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"I think we've just created another media moment," I murmured against Caleb's lips, not particularly concerned about the potential headlines.

"Good," he said firmly. "Let them see the real thing for once."

Within minutes of leaving the terminal, both our phones began buzzing incessantly. Diane called before we reached the parking garage, her voice a mixture of exasperation and admiration.

"Airport proposal?" she said without preamble. "You two have either the worst or best instincts for public relations I've ever encountered."

"Sorry?" Caleb offered, not sounding sorry at all as he navigated through airport traffic with one hand, the other firmly entwined with mine.

"Don't be," Diane sighed. "The images are already trending. Perfect timing, actually—transforms the scandal narrative into romantic redemption story. I couldn't have scripted it better myself."

After assuring Diane we'd be available for a proper statement tomorrow, we hung up only to immediately receive a video call from Max, with Zoe leaning into frame beside him.

"Smooth move, Captain," Max grinned as soon as we answered. "The team group chat is exploding. Johnson's actually crying, the big softie."

"Congratulations," Zoe added, her usual sarcasm softened by genuine happiness. "Though I'm a little offended you didn't give me advanced warning, Riley. I thought we were friends."

"It was spontaneous," I explained, catching Caleb's eye with a smile. "Very spontaneous."

"Well, it's all over social media," Max informed us. "The Boston Blizzard's PR team is already retweeting the best photos with hockey puns about 'scoring for life' and stuff."

After promising to celebrate properly once we were home, we ended the call, both laughing at the absurdity of our relationship constantly playing out in public view.

As we drove towards the penthouse, conversation flowed naturally between updates and emotional revelations.

I described the competition experience, detailing culinary techniques and challenges that Caleb followed with genuine interest, asking insightful questions that reflected how closely he'd paid attention to my cooking processes over our months together.

In turn, Caleb recounted the crucial game and playoff qualification, his normally measured descriptions more animated than usual. I found myself interjecting with hockey observations that Caleb found interesting.

At the stoplight, Caleb’s hand enveloped mine, his thumb gently brushing against my new engagement ring.

“I have something else to tell you,” he said, eyes alight with excitement.

“The Boston Blizzard’s owners called yesterday—they’ve been impressed with how well your concession stand at the arena is doing. ”

"It's just glorified stadium food," I said modestly, though pride warmed me at the recognition.

"They don't see it that way," Caleb continued. "They're proposing expanded culinary opportunities throughout the arena, including a second Hat Trick location with playoff-themed offerings."

"Are you serious?" I gasped, mind immediately racing with possibilities. "That would be incredible exposure."

"Plus," he added with a grin, "it means you'll have legitimate business at the arena, so no one can claim you're just there as the captain's wife."

"As if I'd ever be 'just' anything," I retorted.

Arriving at the penthouse, we entered together, absorbing the rightness of being there simultaneously after weeks of separation.

Dropping our bags in the entryway, we moved toward each other with the magnetic pull that had characterized our relationship from the beginning—initial attraction evolving into something deeper, more substantial than either of us had anticipated.

Caleb's kiss was gentle at first, mindful of his injuries, but quickly deepened as weeks of separation and uncertainty channeled into physical connection. My hands found the hem of his shirt, carefully navigating around his injured shoulder as I helped him remove it.

The bruising along his ribs made me wince in sympathy. "We should be careful," I murmured, gently tracing the discoloration with my fingertips. "Your shoulder..."

"Worth it," he whispered against my neck, his good hand already working the buttons of my blouse with practiced ease.

We moved to our bedroom with renewed familiarity, rediscovering each other with the added dimension of acknowledged love. What had always been physically satisfying between us now carried emotional resonance that heightened every touch, every whispered endearment.

After, as we lay tangled in sheets and each other, I traced lazy patterns on Caleb's chest, careful to avoid his injuries. The comfortable silence between us felt like different kind of intimacy.

"I should make us something to eat," I said eventually, reluctantly pulling away from the warmth of his body. "You need protein after that game, and I haven't had a real meal since yesterday."

Caleb groaned in protest but released me, watching with undisguised appreciation as I retrieved his discarded shirt and slipped it on. The hem hit mid-thigh, providing minimal modesty that seemed unnecessary after our recent activities.

"Have I mentioned how much I've missed you in my kitchen?" he called as I padded down the hallway.

"You mean how much you've missed my cooking," I teased over my shoulder.

"That too," he admitted, following me with a wince that suggested his shoulder was protesting the movement.

In the kitchen, I moved instinctively toward the refrigerator while Caleb retrieved my favorite cutting board from the cabinet where it belonged.

We fell into our established pattern—me assessing available ingredients while he gathered the ingredients, working together with the practiced coordination of people who had learned each other's rhythms.

"I think I can manage a decent pasta with what you have here," I said, examining a package of prosciutto and some aging but salvageable vegetables. "Though your produce situation is dire. When was the last time you bought anything green?"

Caleb leaned against the counter, watching me with an expression that made my chest tighten. "I've been eating a lot of takeout," he admitted. "The kitchen felt wrong without you in it."

The simple confession made me pause in my preparations. "I've missed this," I said softly, gesturing between us and the familiar kitchen space. "Cooking for you, cooking with you. Even your hopeless attempts to chop onions without crying."

"Hey, I've improved," he protested with mock indignation. "That tutorial you showed me about the wet paper towel trick actually works."

As I prepared a simple but satisfying pasta dish, I contemplated the contract lying forgotten in Caleb's desk drawer.

The document that had once defined our relationship now seemed irrelevant compared to the reality we'd created together.

Perhaps we'd burn it during our actual anniversary celebration, I thought, or frame it as a reminder of our unusual beginning.

"What are you smiling about?" Caleb asked, his arms encircling my waist from behind as I stirred the sauce.

"Just thinking about how far we've come," I replied, leaning back against his chest. "From business partners to... whatever we are now."

"Fiancés," he supplied, pressing a kiss to the side of my neck. "For real this time."

The word sent a shiver of delight through me. "Does that make our first marriage a practice run?"

He laughed, the sound rumbling against my back. "Something like that. Though I'm thinking we keep the legal part intact and just renew our vows. Seems simpler than divorce and remarriage."

"Practical as always," I teased, turning in his arms to face him. "But I like it. A fresh start without erasing where we've been."

As we sat down to eat our late-night meal, the conversation flowed easily between plans for the expanded restaurant, playoff strategies, and the inevitable media response to our airport reunion. The comfortable domesticity felt both familiar and new.

"You know," Caleb said thoughtfully, twirling pasta around his fork, "when I signed that contract with you, I thought I knew exactly what I was getting: captaincy, public image improvement, convenient date for team functions."

"And I thought I was getting financial stability and a chance to save my restaurant," I added.

"We got all those things," he continued, reaching for my hand across the table. "But we got something I never thought to put in the contract."

"What's that?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"A real partnership. A home. A future that doesn't end when the contract does."