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The Blizzard's locker room vibrated with tense energy before the season's most crucial game.

As captain, it was my job to project confident calm while navigating the distinct personalities that made up our team.

I moved purposefully around the room, offering individualized encouragement—a joke to ease a rookie's nerves, a specific tactical reminder for a veteran, a silent nod of acknowledgment to the defenseman who preferred minimal pre-game interaction.

"Big one tonight, Captain," Cooper said as I stopped by his stall, his weathered face serious beneath his graying playoff beard.

"Just another game," I replied with the practiced nonchalance that belied the stakes. Win tonight, and we'd clinch our playoff position with breathing room; lose, and we'd be scrambling in our final regular-season games.

Cooper snorted, seeing through the facade. "Sure it is." He paused, lowering his voice. "Team's with you, you know. All the noise outside—we're blocking it out."

I nodded, grateful for the support but unwilling to discuss the personal turmoil that had dominated my life off the ice. "Appreciate it. Let's just focus on what we can control."

"That's why you got the C," he said, tapping my chest where the captain's letter was sewn. "Keep the bullshit outside where it belongs."

If only it were that simple. The "bullshit" had permeated every aspect of my life for weeks now—reporters shouting questions about my marriage at every public appearance, social media dissecting Riley's and my relationship based on crumbs of information, even opposing fans chanting "Contract husband! " during away games.

And through it all, the hollow ache of Riley's absence. It had been nearly two weeks since she'd temporarily moved back to her apartment above Hat Trick , and while we spoke daily, the distance between us felt like more than the few miles of Boston streets that separated us physically.

I'd respected her request for space, limiting our conversations to brief check-ins rather than the deeper discussions my heart craved. She'd even participated in a prestigious cooking competition in New York the previous week, where she'd advanced to the finals.

I'd watched portions of the competition via livestream between practices and team meetings, bursting with pride that I could share with no one but Max.

She deserved the recognition, the chance to showcase her talents beyond the hockey connection that had initially boosted her restaurant's profile.

Yet selfishly, I wished she were here tonight—not for appearances, but because games felt incomplete without knowing she was watching from the family section.

"Matthews," a voice interrupted my thoughts. I turned to find Diane standing at the locker room entrance, gesturing for me to join her.

"Everything okay?" I asked as I approached, immediately concerned by her presence just before game time.

"Just a quick update," she said, keeping her voice low. "The media focus is shifting somewhat from your personal situation to playoff implications. That's good news."

I nodded, though it hardly felt like a major victory. "And?"

"And I've spoken with team ownership. They're satisfied with your on-ice performance despite the..." she paused, choosing her words carefully, "personal complications. The captaincy remains secure."

The news should have brought relief, yet I found myself surprisingly indifferent. Captaincy meant far less now than it once had, a distant priority compared to the uncertainty of my future with Riley.

"Thanks," I said, unable to muster more enthusiasm. "Anything else?"

Diane's gaze softened with concern. "Just focus on the game, Caleb. The rest will sort itself out."

I nodded again and returned to the locker room to finish preparing.

Twenty minutes later, I stood at center ice for the opening face-off, channeling my complicated emotions into heightened competitive focus.

The first period passed in a blur of controlled aggression, each shift a welcome reprieve from the thoughts that plagued me off the ice.

Midway through the second period, I intercepted a sloppy cross-ice pass from the opposing defenseman and broke away toward their goal.

The goalie committed too early; I deked right, then lifted a backhand shot into the top corner.

The red light flashed, the arena erupted, and my teammates mobbed me along the boards.

My celebration was automatic but subdued, eyes instinctively searching the family section before remembering Riley's absence. The gesture didn't go unnoticed by the commentators, who referenced the "ongoing personal situation" with barely disguised speculation.

The third period became a defensive battle as we protected our one-goal lead against increasingly desperate opposition.

With minutes remaining, I took a punishing hit while clearing our defensive zone—a legal but brutally effective check that sent me heavily into the boards.

My shoulder absorbed most of the impact, sending a searing pain down my arm that momentarily stole my breath.

Max was immediately beside me, concern evident even through his goalie mask. "You good?"

I nodded, regaining my feet quickly. "I'm fine. Let's finish this."

The adrenaline carried me through the final minutes, awareness of the game's importance overriding physical discomfort. When the final horn sounded, signaling victory and playoff qualification, the locker room erupted in jubilant celebration.

I participated with genuine pleasure despite growing discomfort, fulfilling captain's duties with media and ownership while concealing the extent of my injury. Only during the medical examination afterward did I acknowledge the significant shoulder strain, requiring treatment and potential imaging.

"Ice it tonight, limit movement," the team doctor instructed after manipulating my shoulder. "We'll reevaluate before next practice. Might need to get scans if it's still this tender tomorrow."

I nodded, too exhausted to argue for a more optimistic prognosis.

In the quiet of the training room, I finally checked my phone, hoping for messages from Riley about her competition results.

