Page 30

After the game—a hard-fought win that inched us closer to the playoffs—Coach Evans summoned me sharply to Whitman’s office. As Riley and I drove over, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the dashboard, I reached across the console and gently took her hand.

"Whatever happens in there," I told her, "we'll handle it together."

Her fingers tightened around mine. "Together," she agreed, though I could see the worry in her eyes.

Whitman's office was frigid, both in temperature and atmosphere. He stood behind his desk when we entered, his face set in hard lines as he slapped a tablet displaying the damning article onto the polished surface.

"Explain this," he demanded. "Diane assured me you had the situation under control."

I stepped forward, keeping Riley slightly behind me. "Vincent's blackmail attempt escalated faster than we anticipated. He leaked the photos to a blogger who was willing to run with minimal fact-checking."

"Blackmail?" Gloria Whitman asked sharply from where she sat in the corner, her presence unexpected but reassuring.

"He was pressuring Riley for controlling interest in her restaurant," I explained. "Using the photos as leverage."

Whitman's expression shifted slightly, the businesslike anger giving way to something more personal. "And you didn't think to come to me with this? The team has resources for handling such situations discreetly."

"We were trying to handle it ourselves," Riley spoke up, her voice steady. "We didn't want to involve the team in our personal problem."

"Well, it's certainly a team problem now," Whitman grumbled, though with less heat than before. "Do you have any idea of the timing? Playoff push, season ticket renewals—"

"Harold," Gloria interrupted gently, "I think we should focus on solutions rather than recriminations."

He sighed heavily, glancing at his wife with grudging acknowledgment. "Fine. What's done is done. The question is how we mitigate the damage."

"We've scheduled an exclusive interview," I said. "With Emma from Winter Sports ."

Whitman nodded approvingly. "Good choice. She's fair, respected."

"We could highlight that while their marriage had an unusual start, the connection now is undeniably real," Gloria added, her immediate grasp of the strategy making me blink. "A love that blossomed unexpectedly—audiences eat that up."

"The lawyers will review the interview parameters beforehand," Whitman added, more statement than question. "No surprises."

We spent the next hour crafting the precise approach for the interview and a team statement of support that would follow. As the meeting concluded, Whitman walked us to the door, his expression once again the controlled mask of a businessman.

"Matthews," he said quietly, just before we left. "Make this right."

It wasn't a request but a command, laden with the implication that my captaincy hung in the balance.

"I will, sir," I promised, meaning it with every fiber of my being.

The exclusive interview, carefully orchestrated with Emma, became the most challenging performance of our relationship. Seated in our penthouse living room with camera equipment and lights arranged around us, we faced questions that probed the rawest aspects of our unusual journey.

"Let's address the elephant in the room," Emma began after pleasantries were exchanged. "Did you two enter into marriage as a business arrangement?"

I took a deep breath, acutely aware of the camera capturing every micro expression. "Yes, we did."

"Can you explain why?"

I glanced at Riley, who nodded encouragingly.

"I wanted the team captaincy, which ownership had indicated required a more stable personal image than I had at the time.

Riley needed financial assistance to save her restaurant, which was struggling due to extended road construction that had decimated foot traffic. "

"So it was transactional?" Emma pressed. "A simple exchange of benefits?"

Riley spoke up, her voice clear despite her nervousness. "On paper, yes. We had a contract with specific terms and even an end date."

"That sounds more like a business merger than a marriage," Emma observed.

"It did to us too, at first," Riley acknowledged with a small smile. "But then something unexpected happened."

"We got to know each other," I continued, finding Riley's hand beside me on the couch. "Really know each other, beyond the public roles we were playing."

Emma leaned forward. “When did everything shift for you?”

Riley paused, choosing her words. “It happened slowly. After games, Caleb would swing by the restaurant to help with prep or to hear me complain about kitchen disasters.” She smiled at the memory.

“But the turning point was his birthday. I planned every detail because I genuinely wanted him to be happy, not just to uphold our arrangement. It was then I realized my feelings were real.”

