Page 13 of The Hockey Contract

His support surprised me. I continued, gaining confidence. "Also, my dog comes with me. Sprinkles lives wherever I live."

A flicker of what might have been amusement crossed Jax's face. "The dog that muddied my pants? Fine."

Leo looked between us, clearly pleased. "Excellent! Now, we'll need to create a believable backstory for your relationship and quick marriage."

Olivia pulled out a tablet. "We're thinking something along these lines: after your viral meeting, Jax came to your bakery to apologize properly. You got talking, discovered a mutual attraction, and began dating secretly to avoid media attention. The relationship progressed quickly—when you know, you know—and you decided to marry without fanfare."

As they continued outlining our fictional love story, I realized Jax had been unusually quiet. When I glanced his way, I found him watching me with an intensity that made me suddenly self-conscious.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked Jax directly, interrupting Olivia's narrative planning. "About me? You're basically inviting a stranger into your home, your life. That doesn't seem like something the Jax Harrison I've heard about would do."

Something shifted in his expression—a brief vulnerability quickly masked. "It's not ideal," he admitted. "But this arrangement benefits us both. Your bakery gets saved, I get the endorsement. It's business."

His blunt assessment stung slightly, even though I'd been thinking the same thing. This was a transaction, nothing more. The reminder was necessary, especially given the unwanted awareness I felt whenever he looked at me.

After finalizing more details, Leo and Olivia excused themselves to make some calls, leaving Jax and me alone.

"I should show you around," Jax said, rising from his seat. "If we're going to do this, you'll need to know your way around... our home."

The phrase sounded strange coming from him, and I could tell he felt the awkwardness of it too.

He led me through the house, pointing out various rooms—a home gym, a media room, a study, and several guest bedrooms, one of which would be mine. Everything was spacious, high-end, and utterly devoid of personality.

"This will be your room," he said, opening a door to reveal a beautiful but generic space with a king-sized bed and an attached bathroom, bigger than my entire apartment’s bedroom, connected to Jack’s room. "You can... decorate it however you want."

"Thank you," I said, unsure how else to respond. The idea of sleeping across the hall from Jax Harrison was surreal.

As we continued the tour, we came to a closed door that Jax hesitated before opening. Inside was the only room that looked truly lived-in—walls decorated with framed hockey jerseys, shelves displaying pucks and medals, and photos of Jax throughout his career.

"My trophy room," he said, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "Or man cave, whatever you want to call it."

"It's nice," I said honestly. "It feels like you, somehow."

He looked surprised by my comment. "What do you mean?"

I gestured around us. "The rest of your house is beautiful, but it could be anyone's. This room actually tells me something about you. It shows what matters to you."

Something flashed across his face, too quickly for me to interpret, before he closed the door and continued down the hall.

The last stop was the kitchen—a chef's dream with marble countertops, double ovens, and top-of-the-line everything. Despite my discomfort with the whole situation, I couldn't help but appreciate the space professionally.

"This kitchen is amazing," I admitted, running my hand along the cool marble. "Do you cook?"

"Not really," Jax shrugged. "I heat things up occasionally."

I looked around at the pristine appliances, clearly rarely used. "This is all just... for show?"

"I'm not home much during the season," he said defensively. "And when I am, I follow a strict nutrition plan with pre-prepared meals."

I shook my head, unable to hide my disbelief. "You have this incredible kitchen, and you don't use it? That's... actually sad."

A muscle in his jaw tightened. "Not everyone finds joy in baking cupcakes."

"Not everyone finds joy in hitting people with sticks on ice, either, but here we are," I shot back.

To my surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Touché."

As I continued examining the kitchen, a thought occurred to me. "You know, if we're selling this as a real marriage, shouldn't the house look like we both live here? Right now, it looks like you abducted a wife and are keeping her hostage in your museum of minimalism."

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