Page 5

The way she described her struggle stirred something in me. Riley wasn't looking for sympathy; she was simply stating the reality of her situation.

"What about you?" she asked, clearly wanting to change the subject. "How's the off-season treating you?"

I hesitated, unsure how much to share. Something about the late hour and the quiet intimacy of the corner table made me unexpectedly candid.

"Complicated," I admitted. "The team's considering me for captain next season."

"That's fantastic!" Riley's enthusiasm was warming. "You'd be perfect for it."

“Thanks,” I said, caught off guard by how much her support meant. “But there’s a catch. Our owner—Harold Whitman—is… old school. He’s made it clear: if I want the captain’s “C,” I need to clean up my image. Specifically, I have to look more settled. More… family-oriented.”

“Meaning?”

“That Whitman thinks only married men should wear the ‘C,’” I replied with a wry grin. “Apparently my bachelor life doesn’t scream ‘franchise poster boy.’”

Riley’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? That’s absurd.”

“Welcome to hockey culture,” I shrugged. “Traditional to a fault.”

“It’s ridiculous,” she shot back, indignation in her voice. “Your performance on the ice should count—not your love life.”

“I agree,” I said, “but Whitman calls the shots. Unless my personal situation changes before the season opener, the captaincy will go to Luke Peterson.”

"Peterson? Really?" Her nose wrinkled slightly. "I mean, he's adequate, but he's no—" She stopped, gesturing vaguely toward me, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

"No me?" I finished for her, unable to suppress a smile at her assessment.

"Exactly," she said, lifting her chin defiantly. "And I say that as someone who watches every game, not just as someone you've bought drinks for."

Her candor made me laugh. "I appreciate the vote of confidence."

The server returned, and without discussion, we both ordered second drinks. The alcohol and late hour loosened our usual restraint, and conversation flowed easily from hockey to cooking to our families.

I told her about growing up in Minnesota with a former NHL player father whose expectations had shaped my childhood. "He meant well, but sometimes I wish he wasn’t so rigid."

Riley nodded in understanding. "Parents are complicated. Mine are supportive but practical to a fault. When I told them I wanted to open a hockey-themed restaurant, my mom immediately started sending me statistics on restaurant failure rates."

"Were they right to worry?" I asked gently.

Riley sighed and traced a finger through the condensation on her glass. “I’ve poured everything into Hat Trick —my savings, my culinary school contacts, even Grandma’s small inheritance. If this fails, I don’t just lose money; I lose my home. My apartment sits right above the restaurant.”

“Is there nowhere else you can go?” I asked quietly.

She shook her head. “I could move back in with my parents, but they warned me the location was too risky. My dad even studied the foot-traffic data himself and urged me to rethink. Going back now would feel like…” Her voice faltered, but her meaning was clear.

"Like admitting failure," I finished for her.

"Exactly." She took another sip of bourbon. "So here we are: Mr. Needs-A-Wife to keep his career, and Ms. Needs-A-Miracle to save her restaurant. If only there was a way to solve both our problems at once."

The words hung between us. I'd been thinking about Diane's suggestion of an arrangement for days, turning it over in my mind, but hadn't found a scenario that didn't seem exploitative or doomed to fail.

Until now.

"What if there was?" I said slowly.

Riley blinked. "What if there was what?"

"A way to solve both our problems." I leaned closer, lowering my voice. "What if we got married?"

She laughed again, until she saw my expression. "You're serious?"

"Think about it," I continued, the idea forming more clearly as I spoke. "A temporary marriage. I get the captaincy, you get enough money to save your restaurant and keep it running until the construction ends and business picks up again."

"A marriage of convenience?" She looked skeptical, but not dismissive. "People don't actually do that, do they?"

"More often than you'd think," I said, remembering Diane's words. "We could draw up legal papers, set a clear timeline, define expectations. When both our goals are achieved, we part ways, no complications."

"That's insane," Riley said, but I noticed she hadn't outright rejected the idea. "We barely know each other."

"Maybe that makes it cleaner," I suggested. "No messy emotions, just a straightforward business arrangement."

Riley stared into her glass. "Even if I were considering this crazy idea—which I'm not saying I am—how would that even work? I live above my restaurant. You probably live in some fancy athlete penthouse."

"I do," I admitted. "And yes, you'd need to move in. We'd have to convince people it's real, which means living together, being seen together at team events."

"And what about..." she hesitated, a flush creeping up her neck. "Other aspects of marriage?"

"Completely off the table," I assured her quickly. "The contract would specify that. This would be a business arrangement, nothing more."

She shook her head, clearly overwhelmed. "This is—I need to think. It's been a long day, and we've both been drinking, and—"

"Of course," I agreed, signaling for the check. "Take all the time you need. But..." I hesitated. "Don't take Vincent’s offer in the meantime."

"I won't," she promised. "Although at this point, I'm not sure which of you has the crazier proposition."

I watched her leave in a taxi, equally parts hopeful and terrified that she might actually consider my impulsive suggestion.

The strangest part was that, despite the calculated nature of the proposal, something about it felt surprisingly right.

Riley saw me as a person first and a hockey star second—a rarity in my world that I valued more than I cared to admit.

As I headed to my own waiting car, I realized I'd just proposed marriage to a woman I'd known for less than a week. Max would never let me hear the end of this.