Page 88 of The Hockey Contract

The Finals. After hundreds of regular-season games, and dozens of playoff battles, I'd finally reached hockey's ultimate stage. The culmination of childhood dreams, countless hours of training, and sacrifices too numerous to count. Everything I'd worked for my entire life was within reach.

Yet as I sat in the locker room before Game 1, my thoughts weren't solely on hockey strategy and opponent matchups. They kept drifting to Sienna, to our conversation in the park, to the startling realization that something that had begun as a business arrangement has transformed into the most meaningful relationship of my life.

"Special delivery for Harrison," Coach Miller announced, breaking my reverie as he tossed a small package onto the bench beside me.

The brown paper parcel bore Sienna's distinctive handwriting. Inside, I found homemade protein bars – not the commercial kind I usually consumed, but ones clearly crafted with careful attention to my nutritional preferences. A small note was tucked alongside them:

For luck and energy. I believe in you. – S

A small heart was drawn beneath her initial – a tiny addition that somehow meant more than flowery declarations might have. I traced it with my fingertip, a smile tugging at my lips despite the pre-game tension.

"Someone's whipped," Marco commented from the next stall, though his tone lacked the bite it might have held earlier in the season.

"Jealous?" I replied mildly, tucking the note into my wallet for safekeeping.

"Nah. But I wouldn't mind some of those homemade protein bars. You gonna share with your defenseman partner?"

I tossed him one, which he caught easily. "Tell Sienna if we win tonight, I'll propose to her myself," he joked after taking a bite.

"Back off, Marco," I warned, but without heat. We both knew who my heart belonged to.

The game itself was a battle from the first puck drop – fast, physical, with momentum shifts that kept both teams on edge. I played with unusual freedom, making offensive rushes I might have avoided in the past, taking calculated risks that resulted in scoring chances. When I assisted on our second goal, sending a perfect cross-ice pass that Reynolds buried top shelf, I found myself searching the family section for Sienna's reaction before celebrating with my teammates.

Despite our effort, we lost 4-3 in overtime, a deflection off our defenseman's skate ending the game in heartbreaking fashion. The locker room afterward was somber but not defeated – this was the Finals, after all. No one expected an easy path to the Cup.

I drove home far later than usual, post-game media responsibilities and team meetings stretching well into the night. The house was mostly dark when I arrived, just a single lamp illuminating the living room where Sienna waited, curled on the couch with a book, Sprinkles sleeping at her feet.

"You should've gone to bed," I said softly, dropping my bag by the door. "It's midnight now."

"I wanted to see you." She set her book aside, studying my face with gentle concern. "Tough loss."

I nodded, suddenly exhausted as the adrenaline that had carried me through the post-game activities finally ebbed. "One bounce. That's all it was."

Sienna didn't offer empty platitudes or try to analyze what had gone wrong. Instead, she simply stood and wrapped her arms around me, her head resting against my chest. I enfolded her in my embrace, breathing in the comforting scent of vanilla and cinnamon that always clung to her hair.

We stood like that for several minutes, neither speaking, her steady presence somehow easing the sting of defeat in a way no words could have managed. This quiet understanding – so different from the dramatic emotional swings or biting criticism I'd experienced in previous relationships – felt like a revelation.

"Thank you," I murmured against her hair.

"For what?"

"For this. For knowing exactly what I needed." I pulled back slightly to see her face. "For the protein bars too. Best I've ever had."

Her smile brightened the dim room. "I've been testing recipes. I know the commercial ones taste like cardboard."

"Marco threatened to propose to you after trying one."

"Tempting," she teased, "but I'm afraid I'm spoken for."

The casual certainty in her voice –I'm spoken for– created a warmth in my chest that eclipsed any disappointment about the game.

The next morning, I met with Perfect Home Furnishings executives to discuss the proposed vow renewal ceremony. Their enthusiasm for capitalizing on playoff publicity was evident in the elaborate plans presented – a large public event with media coverage, corporate sponsorships, and marketing tie-ins.

"We're thinking the weekend after the Finals conclude," the marketing director explained, sliding glossy mockups across the conference table. "A celebration regardless of the series outcome, though obviously a Cup win would amplify the exposure exponentially."

I studied the proposals – ornate flower arrangements, elaborate staging, a guest list running to hundreds. None of it seemed like something Sienna would enjoy.

"This isn't right," I said finally, looking up to meet surprised expressions around the table.

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