Page 99 of The Hockey Contract

His words resonated differently than they might have months earlier. Before Sienna, "family" had been an abstract concept in my professional life – something other players prioritized while I maintained singular focus on hockey. Now, I understood the power of that connection, the strength derived from playing for something larger than individual achievement.

As we took the ice for Game 7, the roar of the home crowd created a wall of sound unlike anything I'd experienced in eleven years of professional hockey. Seattle, hungry for a championship, had embraced the team's historic comeback attempt with passionate intensity.

From my position on the blue line during the national anthem, I glanced toward the family section, immediately finding Sienna among the players' wives and girlfriends. She wore my away jersey, clutching the small carved hockey stick I'd given her at as a gift.

The first period passed in a defensive battle, both teams playing cautiously, respecting the stakes of each scoring chance. I logged nearly twelve minutes of ice time, focusing on positioning and clean zone exits rather than physical play. By intermission, the scoreless tie reflected the tense, measured approach of both teams.

In the second period, the pace intensified. During a defensive zone shift, I identified a developing cross-ice pass and moved to intercept it. The opponent, seeing my movement, fired the puck harder than anticipated. I twisted to block the shot with my body rather than letting it reach our goaltender.

The puck struck my side where previous bruising had already weakened me, sending a bolt of pain through my ribcage that momentarily stole my breath. As I struggled to my feet, fighting through the discomfort, my eyes instinctively sought the family section.

Sienna stood at the glass, concern evident even from a distance. When I managed to straighten fully, I gave her a subtle nod of reassurance before turning my attention back to the game.

With the score still tied in the third period, I found myself with possession at the offensive blue line, our forward breaking toward the net. Time seemed to slow – the defender's positioning, my teammate's movement, the goalie shifting to anticipate the play.

In that suspended moment, Sienna's words from breakfast echoed in my mind:Just play your game. I believe in you.

With newfound clarity, I fired the puck – not toward my teammate as the defense anticipated, but directly toward the top corner of the net. The shot, executed with precision born from thousands of repetitions, found its target before the goaltender could react.

The arena exploded, twenty thousand voices creating a wall of sound that physically vibrated through the ice. As teammates mobbed me along the boards, I caught a glimpse of Sienna jumping up and down in the family section, her joy as unrestrained as my own.

That goal proved to be the game-winner – the championship-clincher. The final minutes ticked down with mounting tension, our defensive structure holding against increasingly desperate attacks. When the final buzzer sounded, confirming victory, the release of emotion was unlike anything I'd experienced in my career.

Equipment flew into the air, bodies collided in celebration, grown men wept openly with the pure joy of achievement. Eleven years of professional dedication, culminating in the sport's ultimate prize.

As the Trophy for playoff MVP was announced – my name called for my defensive contributions and climactic goal – I accepted it with genuine gratitude but found my eyes searching the crowd rather than admiring the hardware.

When the trophy itself was carried onto the ice, its silver surface gleaming under the arena lights, I experienced the moment differently than I'd always imagined. The victory felt sweeter not because I'd achieved my lifelong goal, but because I could share it.

After the initial celebration, when families were allowed onto the ice, I searched the crowd until I spotted Sienna making her way uncertainly toward the celebration. Though she'd fully integrated into the hockey community, she still sometimes hesitated, as if unsure of her place despite our now-genuine relationship.

Finn's girlfriend Willow grabbed her arm, pulling her forward. "You're the reason he played like that," I heard her insist as they approached. "You need to be there."

When Sienna reached me, surrounded by flying confetti and the chaotic joy of championship celebration, everything else seemed to fade into background noise. Her eyes – shining with tears of happiness – met mine, a world of emotion passing between us without words.

Before she could speak, I pulled her into a kiss deeper and more passionate than any we'd shared in public before.

When we finally separated, both slightly breathless despite the chaos surrounding us, she laughed softly. "I guess we won."

"In more ways than one," I replied, meaning it completely.

Later, at The Puck Drop celebration, I found myself continuously drawn back to her side despite the competing demands of teammates, media, and fans. As team owner Thomas Blake approached to offer congratulations, I instinctively reached for Sienna's hand.

"Mr. Blake, I'd like you to meet my wife, Sienna," I said, the pride in my voice unmistakable. "Not just my wife, but my partner. I wouldn't be holding this trophy without her support."

Blake studied her with genuine interest rather than the polite acknowledgment often given to players' significant others. "The baker, right? I've heard about your playoff treats from Coach Miller. Says they're the secret weapon of our championship run."

Sienna blushed slightly. "I just wanted to contribute in some small way."

"Nothing small about it," Blake replied with surprising sincerity. "The heart of any organization isn't just the people on the front lines, but those who support them. You're as much a part of this championship as anyone wearing a jersey."

His words – echoing my own feelings – visibly touched Sienna. As Blake moved on to congratulate other players, she leaned into my side, a contented sigh escaping her.

"Still feels surreal," she murmured, watching the celebration unfold around us. "All of it – the championship, us, everything that's happened since that coffee spill."

"Best thing that ever happened to me," I replied, completely serious despite the lighthearted context. "Getting coffee dumped on my jacket by a beautiful baker."

Chapter 36: Sienna

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