Page 65 of The Hockey Contract

"And you're my defenseman. On a team fighting for playoff positioning." His tone softened slightly. "It's temporary, just until the Cup run is over. Then you can be the devoted husband all you want."

I nodded stiffly, understanding his perspective while resenting the implication that Sienna was a distraction rather than a support. The irony wasn't lost on me—a relationship begun to enhance my public image was now being curtailed for the same reason.

That evening, I took my family to The Puck Drop, the team's favorite post-game bar. My mother had insisted on seeing "where the hockey boys hang out," and I'd acquiesced despite knowing we'd likely encounter teammates.

Sure enough, several players were already there when we arrived. Finn and Anders immediately joined our table, along with Willow and Sarah, both of whom embraced Sienna warmly.

"The famous parents," Finn greeted, shaking my father's hand. "Mr. Harrison, I've heard stories about your youth coaching days. Legend has it you once made a referee cry."

My father actually smiled at the reference to his notorious sideline intensity. "The man missed three obvious penalties. He deserved worse."

The conversation flowed more easily than I expected, with my teammates sharing stories from the season and my mother reciprocating with embarrassing childhood anecdotes I'd hoped she'd forgotten. Throughout the evening, I noticed Sienna effortlessly charming everyone—laughing at the right moments, asking thoughtful questions, remembering details from previous conversations.

I also noticed how my teammates had become protective of her, particularly Anders, who rarely warmed to newcomers. When Marco entered the bar and approached our table, Anders subtly shifted position, placing himself between Marco and Sienna in a move I recognized from his goaltending—anticipating threat, positioning to defend.

Even more telling was my father's careful observation throughout the evening. His eyes tracked my interactions with Sienna, noting the casual touches, the shared glances, the way we unconsciously mirrored each other's body language. I'd seen this assessment before—my father analyzing game footage, looking for patterns, weaknesses, authenticity.

When Sienna excused herself to the restroom, my father leaned across the table, voice low and direct: "This marriage. Is it real, or is it for the endorsement deal?"

The blunt question shouldn't have surprised me. My father had always preferred direct confrontation to subtle inquiry. In the past, I might have offered the rehearsed explanation Sienna and I had prepared—our whirlwind romance, the immediate connection, the decision that waiting seemed pointless.

Instead, I found myself saying, "It started as an arrangement. A business decision. The timing with the Perfect Home Furnishings contract wasn't coincidental."

My father nodded, unsurprised by this confirmation of his suspicions. "And now?"

"Now it's..." I struggled to find words for something I hadn't fully acknowledged even to myself. "Complicated."

"Do you love her?"

The simple question hit with the force of a blindside check. Did I love Sienna? The woman who filled my house with warmth and baking smells, who remembered how I took my coffee, who challenged my isolation and self-sufficiency with her inherent sociability? Who saw beyond the Ice Man persona to the person beneath?

"I care about her," I said finally, unwilling to make a declaration I hadn't yet made to Sienna herself.

My father studied me with unexpected understanding. "Complicated indeed."

Sienna returned before the conversation could continue, slipping back into the seat beside me with a smile that seemed to brighten the dim bar. Later, as we walked home with my parents, I found myself hyperaware of her presence beside me, the easy way she linked her arm through my mother's, the genuine laugh she gave at my father's rare attempt at humor.

At home, my parents prepared to leave for their hotel, my mother hugging Sienna tightly.

"Thank you for welcoming us," she said, emotion clear in her voice. "I haven't seen Jackson this happy in years—maybe ever. That's because of you."

The simple observation, created visible discomfort on Sienna's face—guilt, perhaps, at the deception we were maintaining. But as my mother hugged me goodbye, whispering, "She's lovely, Jackson. Don't mess this up," I wondered if the deception was becoming less necessary, less complete, with each passing day.

After they left, an awkward silence fell between us. Sienna busied herself tidying the already-clean living room, while I checked hockey scores on my phone, both of us avoiding the conversations that needed to happen—about the bakery photoshoot kiss, about sharing a bed, about feelings neither of us had anticipated when signing our agreement.

"Want to watch a movie?" I suggested finally, desperate to break the tension. "Something mindless after a long day."

Sienna looked relieved at the safe suggestion. "Sounds perfect."

We sat at opposite ends of the couch, an action film playing in the background, yet my eyes kept drifting to her—watching her tuck her feet beneath her, furrow her brows during tense moments, and bite her lip in quiet worry. As the movie unfolded, our distance gradually dissolved. She edged closer to catch a detail until her head eventually found its resting place on my shoulder as sleep claimed her.

I lay still, savoring the gentle intimacy—her steady breathing, the delicate scent of her shampoo, the reassuring weight of her trust. I pulled her closer, her steady breathing countering my racing heart.

Chapter 21: Jax

Playoff hockey has a different energy—sharper, more intense, with a crackling anticipation that fills the arena. I'd always thrived on it, found clarity in the heightened stakes. Yet today, sitting in the locker room preparing for Game 1, my focus was split between the upcoming battle and my phone screen, where Sienna had sent a good luck text with a photo of hockey-themed cookies she'd made for the team.

For the toughest guys on ice. Bring home a win! - S

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