Page 3

"One brunoise, not macedoine! If I wanted chunky carrots, I'd have asked for chunky carrots!" I called over my shoulder, elbow-deep in a complicated sauce reduction.

"I'm going as fast as I can with this dull knife!" Zoe shot back, the rhythmic sound of her chopping never faltering despite her complaint.

It was mid-afternoon, and we were prepping for a private event that “might” actually bring in enough money to cover next week's payroll. The industrial-sized mixer whirred in the background, kneading dough for mini pretzel bites shaped like hockey pucks.

“Riley!” Zoe’s shout jolted me so hard I nearly scorched the sauce.

“I’m a tad busy here—whatever it is can wait,” I grumbled, eyes glued to the simmering pot.

“No, you need to see this. Now.” Her tone cut through me, sharp as her knife.

I turned, and there she stood in the doorway—eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “Your mystery tipper is back… and they’ve brought a friend.”

"So? That's good news. We need customers," I said, though I felt a small flutter of pleasure that he'd actually kept his promise to return.

"You don't understand," Zoe insisted, grabbing a clean towel and practically shoving it at me. "Wipe your hands and come see."

Sighing, I passed the sauce spoon to my part-time cook and wiped my hands. "Fine, but can’t it wait for—"

"Just come!" Zoe interrupted, practically dragging me through the doors.

I stepped into the dining room, automatically scanning for my returning customer. He was sitting at the same table as yesterday, this time without the baseball cap. Without that shadow, I could finally see his face clearly—and the recognition hit me like a slap.

Caleb Matthews. Boston Blizzard's star center. The man whose face was plastered across half the promotional materials in the city.

And beside him, sporting a grin that could only be described as mischievous, was Max Ferguson, the team's notorious goalie.

I froze, mortified that I hadn't recognized Caleb yesterday. I'd served him ordinary food, chatted with him like he was any customer, completely oblivious to the fact that one of Boston's biggest hockey stars was sitting in my hockey-themed restaurant.

Caleb spotted me and waved, his smile both familiar and newly intimidating now that I knew who he was.

Taking a deep breath, I approached their table, hyperaware of the flour dusting my chef's coat and the wisps of hair escaping my hasty bun.

"Welcome back," I managed, proud that my voice sounded almost normal. "I see you brought company this time."

"I couldn't stop talking about those sliders," Caleb said, his voice exactly as I remembered—warm, a little gravelly. "Max insisted I bring him to try them."

"Insisted is an understatement," Max interjected, extending his hand. "I threatened bodily harm. Max Ferguson. And you must be the chef who impressed the unimpressable."

I shook his hand, still feeling off-balance. "Riley Caldwell. And I'm... I'm really sorry about yesterday," I said, turning to Caleb. "I didn't recognize you without your... I mean, with the hat, and it was late, and—"

"Please," Caleb interrupted, his expression genuinely amused rather than offended. "It was actually refreshing. Most people in Boston either stare too long or pretend too hard they're not staring."

"I just thought you were a regular guy who really needed dinner," I admitted.

"I was," he said simply.

Max cleared his throat dramatically. "While you two have this moment, I'm literally starving. What do you recommend, Chef Riley?"

His interruption broke the strange tension, and I slipped into professional mode. "The Hat Trick Sliders were a hit yesterday, but if you're really hungry, I'd suggest our Penalty Box Poutine. Hand-cut fries, Quebec cheese curds, and short rib gravy."

"Sold," Max said immediately. "And whatever beer you think goes best with it."

I turned to Caleb. "And for you?"

He studied the menu for a moment. "The Power Play Pasta sounds great. Whatever local beer you recommend is fine."

"Coming right up," I said, relieved to escape back to the familiar territory of my kitchen.

Zoe pounced the moment the door swung shut behind me. "Why didn't you tell me your mystery customer was Caleb freaking Matthews ?"

"Because I didn't know!" I protested, grabbing a clean apron. "He was wearing a cap pulled low, it was dark, and I was distracted by our imminent financial ruin, remember?"

"Well, he's not wearing a cap now, and he's been watching you like you're one of your desserts," Zoe said, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't be ridiculous," I muttered, though I felt my cheeks warm. "He's just a customer who likes the food."