The memory she described made my chest tighten.

"And you, Caleb?" Emma turned to me. "When did it become real for you?"

"I think I knew something had changed when I caught myself checking my phone for her messages during practice," I admitted. "Or rearranging my schedule to be at Hat Trick for her busiest dinner services. I started measuring my day by when I'd see her next."

Riley's hand tightened in mine, her eyes sparkling when I glanced at her.

"The million-dollar question," Emma said, leaning forward slightly. "Is it love or convenience now?"

I found myself answering without hesitation. "It's love."

The simple declaration hung in the air for a moment.

"What matters is that we choose each other now, every day," I continued, holding Riley's gaze. "Not because of captaincy or restaurant finances, but because somehow, in the middle of pretending, we found something real."

The interview continued for another hour, covering the timeline of our relationship, the pressure of maintaining appearances, and our hopes for the future. By the time the cameras packed up and left, we were emotionally drained but strangely unified.

"You okay?" I asked Riley as we collapsed onto the couch.

"I think so," she said, leaning her head against my shoulder. "It felt good to be honest, finally."

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Yeah. No more pretending."

"Except now we have to deal with the fallout," she sighed.

She wasn't wrong. The interview generated exactly the mixed reactions we'd expected.

Some fans and commentators embraced our honesty and evident connection, finding the unexpected love story charming.

Others condemned the initial deception, filling comment sections with vitriol about "fake marriages" and questioning my leadership integrity.

Over the next few days, Hat Trick became a battleground of curiosity-seekers and paparazzi, making normal operation nearly impossible. Riley tried to maintain her usual schedule, but I could see the strain taking its toll. Each day, she returned home a little more subdued, a little more withdrawn.

Photographers camped outside our building, shouting invasive questions whenever we entered or left.

I could handle it—media harassment was part of professional sports—but Riley wasn't accustomed to such intrusion.

The breaking point came when she called me in tears after a particularly aggressive photographer had cornered her outside Hat Trick , asking if she "married for money or actually believes he loves her now. "

That night, I found her packing a small bag in our bedroom.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my stomach dropping at the sight.

"I think I should stay at my apartment above the restaurant for a while," she said without looking up, her voice carefully neutral. "Just until the media craziness dies down."

"Riley, you don't have to do that," I said, moving to stop her hands from folding another shirt. "We can increase security, or—"

"It's not just the media," she interrupted, finally meeting my eyes. "I need some space to think, Caleb. Everything's happening so fast—the scandal, the interview, your playoffs starting. I just need to breathe."

"You want to be away from me?" I couldn't keep the hurt from my voice.

"I want to be sure," she corrected gently.

"About us, about whether we make sense beyond the contract and the crisis management.

" She touched my face, her expression softening.

"I don't regret anything, but I think we both deserve to know if what we feel is real or just a response to all this pressure. "

"I know what I feel," I insisted, covering her hand with mine. "It's not going to change if you're across town."

"Then it won't hurt to have a little distance," she reasoned, though her eyes betrayed her own uncertainty. "Just for a short while."

I wanted to argue, to persuade her to stay, but I recognized the quiet determination in her expression. Riley needed this space, and if I truly respected her as I claimed, I had to give it to her.

"Okay," I said finally, letting my hand drop. "If that's what you need."

She nodded, relief and sadness mingling in her eyes. "I'll stay in touch. We'll reevaluate after you've had some time to focus on playoffs and I've got the restaurant situation under control."

"Reevaluate," I repeated, the word sitting like lead in my stomach. "Right."

"Caleb," she said, coming to stand directly in front of me. "This isn't an ending. It's just...a pause to make sure whatever comes next is what we both really want."

I nodded, unable to articulate the fear that once she stepped away, she might prefer her life without the complications I brought to it.

After she left, I stood in our bedroom—my bedroom —surrounded by the lingering scent of her perfume and the empty spaces where her things had been.