Page 59 of The Hockey Contract

Chapter 18: Jax

I woke to warmth, softness, and Sienna's familiar floral scent. Somehow, overnight, we’d abandoned the pillow barrier, and I found myself curled around her, my arm draped over her waist in the classic spoon position.

For a moment, I stayed still, reluctant to break the intimacy. Her steady breathing and the gentle tickle of her hair stirred a protective, possessive longing—a desire to make this fleeting arrangement permanent.

Then the thought jolted me awake. This was dangerous territory, blurring business with genuine feelings. Carefully, I disentangled myself, missing her warmth as I retreated to my side of the bed.

Sienna shifted slightly, still lost in peaceful sleep under the early morning light. I stole one last look at her—the soft curve of her cheek and the slight part of her lips—before forcing myself to think of hockey plays and contract details instead of the woman beside me. Lost in thought, I drifted off to sleep once again.

When I woke later, the bed was empty, replaced by the scent of baking and off-key singing from the kitchen. A year ago, I’d have been irritated by the disruption; now, I smiled at the familiar signs of Sienna’s presence in my home.

In the kitchen, I found her wearing an oversized t-shirt and shorts, flour-dusted as usual, arranging pastries on a cooling rack while singing along to the music playing from her phone. She hadn't noticed me yet, giving me a moment to appreciate the domestic scene—her comfortable presence in my space, the way she'd transformed the once-sterile kitchen into a warm, lived-in area.

"Those smell amazing," I said, finally announcing my presence.

She turned, a smile lighting her face. "French breakfast pastries. I'm experimenting for your parents' visit. Your mom mentioned loving Paris in that phone call last week, so I thought French-inspired breakfast might impress her."

The thoughtfulness of the gesture—remembering a detail from a conversation she'd only heard one side of—created a warm sensation in my chest. Without thinking, I moved behind her to look over her shoulder at the pastries, placing my hands lightly on her waist.

She stilled immediately, and I realized I'd crossed one of our unspoken boundaries. We touched for photos, for public appearances, but rarely in private moments like this. Yet since the kiss at the bakery two days ago, the rules seemed increasingly blurred.

I stepped back quickly. "Sorry. Need coffee."

"In the pot," she replied, her voice slightly higher than normal. "Fresh."

We moved around each other with careful distance after that, the easy domesticity of moments before replaced by hyperawareness of each other's presence. I left early for practice, grateful for the physical exertion that would hopefully clear my head.

On the ice, I channeled my confused energy into perfect execution, making defensive plays with calculated precision and joining rushes with controlled aggression. Coach Miller noticed immediately.

"Whatever's got you fired up, Harrison, bottle it," he called after I broke up a particularly dangerous scoring opportunity. "That's the kind of play we need in the playoffs."

In the locker room afterward, I was removing my gear when I overheard Marco's voice from the next row of lockers.

"Harrison's baker girl is hot, I'll give him that. Wonder if she's as sweet in bed as her pastries."

Cold fury washed over me. Before I could process what I was doing, I was on my feet, rounding the lockers to confront Marco, who was smirking at another teammate.

"What did you say?" My voice was deadly quiet.

Marco's smirk faltered slightly. "Just complimenting your wife, man. No harm intended."

"Say her name."

"What?"

"Her name is Sienna. Not 'baker girl.' And you don't talk about her. At all. Ever. Understand?"

Marco stood, clearly not backing down. "Since when are you so sensitive? It was a joke."

"It wasn't funny." I stepped closer, fists clenched. "Apologize."

"For what? Saying your wife is hot? Most guys would take that as a compliment."

I moved without thinking, grabbing the front of his shirt and backing him against the lockers with enough force to create a loud bang. "Apologize," I repeated, barely recognizing my own voice.

"Whoa!" Finn appeared suddenly, pushing between us. "What the hell is going on?"

Anders was there too, his quiet voice a contrast to the tension. "Step back, Jax. Not worth it."

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