"Uh-huh." Zoe's tone dripped disbelief. "And I'm just a sous chef who likes chopping things."

"Speaking of which," I said pointedly, "we have orders to prepare. Penalty Box Poutine and Power Play Pasta."

"Fine, changing the subject." Zoe moved to the prep station. "But just so you know, Mr. Rich Famous Hockey Man's friend keeps glancing this way too."

"He's probably just hungry and checking on his food," I said, focusing on assembling the poutine. “Not every guy out here is hunting for dates, Zoe.”

"Keep telling yourself that." Zoe expertly tossed pasta in a pan. "Meanwhile, I'll be over here, not being impressed by pretty boys who probably think passing a puck is the height of accomplishment."

I rolled my eyes but didn't argue.

When the food was ready, I carefully arranged it on our custom-made plates—the pasta on a dish shaped like a hockey rink, the poutine in a ceramic "box" designed to look like a penalty box.

"I'll take these out," I said, balancing both plates.

"Of course you will," Zoe muttered, but she was smiling as she turned back to prep for our evening service.

As I approached their table, I caught the tail end of what seemed like an intense conversation. Both men stopped talking abruptly when they noticed me.

"Here we go," I said, setting down their meals. "Penalty Box Poutine and Power Play Pasta."

"This looks amazing," Max said, his earlier intensity completely gone, replaced by an almost childlike enthusiasm for the food. "The plate is an actual penalty box! Caleb, look at this!"

"The details are impressive," Caleb agreed, examining his own hockey rink plate. "You didn't just slap hockey names on regular dishes, did you?"

"Absolutely not," I said, oddly touched that he'd noticed. "Everything from the plateware to the recipe development was intentional. My dad coached minor league hockey for years, so the sport's always been part of my life."

Caleb's eyebrows rose with genuine interest. "Really? What level did he coach?"

"AHL mostly. He was with Providence for a while before moving to Hartford."

"Jim Caldwell?" Caleb asked, surprising me. "I think he coached against my dad once or twice in exhibition games. Robert Matthews?"

"Wait, your dad is Robert Matthews? The Power Play Sniper?" I couldn't help the excitement in my voice. Robert Matthews had been legendary in the 80s and early 90s, known for his clutch goals during power plays. "My dad used to use videos of his positioning as teaching tools!"

Max sighed dramatically. "And now we're talking about ancient hockey history. Can I eat my fancy food before it gets cold, please?"

Caleb laughed. "Sorry. Go ahead." But his eyes stayed on me with new interest. "How much do you know about the game?"

"Enough to know that your third-period goal in Game 6 against Toronto last season was one of the prettiest breakaways I've ever seen," I said before I could stop myself.

His genuine smile of surprise and pleasure made something flutter in my stomach.

"You watched that game?" he asked.

"I watch all the games," I admitted. "Hence..." I gestured around the restaurant.

"I thought maybe the hockey theme was just a gimmick for being near the arena," Max said around a mouthful of poutine. "But holy shit, this is good. Like, really good." He pointed his fork at me. "You actually care about both parts—the hockey and the food."

"That was the idea," I said, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "Great food in a place where hockey fans could feel at home."

"Well, mission accomplished," Caleb said, twirling pasta around his fork. After taking a bite, his eyes widened slightly. "This is incredible. The pancetta is house-cured, isn't it?"

I blinked, impressed by his palate. "Yes, actually. We do all our charcuterie in-house."

"My mother insisted I learn to cook properly before I left home," he explained, noticing my surprise. "Said no son of hers was going to live on protein shakes and takeout, professional athlete or not."

"Smart woman," I said with a smile.

Max excused himself to use the restroom, and I was about to return to the kitchen when Caleb asked about the construction outside.

I hesitated before answering honestly. "It's been brutal. What was supposed to be a six-week project is in its fifth month. Our foot traffic is down about eighty percent."

His brow furrowed with genuine concern. "That's rough. The city provide any compensation for businesses affected?"

I laughed without humor. "That would require them admitting they're behind schedule and over budget. So far it's just empty promises about how great the street will be when it's done—if any of us are still in business by then."

