Page 80 of The Hockey Contract

Chapter 27: Jax

The conference finals brought new levels of intensity—faster play, harder hits, higher stakes. We'd advanced with a thrilling Game 7 overtime win against Edmonton, sending the home crowd into a frenzy and Seattle media into a playoff fever unlike anything before.

I played with singular focus, each shift a battle of wills and physical endurance. But even in the midst of the most important games of my career, part of my awareness remained fixed on the stands where Sienna sat with the other players' wives and girlfriends, her custom-made signs becoming fan favorites and regular features on the arena's big screen.

Tonight's read "ice man = nice man" with a cartoon drawing of me blocking a shot with my stick. The childlike quality of the art made me smile every time it appeared on the jumbotron.

Late in the third period, with the score tied, I saw Fitzpatrick from Vegas lining up Reynolds for what would have been a devastating blindside hit. Without hesitation, I threw myself between them, absorbing the full impact of Fitzpatrick's charge. Pain exploded through my side as I crumpled to the ice, the wind knocked completely from my lungs.

The arena erupted—part concern, part bloodlust for the ensuing penalty. I managed to skate to the bench under my own power, waving off the trainer initially, though my ribs screamed in protest with each breath.

We won 4-3 on a late power play goal, taking a crucial 2-1 series lead. The locker room was euphoric, though my participation in the celebration was limited by the ice pack now strapped to my ribs.

"Going to feel that one tomorrow," Coach Miller said, clapping my shoulder. "Brave play, Harrison. Stupid, but brave."

I nodded, trying not to wince. "Had to be done."

After media obligations, there was a thorough examination by the team doctor. There were bruised ribs, but no fracture. I headed home much later than usual. Despite the hour, lights were still on, and I found Sienna waiting up, pacing the living room with obvious worry.

"You're still awake," I observed unnecessarily, carefully lowering myself onto the couch.

"Of course I'm still awake." She approached, eyes immediately finding the way I was favoring my left side. "How bad is it?"

"Just bruised," I assured her. "Looks worse than it is."

She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with an ice pack and two ibuprofen. "Take these. And lift your shirt."

"Trying to take advantage of my vulnerable state?" I joked, immediately regretting it when her expression remained serious.

"I want to see how bad it is," she insisted.

I complied, wincing as I raised my jersey and t-shirt to reveal what was already developing into an impressive bruise spanning my left ribcage.

Sienna inhaled sharply. "Just bruised? That looks horrible."

"Occupational hazard," I said, trying to sound casual despite the throbbing pain. "Worth it for the win."

She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "men and their stupid sports" as she gently positioned the ice pack against my side. Her touch was professional but tender, careful not to cause additional pain.

"Twenty minutes on, twenty off," she instructed, sounding remarkably like the team trainer. "And those painkillers should help you sleep."

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, earning a half-hearted glare that quickly softened into concern.

"You scared me," she admitted quietly. "When you went down like that and didn't get up right away... I thought..."

"It takes more than one goon to keep me down," I assured her, catching her hand before she could move away. "But I'm sorry you were worried."

She allowed the contact for a moment before gently disengaging. "You should get some rest. Big game tomorrow."

The next morning, the bruise had darkened impressively, but the sharp pain had dulled to a manageable ache. Sienna insisted on helping me wrap it properly before I left for morning skate, her hands moving confidently as she applied just the right amount of pressure.

"Where'd you learn to do this?" I asked, watching her work.

"Online videos," she admitted with a small smile. "Last night after you went to bed. 'How to wrap bruised ribs for stubborn hockey players.'"

The image of her researching proper medical techniques just to help me created a warm sensation completely unrelated to my injury.

That evening, we attended a dinner with Perfect Home Furnishings executives to celebrate the finalized contract. Throughout the meal, I watched Sienna charm the room with the same natural ease she'd displayed at the bakery. The CEO's wife particularly adored her, laughing at her self-deprecating stories about learning hockey terminology and asking detailed questions about the bakery.

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