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I woke to find Sienna curled against me, the pillow that had once separated us forgotten in our sleep. My arm rested protectively around her waist, her back fitting perfectly against my chest while her hair playfully tickled my chin. The intimacy of the moment sent a rush of warmth through me, only to be quickly undercut by the sobering realization that it was nothing more than an unconscious accident. Reluctantly, I carefully extricated myself.

I slipped out of bed without waking her and headed to the shower, hoping cold water would clear my head of increasingly complicated feelings.

At breakfast, my mother was already in the kitchen with Sienna, both women elbow-deep in baking projects. The domestic scene—my mother teaching Sienna her secret cinnamon roll recipe while my wife laughed at something she'd said—created an unexpected ache in my chest.

"Morning, sleepyhead," my mother called cheerfully. "Coffee's fresh. We've been up for hours."

"Hours might be an exaggeration," Sienna said cheerfully. "But your mom's been teaching me her cinnamon roll technique. Apparently, I've been doing it wrong all these years."

"Not wrong," my mother corrected. "Just different. Though my way is better."

Their easy rapport surprised and pleased me. I'd worried about this visit, about maintaining our charade under my parents' scrutiny, but Sienna had charmed my mother completely and even seemed to be warming my father's frosty demeanor.

As if summoned by my thoughts, my father entered, already dressed for the day in crisp khakis and a button-down shirt. He accepted coffee from my mother with a brief kiss to her cheek—a rare display of affection that had always been reserved solely for her.

"Jackson," he acknowledged with a nod. "Sleep well?"

"Yes, sir." The automatic formality slipped out as it always did around him.

My father's attention shifted to Sienna. "I was reading about your bakery online." The statement hung with unspoken implications.

"Oh?" Sienna's voice remained casual, though I noticed her hands still momentarily in their task.

"Interesting situation. Financial difficulties significant enough to make local business news. Foreclosure notices. Loan rejections." He sipped his coffee with calculated casualness. "Then suddenly, all resolved with a whirlwind marriage to a professional athlete on the verge of a major endorsement deal."

The kitchen fell silent. My mother shot my father a warning look, which he ignored, his eyes fixed on Sienna.

"I wonder if my son properly vetted this arrangement," he continued, his tone deceptively mild. "If he considered all implications before entering into a legally binding contract with someone in such desperate financial circumstances."

Anger flared hot and immediate. "That's enough, Dad."

"It's a reasonable question," he countered. "You've never been impulsive, Jackson. Yet suddenly you're married to a woman whose business is failing, whose debt is substantial—"

"Her business isn't failing," I interrupted, surprising myself with the vehemence in my voice. "Grandma Rose's Bakehouse is a Seattle institution with a loyal customer base and an owner who works harder than anyone I've ever met. Sienna took over during an economic downturn, then faced a corporate chain opening nearby—circumstances beyond her control that would have challenged any small business."

My father looked startled by my passionate defense. I continued, unable to stop now that I'd started.

"The bakery's financials have improved twenty percent since we implemented new marketing strategies. The hospital charity gala contract alone will bring significant exposure. Sienna has three new wholesale accounts with local restaurants. She's not desperate—she's determined, strategic, and incredibly talented."

The kitchen remained silent after my outburst. Sienna stared at me with wide eyes, clearly surprised by both the attack and my defense. My mother looked between us with a calculating expression, while my father's face remained impassive.

"I see," he said finally, setting down his cup. "You've certainly done your research."

The implied skepticism in his tone made me want to shake him. Instead, I met his gaze steadily. "I have. Because I believe in her and what she's building."

Before he could respond, my phone rang—Coach Miller's ringtone. I excused myself to answer, grateful for the interruption despite the unusual timing. The conversation was brief but concerning: Miller wanted an immediate meeting at the arena, no details provided over the phone.

"Everything okay?" Sienna asked when I returned to the kitchen.

"Coach needs to see me. Probably playoff strategy." I kissed her cheek—a now-familiar gesture that had started as performance but had become almost instinctive. "I shouldn't be long. Maybe you could show my parents the neighborhood while I'm gone?"

Sienna's slightly panicked expression at the prospect of entertaining my parents alone would have been comical under other circumstances. But she nodded bravely, already suggesting breakfast at a local café and a walk along the waterfront.

Once at the arena, I found Coach Miller in his office, a collection of sports blog printouts spread across his desk. His expression was grim as he gestured for me to sit.

"Problem?" I asked, scanning the papers without comprehension.

"Potentially." He handed me one printout. "Sports media is picking up on your... improved performance since the marriage."

The article headline read: "ICE MAN MELTS: HARRISON'S PLAY HEATS UP WITH NEW WIFE." Beneath were statistics comparing my performance metrics before and after marrying Sienna, highlighting improved offensive contributions and fewer penalty minutes.

"I don't see the issue," I said, setting the paper down. "Isn't better performance a good thing?"

"Better performance, yes. The narrative around it..." Miller sighed heavily. "Look, Harrison, I'm happy you found someone. Truly. But with playoffs approaching, I need your focus one hundred percent on hockey. The team needs the Ice Man at his best."

"My focus is on hockey," I assured him.

