Page 60 of The Hockey Contract

I released Marco, suddenly aware of the entire locker room watching in shocked silence. In all my years with the team, I'd never lost control like this, never initiated physical confrontation off the ice.

"He's lost his mind," Marco muttered, straightening his shirt. "All because I said his baker wife—"

"Sienna," I corrected sharply. "Her name is Sienna."

Coach Miller's voice cut through the tension. "Harrison. My office. Now."

I followed him silently, aware of the stares from my teammates. In his office, Miller closed the door and studied me with narrowed eyes.

"Want to tell me what that was about?"

"Marco was disrespectful about Sienna. I lost my temper."

"I've heard worse locker room talk. Never seen you react like that." He leaned against his desk. "What's going on with you lately? The distracted play in Vancouver, now this? This isn't like you."

I struggled to articulate what I myself didn't fully understand. "I don't know, Coach. Things are... complicated right now."

"The marriage? The endorsement stuff?" His expression softened slightly. "Look, I get it. Your life's changed a lot. But I need your head in the game, Harrison. The team needs the focused player who earned that 'Ice Man' nickname, not someone who loses control over locker room trash talk."

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

"See that it doesn't." He stood straighter.

I nodded stiffly, though Marco’s comment still set my blood boiling. It wasn't just his crude remark that bothered me—it was my unexpectedly intense reaction. I had always been controlled, disciplined, able to brush off provocations. So what had changed?

The answer was clear. In just a few short weeks, Sienna had become someone I felt fiercely protective of, someone whose honor now outweighed my carefully cultivated reputation for cool detachment.

At home, I found Sienna in full preparation mode for my parents' visit. She'd been rearranging photos and adding personal touches to make our relationship appear longstanding and genuine.

"I've been editing some of our photos to look like they were taken on different occasions," she explained, showing me several framed pictures on the mantle. "This one looks like a date at the park, this one a night out, this one at a team event."

The effort she was putting into maintaining our charade touched me. "It looks convincing."

"I hope so." She straightened a photo of us laughing, taken during the kitchen photoshoot. "I've also been working on our timeline. We need consistent details about when we met, first date, when you proposed..."

I studied her as she continued explaining her preparations, admiring her thoroughness and attention to detail. She'd pulled her hair into a messy bun, with loose strands framing her face as she gestured animatedly.

"...and then after the season ends, we thought we might visit Italy to see my parents," she was saying. "They've been asking when they'll meet you. And of course, we've discussed adopting another dog as a friend for Sprinkles. Maybe a smaller breed, since Sprinkles is already so energetic..."

I blinked, realizing she was creating not just our past but a fictional future together. The strange part was how easily I could imagine it—traveling to Italy together, adopting another dog, building a life beyond our three-month agreement.

"That sounds reasonable," I said, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that none of it was real. "My parents will be convinced."

She smiled, though something in her eyes seemed sad. "That's the goal, right? Keeping up appearances."

Before I could respond, my phone rang—Perfect Home Furnishings' executive number displayed on the screen. I excused myself to take the call in my office, closing the door for privacy.

The conversation was brief but significant. The company was thrilled with the public response to our relationship, particularly the bakery photoshoot images, which had generated unprecedented engagement on their social media platforms. They wanted to finalize the endorsement contract earlier than planned—next month.

What should have been triumphant news left me strangely conflicted. I thanked them professionally, agreed to the meeting date, and hung up feeling unsettled rather than victorious.

When I emerged from my office, I found Sienna in the kitchen, methodically mixing cookie dough—her stress-baking tell. She looked up when I entered, a question in her eyes.

"Perfect Home Furnishings wants to finalize the contract next month," I said. "They're moving up the timeline. Apparently, our... arrangement has exceeded their expectations."

"That's great news," she replied, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "The plan is working perfectly."

"Yes." I moved to stand beside her at the counter. "It is."

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