Instead, I found a travel notification—a forwarded itinerary showing her flight from New York to Boston, departing soon.

Frowning, I checked the dates of the competition's remaining events.

The finals wouldn't conclude for another two days, yet Riley appeared to be abandoning the opportunity to return to Boston.

While selfishly pleased at her imminent return, I worried she was sacrificing important professional advancement for our complicated situation.

After treatment, I found Max waiting in the near-empty locker room, still in his base layers despite everyone else having showered and departed.

"Shoulder?" he asked, nodding at the ice pack strapped to my joint.

"Just a strain," I assured him, wincing as I attempted to raise my arm. "Doc says it'll be fine with rest."

"Sure," Max said skeptically. "That's why you're white as my away jersey and sweating like it's game seven."

I managed a weak laugh. "Just tired. Good game, by the way. That glove save in the third was ridiculous."

"Changing the subject won't work," he said, but his expression softened with pride at the compliment. "But yeah, it was pretty sick, wasn't it?"

I settled onto the bench beside him, grateful for the distraction of normal locker room banter. "Completely unhuman. The replay's probably going viral as we speak."

Max grinned, then his expression grew more serious. "How are things with Riley? Any progress?"

I sighed, absently adjusting the ice pack. "She's coming back from New York tonight. Earlier than planned."

"That's good, right?"

"Maybe," I admitted. "Or maybe she feels obligated because of all this media pressure. She's missing the finals of her competition to come back."

Max considered this. "Have you thought that maybe she's choosing to come back because she wants to? Not because she has to?"

"I don't know what to think anymore," I confessed. "I love her. I know that much. But I'm not sure what she wants."

"You know," Max said thoughtfully, "a few months ago, I would have laughed at the idea of being in a serious relationship. The whole stable, committed thing seemed so... restrictive."

I raised an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden turn in conversation. "And now?"

"And now I'm thinking about asking Zoe to move in with me," he said, his expression a mixture of disbelief and certainty that would have been comical under different circumstances.

"Seriously? The same Zoe who called you an 'entitled puck-blocking man-child' last year?"

Max laughed. "That's the one. Turns out insulting me was just her version of flirting."

"When did this happen?" I asked, curious about the development in my friends' relationship.

"It's been building for a while," he admitted.

"But I think I knew it was serious when I realized I was rearranging my schedule to be at Hat Trick during her shifts, just to hear her tell me I was in the way.

" His expression grew thoughtful. “I always assumed being with her would complicate my life, but it’s been quite the opposite. We drive each other forward because we both know what it means to be truly passionate about our work.”

His unexpected insight resonated with my own experience with Riley. "That's... surprisingly profound coming from a guy who used to rate dates based on their ability to recognize hockey players at bars."

"People change," Max shrugged. "Or maybe we just figure out what really matters."

As I drove home, Max's words lingered in my mind. The space that had once felt so perfect in its sleek bachelor minimalism now seemed hollow without Riley's presence.

After a restless hour attempting to settle in for the night, I made an impulsive decision.

I contacted the team's travel coordinator, requesting an immediate flight to New York.

If Riley was returning to Boston for me, potentially sacrificing professional opportunities, I would go to her instead—playoff schedule and media complications be damned.

I'd support her remaining competition events, ensuring she didn't compromise her culinary ambitions for our relationship. The logistics were complex but manageable with the team's two-day break before playoff matches intensified.

With determined efficiency, I packed essentials and arranged transportation. Just before departure, I received another notification—Riley's flight had already departed, scheduled to land at Logan Airport within the hour.

Our timing couldn't have been worse. With quick recalculation, I canceled my flight and rushed to the airport instead, determined to meet Riley upon arrival despite the late hour and my aching shoulder.

As I navigated Boston traffic toward Logan, I mentally composed what I'd say when seeing her.

Beyond contractual arrangements and pragmatic partnerships, beyond captaincy concerns and restaurant finances, lay a simple truth I was ready to acknowledge: I loved her, completely and without contingency.

I pulled into the airport pickup zone just as her flight's arrival was announced on the terminal monitors. My heart raced with nervous anticipation as I made my way inside, ignoring the occasional double-takes from travelers who recognized me despite my baseball cap and casual clothes.

Positioning myself near the security exit where arriving passengers emerged, I scanned the crowd with growing intensity. Every passing minute increased my anxiety that I'd somehow missed her or that she'd taken another exit to avoid potential media attention.

Then suddenly, there she was—weaving through the crowd with a carry-on bag slung over her shoulder, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing the oversized Boston College sweatshirt she favored for travel. Even exhausted from her flight, she was the most beautiful sight I'd seen in weeks.

I stood frozen, suddenly unsure of my reception, watching as she checked her phone and adjusted her bag, completely unaware of my presence. Then, as if sensing my gaze, she looked up, her eyes widening with recognition. The world narrowed to just us as our eyes locked across the terminal.