"Is it? Because that incident with Marco, the distracted play in Vancouver, the constant media attention—it all suggests otherwise." He leaned forward, expression serious. "I'm not saying there's a problem yet, but I've seen this before. Player gets married, personal life takes precedence, game suffers."

"That won't happen."

"I hope not." He straightened, his decision apparently made. "Nevertheless, I think it's best if Sienna reduces her presence at team events for now. No more practices, limited appearance at games, minimal team social functions until after playoffs."

The request, though professionally reasonable, struck a nerve. "She's my wife."

"And you're my defenseman. On a team fighting for playoff positioning." His tone softened slightly. "It's temporary, just until the Cup run is over. Then you can be the devoted husband all you want."

I nodded stiffly, understanding his perspective while resenting the implication that Sienna was a distraction rather than a support. The irony wasn't lost on me—a relationship begun to enhance my public image was now being curtailed for the same reason.

That evening, I took my family to The Puck Drop, the team's favorite post-game bar. My mother had insisted on seeing "where the hockey boys hang out," and I'd acquiesced despite knowing we'd likely encounter teammates.

Sure enough, several players were already there when we arrived. Finn and Anders immediately joined our table, along with Willow and Sarah, both of whom embraced Sienna warmly.

"The famous parents," Finn greeted, shaking my father's hand. "Mr. Harrison, I've heard stories about your youth coaching days. Legend has it you once made a referee cry."

My father actually smiled at the reference to his notorious sideline intensity. "The man missed three obvious penalties. He deserved worse."

The conversation flowed more easily than I expected, with my teammates sharing stories from the season and my mother reciprocating with embarrassing childhood anecdotes I'd hoped she'd forgotten. Throughout the evening, I noticed Sienna effortlessly charming everyone—laughing at the right moments, asking thoughtful questions, remembering details from previous conversations.

I also noticed how my teammates had become protective of her, particularly Anders, who rarely warmed to newcomers. When Marco entered the bar and approached our table, Anders subtly shifted position, placing himself between Marco and Sienna in a move I recognized from his goaltending—anticipating threat, positioning to defend.

Even more telling was my father's careful observation throughout the evening. His eyes tracked my interactions with Sienna, noting the casual touches, the shared glances, the way we unconsciously mirrored each other's body language. I'd seen this assessment before—my father analyzing game footage, looking for patterns, weaknesses, authenticity.

When Sienna excused herself to the restroom, my father leaned across the table, voice low and direct: "This marriage. Is it real, or is it for the endorsement deal?"

The blunt question shouldn't have surprised me. My father had always preferred direct confrontation to subtle inquiry. In the past, I might have offered the rehearsed explanation Sienna and I had prepared—our whirlwind romance, the immediate connection, the decision that waiting seemed pointless.

Instead, I found myself saying, "It started as an arrangement. A business decision. The timing with the Perfect Home Furnishings contract wasn't coincidental."

My father nodded, unsurprised by this confirmation of his suspicions. "And now?"

"Now it's..." I struggled to find words for something I hadn't fully acknowledged even to myself. "Complicated."

"Do you love her?"

The simple question hit with the force of a blindside check. Did I love Sienna? The woman who filled my house with warmth and baking smells, who remembered how I took my coffee, who challenged my isolation and self-sufficiency with her inherent sociability? Who saw beyond the Ice Man persona to the person beneath?

"I care about her," I said finally, unwilling to make a declaration I hadn't yet made to Sienna herself.

My father studied me with unexpected understanding. "Complicated indeed."

Sienna returned before the conversation could continue, slipping back into the seat beside me with a smile that seemed to brighten the dim bar. Later, as we walked home with my parents, I found myself hyperaware of her presence beside me, the easy way she linked her arm through my mother's, the genuine laugh she gave at my father's rare attempt at humor.

At home, my parents prepared to leave for their hotel, my mother hugging Sienna tightly.

"Thank you for welcoming us," she said, emotion clear in her voice. "I haven't seen Jackson this happy in years—maybe ever. That's because of you."

The simple observation, created visible discomfort on Sienna's face—guilt, perhaps, at the deception we were maintaining. But as my mother hugged me goodbye, whispering, "She's lovely, Jackson. Don't mess this up," I wondered if the deception was becoming less necessary, less complete, with each passing day.

After they left, an awkward silence fell between us. Sienna busied herself tidying the already-clean living room, while I checked hockey scores on my phone, both of us avoiding the conversations that needed to happen—about the bakery photoshoot kiss, about sharing a bed, about feelings neither of us had anticipated when signing our agreement.

"Want to watch a movie?" I suggested finally, desperate to break the tension. "Something mindless after a long day."

Sienna looked relieved at the safe suggestion. "Sounds perfect."

We sat at opposite ends of the couch, an action film playing in the background, yet my eyes kept drifting to her—watching her tuck her feet beneath her, furrow her brows during tense moments, and bite her lip in quiet worry. As the movie unfolded, our distance gradually dissolved. She edged closer to catch a detail until her head eventually found its resting place on my shoulder as sleep claimed her.

I lay still, savoring the gentle intimacy—her steady breathing, the delicate scent of her shampoo, the reassuring weight of her trust. I pulled her closer, her steady breathing countering my racing heart.