Page 1 of The Hockey Contract

Chapter 1: Sienna

I stared at the foreclosure notice, my stomach dropping like I'd fallen from a ten-story building. Three months. That's all I had left of Grandma Rose's Bakehouse unless I could somehow pull $150,000 out of thin air.

"This can't be happening," I whispered, my fingers trembling as I traced the bank's heartless letterhead.

The bakery had stood on this corner of Seattle for over fifty years. The worn wooden floors had supported three generations of my family, the vintage display cases had housed thousands of pastries, and the walls had absorbed decades of laughter and conversation. This wasn't just a business. It was my grandmother's legacy, and now, my legacy.

When Seattle Sweet Spot—a trendy corporate chain with minimalist decor and overpriced lattes—opened just two blocks away, my once-thriving customer base dwindled to a small group of loyal patrons.

The timer on the oven buzzed, jolting me from my spiral of panic. I rushed to the kitchen, but it was too late. Black smoke poured from the oven as I yanked open the door, revealing the charred remains of what should have been perfectly golden morning pastries.

"No!" I grabbed oven mitts and pulled out the tray, dropping it onto the counter with a clatter. The pastries were beyond salvation, black as hockey pucks and just as appetizing. I hadn't burned a batch since I was fourteen and learning to bake alongside Grandma Rose.

Tears pricked at my eyes. I'd been up until 3 AM reviewing the books, searching for some magical solution to my financial disaster. My brain was foggy from lack of sleep, and now I'd wasted ingredients I couldn't afford to replace.

The bell above the front door jingled, and I quickly wiped my eyes with my flour-dusted apron.

"Good morning, Sienna," Mr. Henderson's cheerful voice called out. He was eighty-two, had a slight stoop to his shoulders, and had been coming to the bakery every single day since my grandmother opened it.

I plastered on a smile and emerged from the kitchen. "Good morning, Mr. Henderson. Your usual?"

"You know me too well." He smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. "Though I hope your day is going better than whatever's burning back there."

I laughed. "Just a small kitchen disaster. Nothing I can't handle."

As I prepared his Earl Grey tea and pecan roll which was thankfully baked fresh yesterday, the back door banged open.

"Honey, I'm home," Chloe's voice sang out. My best friend and assistant baker always made an entrance. Today she wore bright yellow leggings under a floral dress, her curly hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun secured with what appeared to be two pencils.

"Morning, Chloe," I called over my shoulder, passing Mr. Henderson his order.

"You look like death warmed over," Chloe said bluntly when she joined me behind the counter. "And what's that smell? Did you sacrifice pastries to the baking gods?"

"Something like that." I waited until Mr. Henderson had settled at his usual table by the window before pulling Chloe into the kitchen.

"Whoa, serious face," she said, immediately sobering. "What's going on?"

I wordlessly handed her the foreclosure notice, watching as her eyes widened while scanning the document.

"Holy shit," she breathed, looking up at me. "Three months? That's all they're giving us?"

"That's all they're giving me," I corrected. "This is my mess, Chloe."

"Oh, stop it. We're in this together." She studied the paper again. "One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That's a lot."

"It's impossible," I said, sinking onto a stool. "The loan I took out for the renovations last year? I thought business would pick up enough to cover the payments, but thenSeattle Sweet Spotopened, and—" My voice cracked.

"Hey," Chloe said softly, placing a hand on my shoulder. "We'll figure something out. What about your Aunt Carol? She helped with the initial renovation costs, right?"

I shook my head firmly. "She's already done too much. Besides, she just retired. I can't ask her to sink her savings into this place." I gestured to the charred pastries. "Especially when I'm falling apart."

"You're not falling apart," Chloe insisted. "You're sleep-deprived and stressed. Why don't I handle things here for a bit while you take a walk? Clear your head."

The idea of fresh air suddenly seemed appealing. "You sure?"

"Positive. Just bring me back a coffee that doesn't taste like motor oil. The machine's acting up again."

I hugged her tightly. "You're the best."

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