Page 50 of The Hockey Contract

"After what?"

"After hockey. After the season. After..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Whatever comes next."

A chill ran through me as I realized what he was really asking. Had I thought about what happened after our arrangement ended? After we went our separate ways as planned?

"Not really," I lied. "Focused on the present. Playoffs coming up."

Anders studied me with the same intensity he used to track pucks during games. "The future has a way of arriving whether we've planned for it or not."

With that cryptic comment, he put on his headphones, effectively ending the conversation. I stared out the window, unsettled by the question I'd been carefully avoiding myself.

What happened after the three months were up? Would we simply shake hands and part ways? The thought created an unexpected hollowness in my chest.

In Vancouver, the pre-game routine proceeded as usual—team meal, tactical meeting, warm-up skate. I forced myself to focus, pushing away thoughts of Sienna and our complicated situation. Hockey had always been my refuge, the one place where everything made sense.

During warm-ups, I skated routine laps, loosening my muscles and settling my mind into game mode. As I rounded the corner near the stands, a sign caught my eye:

"Jax's wife makes better snacks than your wife!"

The fan, seeing me notice the sign, cheered wildly. I nodded acknowledgment before skating away, but the reminder of how public our relationship had become lingered, disrupting my carefully cultivated game focus.

That distraction followed me into the match. I missed passes, was out of position twice, and failed to clear the puck on a crucial penalty kill, resulting in a Vancouver goal. By the second period, Coach Miller had reduced my ice time, a clear sign of his displeasure.

During the second intermission, he cornered me in the locker room.

"What's going on with you, Harrison?" he demanded, voice low but intense. "You're playing like a rookie, not my top defenseman."

"Sorry, Coach. Just off my game tonight."

"Is it the wife? The endorsement stuff? Because whatever it is, you need to compartmentalize. We're fighting for playoff positioning here."

"It won't happen again," I promised.

"See that it doesn't." He clapped my shoulder roughly. "I need the Ice Man out there, not whatever distracted version showed up tonight."

The Ice Man. The nickname had once been a point of pride—a testament to my cool-headed play under pressure. Now it felt like a caricature, a one-dimensional version of myself I was outgrowing without realizing it.

We lost 3-1, my poor performance a contributing factor. After the media scrum, where I tersely accepted responsibility for my mistakes, I retreated to the hotel, declining the usual team dinner in favor of room service and solitude.

Sleep, however, proved elusive. After tossing restlessly for hours, I found myself staring at my phone at 1:47 AM. Before I could overthink it, I dialed.

"Hello?" Sienna's voice was thick with sleep, and I immediately regretted waking her.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have called so late."

"Jax?" She sounded more alert now. "Is everything okay?"

"Fine. Just couldn't sleep." I hesitated. "I can let you get back to bed."

"No, I'm awake now." I heard rustling, as if she was sitting up. "How was the game?"

"We lost. I played terribly."

"I'm sorry." The genuine sympathy in her voice loosened something in my chest. "Was Coach upset?"

"Furious would be an understatement." I leaned back against the headboard. "I couldn't focus. Kept making rookie mistakes."

"Everyone has off days."

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