Page 4

I arrived at the school charity gala early, slipping in through the service entrance wearing dark jeans, a ball cap, and non-designer sunglasses—my standard incognito outfit when I wanted to avoid attention.

The event wouldn't officially start for another hour, but I wanted to watch Riley work without creating the usual fuss my presence caused.

The hotel ballroom was in organized chaos, with staff arranging tables, florists adding final touches to centerpieces, and in the far corner, Riley's catering team setting up serving stations. I positioned myself near a column where I could observe without being conspicuous.

Riley was clearly the driving force for her small team, who had the look of part-timers or temporary staff rather than seasoned chefs.

But Riley herself moved with the practiced, focused precision I recognized from her restaurant.

Her hair was pulled back tight, revealing the elegant curve of her neck as she carefully arranged miniature truffle sliders on a hockey-puck platter.

She was completely absorbed, just like I felt before important games – focused on every single detail.

For the past week, I'd found myself returning to Hat Trick almost daily, using Max's inexplicable fascination with antagonizing Zoe as an excuse.

In reality, something about Riley's straightforward determination kept drawing me back.

She was refreshingly genuine in a world where I was constantly surrounded by people who wanted something from me.

I was about to make my way over to Riley's station when I noticed Vincent Carelli approaching her.

My jaw clenched involuntarily. Carelli was notorious in Boston business circles—a "consultant" who specialized in high-interest loans to desperate small business owners. The team had specifically banned him from approaching players after a rookie defenseman nearly lost his signing bonus to one of Carelli’s "investment opportunities. "

Vincent leaned in close to Riley, his expensive but poorly fitted suit marking him as a man with new money and no taste.

I couldn't hear their conversation, but Riley's body language told me everything I needed to know.

Her shoulders stiffened, her smile disappeared, and she took a small step back.

Carelli only pressed closer, sliding what looked like a business card toward her.

Without conscious thought, I found myself moving across the room. By the time I reached Riley's station, Carelli had finally slithered away, leaving her visibly shaken. Her hands trembled slightly as she arranged canapés on a tray.

"Everything looks incredible," I said by way of greeting, keeping my voice casual.

Riley looked up, surprise and relief washing over her face. "Caleb! I didn't know you'd be here this early."

"I wanted to see the setup without creating a distraction," I explained, gesturing toward my cap. "Once I'm officially here, it gets harder to have normal conversations."

She smiled at that, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Well, I'm glad you came by. I wanted to thank you again for the recommendation. Annabelle has been wonderful to work with."

“Happy to help,” I said, then hesitated as I watched Vincent slipping away. "Is everything going okay? I saw Vincent Carelli talking to you."

Her smile faltered slightly. "You know him?"

"Of him," I clarified. "The team warned us about his operations. He targets people in difficult situations."

Riley glanced around to ensure no one were within earshot, then lowered her voice. "He's been... persistent. Offering me a 'special financing package' for Hat Trick ." She made air quotes around the words, her distaste evident.

"His loans always come with strings," I said carefully.

“Oh, I've gathered that much,” she said, her voice low. “The interest rate alone is highway robbery, and I have the distinct impression that the ‘ additional terms’ he keeps mentioning involve more than mere financial commitments.”

The implication made my jaw tighten involuntarily. "You're not considering it, are you?"

Riley looked away, her momentary silence more concerning than any answer she could have given.

"Riley," I said, my voice low and urgent. "Guys like that—"

"I know," she interrupted, meeting my eyes again. "But when you're drowning and someone offers a rope, sometimes you don't immediately question what's on the other end."

The raw honesty in her voice hit me harder than I expected. Before I could respond, one of her part-time staff called her name, needing her attention for a minor crisis involving the chafing dishes.

"Duty calls," she said with a forced smile. "Catch you when the event starts?"

I nodded, watching her walk away with a strange tightness in my chest.

The gala itself was predictably tedious—the same speeches about community commitment and educational opportunities that featured at every charity event, the same wealthy donors congratulating themselves for their generosity, the same professional schmoozing that was part of my job as one of the team's stars.

