Page 63 of The Hockey Contract

"Because he never made it professionally?"

"He thinks I succeeded where he failed." The darkness seemed to make confession easier. "Sets impossible standards as a result."

"That's a heavy burden to carry."

"I'm used to it." His defeated tone broke my heart a little.

"You shouldn't have to be," I said softly. "No one should."

Silence stretched between us, comfortable rather than awkward. I found myself wanting to reach across the bed, to offer physical comfort along with words.

"Your mother told me you were an affectionate child," I said instead. "Before hockey."

He was quiet so long I thought he might not respond. "I was different then. Softer. Hockey changed that."

"The world needs softness too, you know. Not just the Ice Man."

"Maybe." His voice held uncertainty. "It's hard to know who I am sometimes, beneath the persona. It's been part of me so long."

The vulnerability in his admission made my throat tighten. "I see you, Jax. Beyond the Ice Man thing. I see you when you're gentle with Sprinkles, patient with Mr. Henderson, focused on getting a recipe exactly right."

More silence, then: "I see you too, Sienna. Your fears about the bakery, how much your grandmother's legacy means to you, the way you put everyone else's needs before your own."

His perception startled me. Had I been so transparent, or had he been paying closer attention than I realized? "I'm afraid of failing my grandma," I admitted, giving voice to my deepest fear. "Of being the one who loses what she built."

"You won't." The certainty in his voice was comforting. "You're too stubborn, too talented. The bakery isn't just surviving under you—it's evolving, growing."

His faith in me, expressed so simply, broke something open inside my chest. Tears pricked behind my eyelids.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Just the truth."

Eventually, his breathing deepened and evened out in sleep, while I remained awake, acutely aware of his presence just inches away.

In sleep, Jax's arm moved, draping over the pillow, his hand coming to rest near mine. I studied his hand in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains—strong, capable, with calluses from hockey sticks and small scars from old injuries. The hand that had held mine with increasing frequency, that had cupped my face before kissing me in the bakery, that now lay vulnerable in sleep.

I resisted the urge to intertwine our fingers, to bridge the final gap between us. Any feelings developing between us were temporary illusions created by proximity and performance. To believe otherwise was to set myself up for heartbreak.

Yet, I couldn't help wondering which would hurt more—acknowledging these growing feelings and risking rejection, or silently carrying them until our arrangement concluded, never knowing what might have been possible beyond the constraints of our contract.

Chapter 20: Jax

I woke to find Sienna curled against me, the pillow that had once separated us forgotten in our sleep. My arm rested protectively around her waist, her back fitting perfectly against my chest while her hair playfully tickled my chin. The intimacy of the moment sent a rush of warmth through me, only to be quickly undercut by the sobering realization that it was nothing more than an unconscious accident. Reluctantly, I carefully extricated myself.

I slipped out of bed without waking her and headed to the shower, hoping cold water would clear my head of increasingly complicated feelings.

At breakfast, my mother was already in the kitchen with Sienna, both women elbow-deep in baking projects. The domestic scene—my mother teaching Sienna her secret cinnamon roll recipe while my wife laughed at something she'd said—created an unexpected ache in my chest.

"Morning, sleepyhead," my mother called cheerfully. "Coffee's fresh. We've been up for hours."

"Hours might be an exaggeration," Sienna said cheerfully. "But your mom's been teaching me her cinnamon roll technique. Apparently, I've been doing it wrong all these years."

"Not wrong," my mother corrected. "Just different. Though my way is better."

Their easy rapport surprised and pleased me. I'd worried about this visit, about maintaining our charade under my parents' scrutiny, but Sienna had charmed my mother completely and even seemed to be warming my father's frosty demeanor.

As if summoned by my thoughts, my father entered, already dressed for the day in crisp khakis and a button-down shirt. He accepted coffee from my mother with a brief kiss to her cheek—a rare display of affection that had always been reserved solely for her.

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