Before Caleb could respond, the kitchen door swung open and Zoe emerged, carrying a small tray of what I recognized as the new dessert she'd been experimenting with—chocolate mousse shaped like hockey pucks with red raspberry sauce.

At the same moment, Max returned from the restroom, and their paths intersected near the bar. I watched with amusement as Max's expression transformed from casual interest to exaggerated charm.

"Well, hello there," he said, stepping directly into Zoe's path. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. Max Ferguson, goalie extraordinaire and connoisseur of excellent poutine."

Zoe's expression didn't change as she expertly sidestepped him. "Congratulations on mastering basic manners. If you're returning to your table, it's still over there where you left it."

Instead of being deterred, Max looked delighted by her dismissal. "And you are...?"

"Busy," Zoe replied crisply, continuing toward a table of customers who had arrived while I was talking with Caleb and Max.

"Your friend doesn't seem easily impressed," Caleb observed, his tone amused.

"Zoe's my sous chef and best friend. And no, professional athletes don't impress her—good tippers do."

Max, who had returned to our vicinity, perked up at this. "Is that a challenge? Because I love challenges."

"It wasn't meant to—" I began, but Max was already pulling out his wallet.

Caleb shook his head, a gesture of fond exasperation directed at his friend. “Max never passes up a competition—real or imagined—without trying to win.”

"I heard that," Max called over his shoulder as he headed to the register, where Zoe was now stationed, her expression distinctly unimpressed.

Left alone with Caleb, I found myself oddly tongue-tied. Talking had felt effortless when he was just another customer, but now every detail jumped out at me—the mounting piles of unpaid bills, the faded upholstery, the whisper of collapse hanging over Hat Trick .

"I meant to ask," Caleb said, interrupting my spiral of self-consciousness, "would you be interested in catering an event?"

I stared at him, certain I'd misheard. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The team's wives' association is organizing a charity event for local schools," he explained. "They're looking for a caterer. Based on the food here, I think you'd be perfect."

"Are you serious?" I couldn't keep the hope from my voice.

"Completely." He reached into his pocket and produced a business card, scribbling a number on the back. "This is Annabelle Peterson's contact information. She's heading the committee. If you call her and mention I suggested you, I'm sure she'd at least want to discuss options."

I took the card, fighting the urge to clutch it to my chest like a lifeline. A catering gig for the Boston Blizzard's charity event would not only provide much-needed income but also exposure to exactly the kind of clients who could help keep Hat Trick afloat.

"Thank you," I said, hoping my voice conveyed the depth of my gratitude. "This is... this means a lot."

Caleb's expression softened. "Your food is excellent, Riley. More people should know about it."

Max returned from the register looking smugly satisfied. "Mission accomplished. I think your friend might hate me slightly less now, or at least hate me for more specific reasons."

"What did you do?" Caleb asked suspiciously.

"Just left a tip commensurate with the quality of service," Max said innocently.

From behind the bar, I caught Zoe's eye. She gave me a small head shake that clearly communicated both exasperation and reluctant amusement.

As they prepared to leave, Caleb lingered briefly. "Let me know if Annabelle works out for the catering. I'm usually here for morning skate—you can leave a message at the practice facility if you want."

"I will. And thank you again," I said, still holding his card like it might disappear.

After they left, Zoe materialized beside me. "So, what was that about?"

"He's recommended us for a catering job. The team's charity event for schools."

Zoe's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? That could be huge for us."

"I know," I said, finally allowing myself to feel the tiny spark of hope that had ignited. "Also, what did his friend do that almost made you smile? I saw that twitch at the corner of your mouth."

"He left a ridiculous tip and wrote 'For the chef who is unimpressed by athletic prowess but hopefully impressed by mathematical generosity' on the receipt," Zoe admitted. "It was stupid."

"But a little funny," I suggested.

"Maybe a microscopic amount funny," Zoe conceded. "Still a jock with too much money, though."

I tucked Caleb's card safely into my pocket, that small spark of hope warming me from within.

For the first time in weeks, I felt a hint of optimism about Hat Trick 's future.

And if that optimism was somehow enhanced by the memory of Caleb's genuine interest in my restaurant and his surprising knowledge of food, well—I wasn't going to examine that too closely. Not yet, anyway.