Page 67 of The Hockey Contract

Cooking wasn't my strength. I could manage protein shakes and basic meal prep, but anything requiring actual culinary skill usually ended in disaster. Still, I figured eggs couldn't be that complicated. Twenty minutes and one minor burn later, I had a passable breakfast assembled on a tray: slightly overcooked scrambled eggs, toast that miraculously wasn't burnt, fresh berries, and coffee.

I knocked softly on Sienna's door before entering. She sat up groggily, hair tousled from sleep, confusion giving way to surprise as she registered me standing there with a tray.

"What's this?" Her voice was husky from sleep.

"Breakfast." I set the tray carefully on her lap. "I noticed you've been making sure I eat properly during playoffs. Thought I'd return the favor."

She looked from the food to me, a soft smile spreading across her face. "You cooked. For me."

"Tried to," I corrected, suddenly self-conscious. "The eggs are a bit... well, they're edible. Probably."

Sienna took a bite, her expression warming with what appeared to be genuine appreciation rather than politeness. "They're perfect."

"They're overcooked."

"They were made with good intentions." She took another bite. "That makes them perfect."

I sat on the edge of the bed, strangely pleased by her enjoyment of my mediocre culinary effort. "How's your bakery prep going? For the playoff-themed menu?"

"Good. I've got blue and white macarons with little tentacle decorations, Kraken cookies like the ones I sent you..." She continued, her passionate description of pastry techniques washing over me.

I found myself focusing less on her words and more on the animation in her face, the way her hands gestured expressively, how the morning light caught the gold highlights in her hair. She was beautiful, yes, but it was more than that. She wasalivein a way that made everything around her seem more vibrant.

"What?" She stopped, catching me staring.

"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just... thank you. For the cookies yesterday. The team demolished them in about thirty seconds."

"Even Marco?"

"Especially Marco. He took three when he thought no one was looking."

Her laughter filled the room, bright and unrestrained. I found myself thinking I would gladly make a thousand mediocre breakfasts just to start each day with that sound.

Chapter 22: Sienna

"No, the blue line is where offsides happen. The red line is for icing," I muttered to myself, frowning at the hockey rulebook I'd purchased. After two weeks of intense playoffs, I was determined to understand the sport that consumed so much of Jax's life.

The bakery had transformed into playoff central, with Kraken-themed desserts flying off the shelves. I'd created "Playoff Power Play Pastries" which were blue raspberry filled, "Penalty Kill Petit Fours" were decorated with tiny penalty boxes, and a "Conference Finals Cake" we were saving for when the team would advance to finals.

"Your hockey obsession is cutting into productivity," Chloe teased, catching me studying the rulebook between batches. "Though I can't argue with the sales. We've doubled our usual numbers this week."

"It's not an obsession," I protested. "I'm being supportive."

"Mmm-hmm. And the fact you've started yelling at the TV during games? Totally normal for someone who didn't know what a blue line was a month ago."

I couldn't deny it. What had started as performative interest had evolved into genuine investment. I found myself holding my breath when Jax blocked shots, cheering his assists as enthusiastically as goals, wincing when he took hits. I'd even downloaded an app that tracked his ice time and statistics.

"It's interesting," I defended weakly. "And complicated. Did you know there are like seventeen different penalty types?"

"Fascinating," Chloe deadpanned, sliding a tray of Kraken cookies into the display case. "Almost as fascinating as how you've started dressing nicer for home games when you're just watching from the couch."

I threw a dish towel at her, which she dodged easily. "I have not."

"The blue dress with the scoop neck you wore for Game 3? Totally a date night dress, not an 'alone on the couch' outfit."

She wasn't wrong, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of admitting it. The way Jax's eyes had traced every curve of that dress before he left for the arena had ignited something within me—a dangerous warmth I had no business feeling.

Thankfully, the afternoon rush saved me from further interrogation. By closing time, I was exhausted but satisfied with the day's sales. All I wanted was a hot shower and maybe to catch the hockey highlights before bed.

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