I dutifully worked the room, posing for photos, signing autographs, and making small talk with sponsors. All the while, I found my gaze repeatedly drawn to Riley, who was managing the catering with impressive efficiency.

Her food was the highlight of the evening—innovative, hockey-themed appetizers that drew enthusiastic praise even from the most jaded socialites.

I overhead snippets of conversations about the "charming little restaurant near the arena" and mentally calculated how many of these people might actually follow through on their declarations to visit Hat Trick once the event was over.

As the evening wound down, I made my way back to the catering area where Riley and Zoe were beginning to pack up equipment.

"Need a hand?" I offered, loosening my tie.

Riley looked up, surprise evident on her tired face. "Don't you have... I don't know, important people to talk to?"

"I've met my quota of handshakes and fake smiles for the night," I said with a wry smile. "Besides, this seems more useful."

"In that case, these trays couldn't care less if you're famous," she said, pushing an empty equipment case toward me. "They just want to go back to the restaurant in one piece."

I found myself enjoying the simple task of helping break down the catering station. It was refreshing to do something practical and immediate, with clear results, rather than navigating the murky waters of team politics and public relations.

Max appeared as we were loading the last items into Riley's catering van, immediately engaging Zoe in what had become their standard bickering.

"There's my favorite chef who isn't impressed by my athletic prowess," he declared, reaching for a heavy cooler that Zoe was struggling to lift.

"I can manage," she said stiffly, though she did allow him to take one handle while she took the other.

"Of course you can," Max agreed amicably. "But why should you have to when there are perfectly functional hockey players standing around?"

"Because most hockey players I've met think helping means standing around looking pretty while others do the work," Zoe retorted.

"I'm devastated by your low opinion of my profession," Max said, clutching his chest dramatically with his free hand. "Truly wounded. I may never recover."

"You'll survive," Zoe said dryly, though I caught the smile she tried to suppress.

As they continued loading equipment, I turned to Riley. "Can I buy you a drink? You look like you could use one after the long night."

She hesitated, glancing at the nearly packed van. "I should really get this stuff back to the restaurant..."

"Zoe and I can handle the rest," Max interjected, clearly eavesdropping. "Right, Chef Unimpressed?"

Zoe rolled her eyes but nodded. "Go ahead, Riley. You've been on your feet for fourteen hours straight. The cleanup can wait till morning."

Riley's resistance crumbled visibly. "One drink," she conceded. "And only because my feet are staging a rebellion against the concept of standing."

The hotel bar was quiet, most of the gala attendees having already departed. We found a corner table, away from the few remaining patrons who might recognize me.

Riley immediately kicked off her chef clogs under the table and released her hair from its tight bun, running her fingers through it with a sigh of relief. The transformation was striking—from efficient chef to young woman with warm eyes and an infectious smile.

"Better?" I asked, amused by her sudden relaxation.

"You have no idea," she groaned. "Those shoes are practical for kitchen work but basically instruments of torture after about hour ten."

"And yet you wore them for..." I checked my watch, "going on fifteen hours now?"

"The price of doing business," she said with a shrug. "Speaking of which, thank you again for the recommendation. Tonight's fee will cover this month's rent, at least."

"Your food was the hit of the event," I told her honestly. "I overheard at least a dozen people talking about visiting Hat Trick ."

"If they can find it through the construction maze," Riley said, but her tone was hopeful rather than bitter.

The server arrived, and Riley ordered a bourbon neat while I asked for my usual bourbon on the rocks.

"So," I said after our drinks arrived, "do you cater many events like this?"

"Not lately," she admitted. "When we first opened, we did a steady catering business alongside the restaurant. But with the construction strangling our cash flow, we've had to cut back on staff, which makes it hard to manage off-site events."

"How many people do you usually employ?"

"Before the construction? Six full-time staff plus part-timers for busy shifts. Now it's just me, Zoe, and one line cook who works part time." She took a sip of her drink. "Tonight I had to bring in former employees willing to work for cash. Not ideal, but—" She shrugged. "You do what you have to."