Page 70 of The Hockey Contract

But my attention kept drifting to my phone, checking the time, calculating how quickly I could leave without seeming ungrateful or unsupportive of the team.

"Go home, Harrison," Finn said, appearing beside me as I declined a third beer from an enthusiastic fan. "Your heart's not here anyway."

"We're celebrating as a team," I protested weakly.

"You've done your duty." He gestured around at the raucous gathering. "No one will remember tomorrow who left when. Go be with your wife."

The simple permission was all I needed. Ten minutes later, I was driving home, eager in a way that would have been foreign to me just months ago. Home had never been a destination I hurried toward—just a place to sleep and train between games and practices.

Now it held Sienna.

The lights were on when I arrived, but the house was quiet. I found her asleep on the couch, surrounded by wedding magazines of all things. For a disorienting moment, I wondered if she'd developed genuine enthusiasm for our fake marriage, before noticing the sticky notes marking various pages: "For PHF photo background," "Potential story for extended timeline," "Could use for publicity if needed."

Research. For maintaining our charade.

I should have felt relieved she was taking the performance aspect so seriously. Instead, an inexplicable disappointment settled in my chest.

She'd fallen asleep with a pen in hand, a notebook open beside her. The page contained a timeline of our "relationship," carefully crafted to withstand scrutiny. She'd included small details I wouldn't have thought of—favorite date spots we'd supposedly frequented, inside jokes we'd allegedly developed, the fictional story of how I proposed.

The level of commitment to our fiction was simultaneously impressive and depressing.

I didn't wake her. Instead, I carefully removed the pen from her fingers and draped a blanket over her sleeping form. Up close, I could see the shadows beneath her eyes, evidence of the long hours she'd been putting in at the bakery while still maintaining our domestic front.

The following morning, a registered letter from Perfect Home Furnishings arrived—a draft contract that came weeks ahead of schedule. I stared at it, knowing it embodied everything I'd wanted when this all began: financial security, brand expansion, and post-hockey opportunities.

Inside, a letter requested any changes or additional clauses for the final contract. Part of me longed to ask for a delayed signing, to buy a few more precious moments with Sienna in this staged marriage. But I wasn’t sure if she would be happy staying with me any longer.

Instead of marking a step toward victory, this draft felt like the start of a ticking time bomb.

After practice, I found myself driving not home but to a shopping mall, parking outside an exclusive jewelry store I'd passed a hundred times but never entered. Inside, a discreet salesperson guided me through glass cases containing more diamonds than I'd ever seen in one place.

"Something for your wife, Mr. Harrison?" he asked, clearly recognizing me. "An anniversary perhaps?"

"Just a gift," I replied, uncomfortable with the questioning. "Something... significant."

He nodded knowingly and directed me toward a collection of necklaces. One immediately caught my eye—a teardrop diamond pendant on a delicate platinum chain, elegant without being ostentatious. It reminded me of Sienna somehow—beautiful but not flashy, with a quiet sparkle that revealed itself only upon closer inspection.

"That one," I said decisively.

As the salesperson wrapped my purchase, a figure appeared in the store window—Anders, staring at me with raised eyebrows. I quickly completed the transaction and stepped outside.

"Fancy seeing you here," he said mildly.

"Just picking something up." I tried for casual but failed miserably.

Anders studied me with his characteristic intensity. "For Sienna?"

"Yes." No point lying about the obvious.

"Big gesture." He fell into step beside me as I walked toward my car. "Bigger than a contract would require."

I stopped walking. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Anders shrugged, his expression neutral. "Nothing. Just an observation."

"I want to thank her properly," I found myself explaining. "For everything she's done to help with the endorsement. It's been... beyond what we agreed."

"I see." Anders was quiet for a moment. "Just be careful, Jax."

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