Page 74 of The Hockey Contract

"I wanted to," he replied simply. "I want you to enjoy the trip."

The next day passed in a blur of excitement. The private flight was like nothing I'd ever experienced—luxurious seats, gourmet food, attentive service. In Vancouver, a sleek black car delivered us to a waterfront hotel where Jax had reserved a suite with breathtaking views of the harbor.

"This is..." I struggled for words as I took in the spacious living area, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the fresh flowers on the dining table.

"Too much?" Jax asked, looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

"It's perfect," I assured him. "But extravagant for one night."

"We have adjoining rooms," he explained, pointing to a door. "For privacy. But the connecting door is there if... well, for appearances."

The reminder of our arrangement settled like a weight. Of course we had separate rooms. This was still performance, however elaborate the stage setting had become.

Before I could dwell on my disappointment, Jax suggested we head to the arena early so he could show me around before his pre-game routine began. Walking the concourse, I was struck by how many people recognized him, calling out encouragements or asking for autographs. He handled each interaction with more patience than I'd have expected a few months ago, often introducing me with a hint of pride in his voice.

"This is my wife, Sienna."

Each time he said it—my wife—a shiver ran through me. The possessive pronoun, the casual claim, the warmth in his voice when he said my name. If I closed my eyes, I could almost believe it was real.

The game itself was a revelation. I'd watched hockey on television, but experiencing it live was entirely different—the speed, the physicality, the roar of the crowd creating an electric atmosphere that television simply couldn't capture.

My reaction to Jax's play surprised even me. I found myself on my feet for his shifts, holding my breath when he blocked shots, cheering wildly when he made defensive plays that even a month ago, I wouldn't have recognized as significant. When he took a hard hit along the boards, I gasped aloud, my hand flying to my mouth in genuine concern.

And when he assisted on the game-winning goal in overtime, I screamed his name along with thousands of Kraken fans who'd made the trip north, no longer pretending my enthusiasm for his success.

Afterward, I joined the team celebration at a nearby restaurant, welcomed warmly by players' wives and girlfriends I'd come to know over the past weeks. Willow, in particular, had become a genuine friend.

"I've never seen Jax like this," she confided as we watched the players toasting their victory across the room. "Finn says he's different on the ice too—still focused, still intense, but also... freer somehow."

"How do you mean?"

"Like he's playing for joy, not just perfection." She smiled knowingly. "That's your influence, you know."

I shook my head, uncomfortable with the credit. "Jax is a great player all on his own."

"Of course he is. But there's a difference between great and happy." She squeezed my arm affectionately. "Before you, I don't think Finn had ever heard Jax laugh. Not really laugh. Now he does it regularly."

Her observation stayed with me as we walked back to the hotel afterward, the cool Canadian night air clearing my head after the wine and celebration. When Jax's hand found mine, fingers intertwining naturally, I glanced around for cameras or fans who might be watching.

There were none. Just us, walking hand in hand through quiet streets, his thumb occasionally brushing across my knuckles in a gesture too tender to be performed for absent audiences.

Back in our suite, a charged quiet fell between us. I took a quick shower and returned in a robe.

Jax moved to the connecting door of his separate room but hesitated with his hand on the knob.

"Sienna," he said, his voice low and rough. "Tonight was..."

"I know," I replied, understanding exactly what he meant. Tonight had been real in a way that transcended our arrangement, our pretense, our carefully maintained boundaries.

He turned to face me fully, his expression open and vulnerable in a way I rarely saw. He crossed the room slowly, deliberately, until he stood directly before me. His hands came to rest lightly on my shoulders, the heat of them seeping through the fabric of my robe. Then, with a gentleness that made my heart ache, he turned me to face him fully.

We stood silent for a moment, bodies almost touching, the anticipation building between us like a physical force. His gaze moved over my face, studying every feature with intensity. I noticed his pupils dilate, his breath quicken—physical tells I'd learned to recognize during our weeks together.

When he finally lowered his head and captured my lips with his, the kiss was different from our others—deeper, more confident, edged with a possessiveness that made heat pool low in my belly. One hand moved to cradle the back of my head while the other settled at my waist, pulling me firmly against him.

I responded instantly, arms wrapping around his neck, body melting into his. This wasn't the courthouse kiss performed for witnesses, or the impulsive bakery kiss we'd never discussed. This was deliberate, intentional—a statement neither of us was brave enough to make with words.

His tongue traced the seam of my lips, seeking entrance I willingly granted. As the kiss deepened, a small sound escaped me—part sigh, part moan—that seemed to ignite something in him. His grip tightened, body pressing mine back against the window as the kiss turned hungry, almost desperate.

---