Page 81 of The Hockey Contract

"And what about the future?" Mrs. Chambers asked, leaning forward with the air of someone seeking insider information. "Children perhaps? A little hockey team of your own?"

The innocent question hung awkwardly between us. We'd never discussed this aspect of our fictional relationship, having focused primarily on our supposed whirlwind romance rather than hypothetical future plans.

"Someday," Sienna replied smoothly after only the slightest hesitation. "When the time is right. Though I think we'd be happy with just one or two little skaters, not an entire line."

Her casual reference to our future children—children that would never exist—created an unexpected pang in my chest. For a brief, disorienting moment, I allowed myself to imagine it: a little girl with Sienna's smile and determination, or a boy with her kindness and creativity. The mental image was so vivid, so appealing, it caught me completely off guard.

I'd never given serious thought to fatherhood before. Hockey had consumed my life planning, with retirement and coaching as the only post-career considerations. Yet now, I found myself dwelling on the possibility of a future that included not just professional achievements but family milestones.

As we left the restaurant, paparazzi waited outside—a new development that highlighted our elevated public profile. Sienna handled it with graceful poise, smiling naturally as I guided her to the waiting car with a protective hand at the small of her back.

"That was... intense," she commented once we were safely inside and settled in. "Are they always like that?"

"It's getting worse," I admitted. "The playoff run plus the endorsement has created more interest than usual."

"The bakery's been swamped too," she said. "We've had food bloggers, social media influencers, even a segment request from a News Channel."

"That's amazing." I reached across to squeeze her hand. "Your grandmother would be proud."

She smiled, though something sad lingered in her expression. "It's not just my baking they're interested in. It's being married to you."

The reminder of our arrangement's foundation hung between us. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, I cleared my throat.

"I transferred the endorsement payment yesterday," I said, immediately regretting the clinical tone. "Your bakery loan should be cleared by tomorrow."

"Oh." She looked out the car window, her profile partially hidden from my view. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," I replied, suddenly needing her to understand. "It was our agreement. But the success you're having now—the interest, the new customers—that's because of your talent, not just the connection to me."

At the house, we found Leo's car in the driveway. He was waiting inside with Chloe, both looking unusually serious.

"Sorry to ambush you," Leo began without preamble. "But something's come up that couldn't wait."

"What's wrong?" Sienna asked, immediately concerned.

"Nothing's wrong, exactly," Leo clarified. "But there's... a development. The Perfect Home Furnishings publicist called today. They want to arrange a high-profile feature about your romance—childhood photos, family interviews, the full love story spread across multiple platforms."

"Okay," I said slowly, not understanding the issue. "We've done interviews before."

"This would be different," Chloe explained, her expression worried as she looked at Sienna. "Much more intimate. And the timeline they're proposing would extend well beyond your... original agreement."

The implication sank in slowly. They wanted a long-term commitment to the narrative we'd created—a commitment that would extend past our planned divorce.

"How long?" I asked.

"At least a year," Leo replied. "Possibly longer if the campaign performs well."

Sienna's expression remained carefully neutral, but I noticed her hands tighten around her purse strap. "A year of... pretending."

The word cut deeper than it should have, given the reality of our situation.

"Or," Leo said cautiously, "you could... not pretend."

"What does that mean?" I asked sharply.

Leo looked uncomfortable. "You could tell the truth. Or..." he glanced between us, "you could decide if there's any part of this that isn't pretend anymore."

His perceptiveness was unsettling. Had we been so transparent that even Leo could see the shifted dynamics between us?

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