captaincy will remain yours, Matthews," he said.

"Contingent on no public scandals erupting from this.

.. unusual beginning." His expression softened slightly.

"Your performance on the ice has been exemplary.

That matters more than how your marriage began. "

Relief flooded through me, making me lightheaded. Caleb's grip on my hand tightened almost painfully.

"Thank you, sir," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I won't let you down."

As we prepared to leave, Gloria pulled me aside while the men discussed remaining contractual details.

"You know," she said quietly, "Harold proposed a proper marriage after three years of our arrangement." Her eyes crinkled with amusement. "Told me he couldn't imagine his life without me anymore." She patted my arm. "Sometimes the best loves grow from the most unexpected seeds."

Her knowing smile suggested she saw something developing between Caleb and me that mirrored her own experience.

I wanted to ask her more—how they'd navigated the transition from arrangement to love, whether she'd ever doubted his feelings—but Caleb appeared at my side, his hand finding the small of my back in that now-familiar gesture.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

I nodded, unable to articulate the storm of emotions swirling inside me.

Back at the penthouse, we found Max and Zoe waiting outside our door, Max bouncing on his heels with impatience.