Page 89 of The Hockey Contract

"I'm sorry?" The director blinked.

"For Sienna. She wouldn't want something this... flashy." I gestured to the mock-ups. "She prefers meaningful over extravagant. Small touches that matter to the people involved, not grand gestures for public consumption."

The executives exchanged glances, clearly taken aback by my input. In previous meetings, I'd deferred to their expertise on all publicity matters, focusing solely on my end of the contract.

"Mr. Harrison," the director began cautiously, "while we appreciate your input, our market research suggests—"

"I understand the publicity value," I interrupted, surprising myself with my assertiveness in a non-hockey context. "But if you want authentic emotion for your campaign – which is what's been connecting with your audience – then it needs to feel genuine to us. Especially to Sienna."

"What would you suggest?" asked the CEO, studying me with newfound interest.

I described elements I knew would matter to her – incorporating her grandmother's recipes, perhaps holding it at a location with meaning, keeping the guest list intimate with people who genuinely cared about us. "The photos and videos will be more compelling if we're comfortable, not performing."

The room was silent when I finished speaking. Then the CEO smiled, a genuine expression rather than the corporate mask he typically wore.

"You really do understand your wife," he observed. "It's refreshing to see. Most of our celebrity endorsers treat their partners as accessories, not individuals with distinct preferences."

I felt a flash of guilt at the word "wife" – our relationship had begun under false pretenses, after all – but pushed it aside. What we had now was real, even if our beginning had not been.

"We'll revise the plans," the director conceded, gathering the rejected proposals. "A more intimate, personalized event could actually work better for the specific demographic we're targeting with this campaign."

Returning home after practice, I was surprised to find Leo's car in the driveway alongside Sienna's. When I entered, the sound of laughter led me to the kitchen, where an unexpected domestic scene awaited: Sienna and Chloe preparing dinner while Leo set the table, all three engaged in animated conversation.

"There he is," Leo announced upon seeing me. "Man of the hour."

"What's all this?" I asked, taking in the elaborate meal preparation underway.

"Celebration dinner," Sienna explained, coming to greet me with a quick kiss. "For making the Finals. For the bakery's success. For... us." The slight blush accompanying her last word made my heart rate increase.

"Also," Chloe added, raising an eyebrow, "for Leo finally admitting he's been secretly obsessed with me since college."

"I admitted no such thing," Leo protested, though his expression softened when he looked at her. "I merely acknowledged a certain persistent interest."

Their bickering continued as they moved around each other with surprising coordination, the formerly hostile dynamic now transformed into something playfully affectionate.

The dinner itself was filled with easy conversation and genuine laughter. Leo shared ridiculous stories from his agent career, Chloe countered with bakery customer anecdotes, and Sienna detailed her plans for special Finals-themed pastries. I found myself more engaged and relaxed than I'd ever been in social settings, the careful distance I typically maintained completely absent.

After Leo and Chloe departed together, I watched Sienna in the kitchen, moving with practiced grace as she stored leftovers and wiped counters. The soft curve of her back, the rhythmic movements of her hands, the contentment in her expression as she hummed quietly – all created an overwhelming surge of emotion in my chest.

I approached silently, taking the spatula from her hand and setting it aside. She turned to face me, surprise giving way to something deeper as our eyes locked. I cupped her face gently, thumbs tracing the delicate line of her jaw, gaze lingering on her lips, still slightly parted.

The kiss began slowly, deliberately, a conscious choice rather than an impulsive action. Her response was immediate, her body melting against mine as my arms encircled her waist, pulling her closer. The taste of her – sweet with undertones of the wine we'd shared at dinner – was intoxicating, more potent than any playoff adrenaline rush.

She wasn't just kissing me back. She was seeking me, the solid comfort of my frame, the heat radiating off my skin. And I, in turn, was seeking her, needing her closeness with a sudden, almost desperate urgency.

Without breaking the kiss, I shifted my hands from her waist, my palms sliding upwards, skimming over the soft cotton of her dress until they cupped the curve of her ass beneath the fabric. It was firm, warm, impossibly soft. I squeezed gently, almost testing the waters, and a soft moan escaped her lips, a low hum that vibrated against my own.

Breaking the kiss finally felt like surfacing for air after being held under too long. We were both breathless, our chests rising and falling in unison, our eyes locked.

“Sienna,” I murmured, her name a rough sound in my throat, my voice cracking with a need I could no longer ignore.

She just looked at me, her silence more eloquent than any words could have been. And in that look, I saw it all. The want, the hesitant surrender, the thrilling spark of rebellion against the careful walls we'd built between us. It was an invitation, pure and undeniable.

Driven by an impulse I barely understood, I lifted her. My hands slipped under her thighs, effortlessly scooping her up, the lightness of her frame surprising against my braced arms.

She gasped, a surprised little sound, and her hands flew up, instinctively grasping my shoulders for balance. Her dress, a simple, summery thing, rode up her thighs as I raised her, and I caught a glimpse of bare skin, the pale expanse of her legs suddenly vulnerable and exposed in the bright kitchen light.

I backed her towards the kitchen island, a solid block of pale marble that usually held stacks of cookbooks and haphazard piles of mixing bowls, the detritus of morning baking. Now, it was just an obstacle to be cleared, a stage to set.

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