Page 55 of The Hockey Contract

"Hey," he said, coming to stand beside me. "Sorry I'm late. Coach extended practice."

"It's fine. We're still setting up." I gestured to the organized chaos around us. "How was practice?"

"Good. Hard. Coach is pushing us with playoffs coming up." He glanced around the transformed bakery. "The place looks different."

"Olivia's magic touch. Apparently, my daily flour-covered reality isn't 'aspirational' enough."

His mouth quirked in that almost-smile I'd grown to appreciate. "I like the regular version better."

The simple comment shouldn't have warmed me the way it did.

The photoshoot began with staged shots of me teaching Jax basic baking techniques. To my surprise, he remembered several proper methods from our late-night cookie session, correctly measuring flour by spooning it into the cup rather than scooping.

"You've been practicing," I observed during a brief break while the photographers adjusted lighting.

"Maybe." He looked almost embarrassed by the observation. "I watched some baking shows. Figured I should know the basics if I'm married to a baker."

The unnecessary effort touched me. "That's... really thoughtful."

He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "It's interesting. The science of it, the precision. Different from cooking."

"Want to know a secret?" I leaned closer, lowering my voice. "Half of baking is precise measurement, but the other half is feeling. Knowing when dough feels right, when meringue is properly whipped, when to trust your instincts over the recipe."

"Is that what makes you so good? The instinct part?"

"I've been baking since I could reach the counter standing on a chair. At some point, it becomes intuitive."

Jax considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Like hockey. You practice fundamentals until they're automatic, then develop the instinct for game situations."

"Exactly." I was surprised by the apt comparison. "Though I get fewer bruises."

"Debatable. I've seen your burns."

Our conversation was interrupted when Olivia called us back to positions. We continued the baking demonstration, moving through mixing, shaping, and finally placing cookies in the oven. Throughout the process, I noticed Jax becoming increasingly comfortable, asking genuine questions about techniques and occasionally making quiet observations that made me laugh.

During another break, while the photographers reviewed images, the bakery door chimed as Mr. Henderson entered for his daily visit. The elderly man had been coming to Grandma Rose's Bakehouse for decades, first with his wife and now alone since her passing two years ago.

"Sienna, my dear!" he called cheerfully, then stopped short at the sight of the photography equipment. "Oh! Am I interrupting something?"

"Not at all, Mr. Henderson," I assured him, guiding him to his usual table. "We're just doing a little photoshoot. Your usual today?"

"Yes, please. Earl Grey and a pecan roll." He spotted Jax and his eyes widened in recognition. "Well, I'll be damned! You're that hockey player, aren't you? The defenseman?"

Jax nodded, approaching the table with unexpected warmth. "Jax Harrison. Nice to meet you, sir."

"Walter Henderson. Been watching Kraken games since the team started," Mr. Henderson said proudly. "Before that, I followed the old Seattle Bulls. Saw them play when I was just a boy."

To my surprise, Jax sat down across from Mr. Henderson, genuine interest in his expression. "The Bulls won the Finals in 1917. First American team to do so."

"That's right!" Mr. Henderson beamed, clearly delighted by Jax's knowledge. "My father took me to games at the old Ice Arena. Different game back then—no helmets, wooden sticks, slower pace. But the passion was the same."

I brought over Mr. Henderson's tea and pecan roll, expecting Jax to politely excuse himself and return to the photoshoot. Instead, he remained engaged in conversation, asking thoughtful questions about the historic teams and listening with genuine attention as Mr. Henderson shared stories from his decades of hockey fandom.

"Don't get to games much these days," Mr. Henderson admitted, a hint of sadness in his voice. "Not since Margaret—my wife—passed. She was the driver, you see. My eyes aren't what they used to be."

Jax was quiet for a moment, then said, "I could arrange tickets for you, Mr. Henderson. And transportation. For the next home game, if you're interested."

The old man's face lit up. "Really? You'd do that?"

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