Page 66 of The Hockey Contract

The cookies were decorated with tiny blue Kraken logos and hockey sticks, clearly requiring hours of detailed work. She'd even personalized some with jersey numbers. Mine sat front and center in the image, a #27 piped in perfect blue icing.

"Harrison!" Coach Miller's voice snapped me back to reality. "Mind joining us in the present?"

I quickly pocketed my phone, ignoring Marco's theatrical eye roll from across the room. Coach stood in the center of the locker room, his pregame intensity radiating from every pore.

"Gentlemen, this is what we've worked for all season. Eighty-two games to earn the right to be here." He looked each of us in the eye, one by one. "Playoffs demand sacrifice. Focus. Commitment to the team above all else."

His words hit differently than they had in previous seasons. Sacrifice. Focus. Above all else. Hockey had always been my everything—my identity, my purpose, my singular passion. Now, my mind kept drifting to a woman at home who smelled of vanilla and had somehow rearranged my priorities without my noticing.

"Harrison." Coach's voice pulled me back again. "You've got their top line tonight. I need the Ice Man at his best."

"Yes, Coach." The response was automatic, my game face sliding into place with practiced ease.

In the tunnel before taking the ice, I closed my eyes and centered myself. This was my sanctuary—the place where everything made sense, where I knew exactly who I was and what was expected. For two and a half periods, it worked. I played with controlled intensity, blocking shots, clearing the crease, even jumping into the rush to set up our second goal.

Then came the hit.

I saw it coming—Pablo, the Flames' bruising forward, lining me up along the boards as I moved to clear the puck from our zone. I braced for impact, but he caught me at an awkward angle, driving my shoulder hard into the glass. Pain exploded through my upper body as I crumpled to the ice.

In that moment of blinding pain, my first thought wasn't about the game or the score or even the potential injury. It was of Sienna watching at home, worrying. The realization was jarring enough that I barely registered Finn helping me to my feet, the roar of the crowd as I skated to the bench under my own power.

"You good?" Finn asked, his captain's concern evident.

"I'm fine," I grunted, rotating my shoulder to assess the damage. Painful, but functional. "Just caught me wrong."

The team doctor checked me over, declared nothing serious, and I was back on the ice two shifts later, playing with a renewed edge. We closed out the game 3-1, taking the crucial first win of the series.

The celebration at The Puck Drop afterward was rowdy, the tension of the regular season giving way to cautious optimism. I nursed a single beer, checking my phone more often than I wanted to admit. Sienna had texted congratulations but mentioned early bakery hours preventing her from joining the celebration.

"Checking if the wife approved of your performance?" Finn slid into the seat beside me, his knowing grin irritating.

"Updating her on the shoulder," I lied, pocketing my phone. "It's fine."

"Hmm." His grin widened. "Nothing to do with the fact you've been half-present all night, looking at the door every time it opens."

"I have not—"

"You have. It's..." he searched for the word, "sweet. In a disgusting, lovesick puppy kind of way."

"I'm not lovesick." The protest came too quickly, too defensively.

Finn just laughed, clapping my good shoulder. "Keep telling yourself that, Harrison."

I left shortly after, ignoring the knowing looks from teammates. The house was quiet when I arrived home, most lights off except the soft glow from the living room. I found Sienna there, curled up on the couch fast asleep, the TV still playing the game replay at low volume.

A notebook lay open beside her, filled with diagrams of the rink and notations in her neat handwriting: "Offsides = player crosses blue line before puck," "Power play = 5 on 4 when penalty," "Jax #27 = defenseman = stops other team from scoring."

She'd been teaching herself hockey, trying to understand my world. Something twisted in my chest at the realization, a feeling I'd been trying to ignore since the day of our wedding.

On the coffee table sat her laptop, open to an article titled "Understanding Hockey for Absolute Beginners." Beside it was a plate covered with foil and a note: "Congratulations on the win! Warm for 2 minutes if you're hungry. Hope the shoulder is okay. Looked painful. - S"

I carefully lifted the foil to find grilled chicken, vegetables, and rice—simple, healthy food she knew I'd want after a game. She'd been watching closely enough to see me take that hit, to worry about my shoulder.

Sienna stirred slightly but didn't wake. I gently covered her with the throw blanket from the back of the couch, allowing myself one indulgent moment to brush a strand of hair from her face. She looked younger in sleep, her features softened into peaceful vulnerability.

I ate the meal she'd prepared, watching her sleep and thinking about Finn's teasing comment. Lovesick. The word seemed juvenile, inadequate for whatever was happening inside me. This wasn't the fleeting attraction I'd experienced before—the kind that burned hot and fast before fizzling out. This was steadier, deeper, more disorienting.

The next morning, I woke early, my body clock indifferent to playoff schedules or late-night reflections. Sienna was still asleep, having apparently moved from the couch to her bed sometime after I'd retired to mine. On impulse, I headed to the kitchen, determined to return the gesture of the previous night's meal.

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