Page 84 of The Hockey Contract

Coach Miller outlined strategy adjustments, line changes, and power play modifications, but I found myself struggling to focus fully. My mind kept returning to Sienna and the moment we'd been forced to interrupt—her in my arms, my confession hanging between us, her response forestalled by Coach's call.

I love you. Three words I'd never said to any woman before, yet they'd fallen from my lips with surprising ease, as natural as breathing. The realization of the truth had been building for weeks, finally crystallizing into certainty I couldn't ignore.

But she hadn't had the chance to respond. And now uncertainty gnawed at me—had I misread the situation? Had her tears been confusion rather than reciprocation? The possibility that I'd mistaken her feelings created a hollow sensation in my chest.

"Harrison." Coach's sharp voice pulled me back to the present. "You with us?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry." I forced myself to concentrate on the tactical discussion, pushing personal concerns aside with the compartmentalization that had served me well throughout my career.

It was nearly 3 AM when the meeting finally concluded. Exhaustion weighted my limbs as I drove home, the late hour and emotional turmoil combining to create a bone-deep weariness. The house was dark when I arrived, a single kitchen light left on as Sienna often did when I had late games.

I found a note on the counter explaining she'd gone to the bakery to prepare for a large morning order, the formality of her message suggesting she was avoiding our unfinished conversation—or perhaps giving me space to reconsider what I'd confessed in an emotional moment.

After a restless few hours of sleep, I headed to practice, my body moving through familiar routines while my mind remained distracted. Despite my best efforts to focus, I found myself checking my phone between drills, hoping for a message from Sienna that didn't come.

"You look like shit," Finn observed helpfully during a water break. "Late night?"

"Team meeting about Nichols," I replied, not mentioning the emotional exchange that had preceded it. "Didn't get much sleep."

He studied me with that captain's perception that made him so effective on and off the ice. "Just the meeting keeping you up?"

I ignored the question, draining my water bottle and returning to drills with renewed intensity. Physical exertion had always been my refuge from emotional complexity—a space where instinct took precedence over thought, where objectives were clear and success measurable.

After practice, instead of heading home, I found myself driving downtown to an exclusive real estate office I'd passed many times but never entered. The impulse had formed during our morning workout, crystallizing into action before I could second-guess myself.

"Mr. Harrison," the receptionist greeted me with surprised recognition. "How can we help you today?"

"I'd like to speak with someone about commercial properties," I explained. "Specifically near the Market."

Minutes later, I was seated across from Miranda Lawson, a sharp-dressed woman whose no-nonsense efficiency reminded me of Olivia.

"I'm interested in properties near Grandma Rose's Bakehouse," I explained. "For potential expansion opportunities."

Understanding lit her eyes. "Your wife's bakery. I know it well—best cinnamon rolls in Seattle."

She pulled up several listings on her tablet, explaining each property's potential and limitations. One immediately caught my attention—a historic building directly adjacent to Sienna's bakery, currently vacant after a boutique clothing store's closure.

"It would be perfect for a café expansion," Miranda explained, showing photographs of the interior. "Connected to the existing bakery, but with its own street entrance and character. The building has historical protection, but the interior could be fully renovated."

As she outlined the possibilities, I could envision it clearly—tables where customers could enjoy Sienna's creations, a comfortable space that complemented the bakery's take-out focus, an expansion that honored her grandmother's legacy while creating something new.

"It's considerably above the price point you mentioned," Miranda cautioned, showing me the listing details.

"Price isn't the issue," I replied. "Availability is. How quickly could we close?"

Her eyebrows rose slightly at my directness. "With cash offers, we could move very quickly. But wouldn't you want your wife to see the property first?"

"It would be a surprise," I explained, leaving out the complicating details of our arrangement and uncertain future. "Something she's mentioned wanting but hasn't been able to pursue."

Within an hour, I'd made an offer substantially above asking price to ensure acceptance. It was a risk—financially and emotionally—but somehow felt right despite the uncertainties still hanging between us.

That evening, as I prepared for our most critical playoff game yet, I was surprised when Sienna appeared at the pre-game family gathering. After our interrupted conversation and her overnight bakery work, I'd assumed she might avoid me, might need space to process everything that had happened.

Our interaction was initially awkward, neither sure how to navigate the shifted dynamics between us. Then she handed me a small package, neatly wrapped with a simple bow.

"For luck," she explained, her smile tentative but genuine.

Inside was custom hockey tape printed with tiny rolling pins and whisks interspersed with the Kraken logo—a playful blend of our worlds that made me laugh despite the pre-game tension.

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