Page 31

For the first time since this whole arrangement began, I was truly alone, without the buffer of performance or contract to define my next move. The irony wasn't lost on me: I'd finally achieved everything I'd wanted professionally but none of it meant anything without Riley to share it with.

As I moved through the empty apartment, turning off lights and preparing for a night of restless sleep, my phone buzzed with a message from her.

Got to the apartment safely. The restaurant's quiet tonight. Sleep well. - R

The simple text shouldn't have provided as much comfort as it did. I typed back:

Thanks for letting me know. Miss you already. Good night. - C

I set the phone down, wondering if she'd respond, knowing I shouldn't expect it. When it buzzed again a minute later, I lunged for it embarrassingly quickly.

Miss you too. More than I expected. - R

A small ember of hope kindled in my chest at those words. Maybe this separation wasn't the beginning of the end, but a necessary step toward whatever came next.

The following days were a strange blend of hyper-focused hockey and aching personal emptiness.

I channeled my emotional turmoil into relentless play, driving myself and my teammates with an intensity that left even our coaches impressed.

On the ice, I could lose myself in the clean simplicity of the game; off it, everything reminded me of Riley's absence.

We spoke daily, brief conversations that maintained connection without addressing the underlying questions about our future. I didn't push, giving her the space she'd requested, but each call ended with the same hollow feeling—like holding my breath, waiting for a decision I couldn't control.

After a particularly brutal game against our most physical rivals, I took a vicious hit along the boards that left me momentarily stunned on the ice.

Though I managed to finish the game, the team doctor recommended observation for potential concussion symptoms, requiring someone to check on me periodically throughout the night.

I hesitated only briefly before calling Riley.

"Caleb?" she answered, concern immediately evident in her voice. "Is everything okay? I saw the hit during the game and—"

"I'm fine," I assured her, though my head was pounding and my vision slightly blurred at the edges. "Just a precaution, but the doc wants someone to check on me tonight. Concussion protocol."

There was a pause, then, "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

True to her word, Riley arrived at the penthouse within minutes, a duffel bag of necessities slung over one shoulder and a Hat Trick bag of fresh ingredients in the other. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of my face, where a bruise was blooming spectacularly along my cheekbone.

"That looks worse than it did on TV," she said, setting down her bags and moving closer to examine the damage.

"You should see the other guy," I joked weakly.

She rolled her eyes, but her hands were gentle as they framed my face. "Any dizziness? Nausea?"

"Just a headache," I admitted. "And I'm supposed to stay awake for another hour before I can sleep. Then wake-up checks every two hours."

Riley nodded, slipping into caretaker mode with familiar efficiency. "I'll make something light for dinner while you shower. Then we'll keep you awake with that British baking show you pretend not to like."

I smiled despite the pain. "I've missed you."

Her expression softened. "I've missed you too. Now go shower while I raid your pathetically empty refrigerator."

That night unfolded with practiced domesticity, as if the past week of separation had never happened. Riley prepared a simple but perfect meal, helped me ice my various bruises, and settled beside me on the couch with a comfortable familiarity that made my chest ache with longing.

When it was finally time for me to sleep, she woke me every few hours with gentle persistence, asking the standard concussion-check questions while monitoring my responses. Each time I drifted back to sleep, it was with the reassurance of her presence nearby.

By morning, the fog in my head had lifted, though the bruises had darkened impressively. I found Riley in the kitchen, preparing breakfast with the same focused attention she brought to her restaurant cooking.

As I watched her move through the space, a fundamental truth crystallized: the contract, the captaincy, the public opinion—none of it mattered compared to the simple reality of Riley's place in my life.

I moved closer, drawn to her like a magnet finding its natural alignment. She glanced up, a smile starting to form before concern replaced it.

"You should be resting," she scolded lightly. "Doctor's orders."

"I'm fine," I assured her, stepping into her space. "Better than fine, actually."

Her eyes searched mine, wariness mixing with something that looked like hope. "Caleb..."

"I love you," I said simply. "Contract or no contract, scandal or no scandal. I love you, Riley."

She set down the spatula she was holding, her expression unreadable. "We agreed to give it time. To be sure."

"I am sure," I insisted, taking her hands in mine. "I've never been more certain of anything."

For a moment, I thought she might melt into me as she had so many times before. Instead, she gently extracted her hands from mine, her eyes sad but determined.

"You need to rest," she said softly. "And I need to get back to the restaurant. We still need this time apart, Caleb. To be certain we're not just reacting to the crisis or the pressure."

The rejection, however gentle, felt like another body check—this one directly to my heart. I stepped back, forcing myself to respect her decision even as everything in me rebelled against it.

"Okay," I managed, my voice rougher than I intended. "If that's what you need."

She nodded, returning to the stove to plate the breakfast she'd made. We ate in silence that was neither comfortable nor hostile—just uncertain, filled with words neither of us seemed ready to speak.

As she prepared to leave, gathering her overnight bag and checking that she had everything, I remained seated at the kitchen counter, afraid that if I moved closer, I'd beg her to stay.

"Thank you for coming," I said finally as she reached the door. "For taking care of me."

She paused, looking back with an expression that made my breath catch. "Always," she said simply. Then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a quiet finality that echoed in the empty apartment.

I sat there long after she'd left, the remains of breakfast growing cold between us, wondering how something that felt so right could be so complicated.