Page 96 of The Hockey Contract

"There might be professional repercussions," I warned. "The endorsement deal could be affected if the truth gets out more widely."

"We'll handle it together," she said with quiet confidence. "I'd rather face potential challenges honestly than live with a secret hanging over us."

"Together," I agreed, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

As the night deepened around us, our conversation shifted to the future – practical matters like where we'd live during the off-season, how to balance hockey travel with bakery commitments, whether we'd want children someday. Topics that would have seemed unimaginable when we'd first entered our arrangement now felt natural, necessary.

"I never thought about kids before," I admitted. "Hockey was always my singular focus."

"And now?" She watched me carefully.

"Now I can picture it," I said honestly. "Not immediately, but someday. A little girl with your smile and determination. Or a boy who loves baking as much as hockey."

"I'd like that," Sienna said softly. "Someday."

Game 4's victory energized the entire team, igniting a spark of belief that had been missing. We carried that momentum into Game 5, a hard-fought battle that we ultimately won in overtime, narrowing the series deficit to 3-2. Suddenly, what had seemed impossible began to feel within reach. Social media buzzed with #BelieveInKraken hashtags.

In post-game interviews, I found myself speaking with unusual candor about the team's resilience, my father's health scare providing perspective, and how my wife's support had changed my approach to pressure situations.

"She reminds me there's life beyond hockey," I told a reporter who seemed surprised by my willingness to discuss personal matters. "Not that hockey matters less, but that there's a bigger context. It's actually freed me to play better, knowing my entire identity isn't riding on each shift."

The emotional honesty of my response resonated with fans, who flooded social media with supportive messages. Sienna showed me several posts praising my "transformation" from the Ice Man to a more relatable, passionate team leader.

"Your fan club is growing," she teased, scrolling through comments. "Especially among women who find your newfound emotional openness 'swoon-worthy.'"

"As long as you're the president of that club," I replied, pulling her close.

That night, after celebrating the win with a quiet dinner at home, I presented Sienna with a gift I'd been saving for the right moment – a vintage rolling pin that had belonged to my grandmother, passed through generations of Harrison women despite never being used for its intended purpose in my family.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, running her fingers reverently over the smooth wooden surface. "But are you sure? This is a family heirloom."

"You are family," I said simply. "My grandmother would have loved that it's finally being used by someone who appreciates baking as an art form."

As we discussed renovation plans for both the bakery expansion and making the house truly our shared home, I realized how completely my priorities had shifted. Hockey remained important but building a life with Sienna had become my true championship goal.

The Ice Man had not just thawed; he'd transformed completely, discovering that vulnerability wasn't weakness but its own kind of strength. And I owed that transformation largely to a bakery owner who'd entered my life through a coffee spill and a business proposition, but had somehow become essential to my happiness.

In that moment, watching Sienna excitedly sketch ideas for the bakery café on a napkin, flour perpetually dusting her fingertips despite not having baked today, I felt a certainty I'd never experienced on or off the ice: this – us – was the real victory, regardless of how the Finals concluded.

Chapter 34: Sienna

"Kraken blue macarons, hockey puck brownie bites, and championship cupcakes," I announced, arranging the bakery's display case with our latest playoff-themed offerings. "We're ready for the Game 6 rush."

The intensity of fan enthusiasm had grown exponentially as the team clawed back from a 3-0 deficit to force Game 6. Grandma Rose's Bakehouse had become an unofficial fan headquarters, with lines forming before opening and specialty items selling out within hours.

"Crazy to think we were worried about closing just a few months ago," Chloe remarked, adding the final Stanley Cup sugar cookies to the display. "Now we can barely keep up with demand."

The bakery's transformation mirrored my own – from desperate financial straits to thriving success, from lonely independence to meaningful partnership.

The afternoon brought an unexpected visitor to the bakery – Aunt Carol appeared during the mid-afternoon lull, her keen eyes immediately noting changes since her last visit.

"Business is booming, I see," she observed, taking in the nearly empty display cases and steady stream of customers. "Playoff fever treating you well?"

"It's been incredible," I agreed, leading her to a small table in the corner. "Coffee?"

"Please. And one of those hockey-themed things, whatever's left. When in Rome, and all that."

As I returned with her order, she studied me with the perceptive gaze that had always seen through my childhood fibs. "Something's different about you, Sienna Rose."

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