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The Kraken advanced to the second playoff round after a hard-fought Game 6 victory. The locker room erupted in celebration—not the unbridled euphoria of a Cup win, but the satisfied recognition of a battle well-won and bigger challenges ahead.

I played one of my best games of the season, contributing a crucial assist and logging nearly thirty minutes of ice time. Coach Miller actually smiled when he congratulated me, a rare enough occurrence that several teammates documented it on their phones.

"Harrison's a machine tonight!" Nichols shouted, spraying me with water. "The Ice Man cometh!"

The nickname no longer bothered me the way it once had. Perhaps because I no longer felt like ice inside.

The team celebration moved to The Puck Drop, our usual haunt transformed by playoff energy. Fans bought rounds for players, asked for autographs, offered superstitious advice for the next series. I participated with more patience than usual, signing jerseys and posing for photos.

But my attention kept drifting to my phone, checking the time, calculating how quickly I could leave without seeming ungrateful or unsupportive of the team.

"Go home, Harrison," Finn said, appearing beside me as I declined a third beer from an enthusiastic fan. "Your heart's not here anyway."

"We're celebrating as a team," I protested weakly.

"You've done your duty." He gestured around at the raucous gathering. "No one will remember tomorrow who left when. Go be with your wife."

The simple permission was all I needed. Ten minutes later, I was driving home, eager in a way that would have been foreign to me just months ago. Home had never been a destination I hurried toward—just a place to sleep and train between games and practices.

Now it held Sienna.

The lights were on when I arrived, but the house was quiet. I found her asleep on the couch, surrounded by wedding magazines of all things. For a disorienting moment, I wondered if she'd developed genuine enthusiasm for our fake marriage, before noticing the sticky notes marking various pages: "For PHF photo background," "Potential story for extended timeline," "Could use for publicity if needed."

Research. For maintaining our charade.

I should have felt relieved she was taking the performance aspect so seriously. Instead, an inexplicable disappointment settled in my chest.

She'd fallen asleep with a pen in hand, a notebook open beside her. The page contained a timeline of our "relationship," carefully crafted to withstand scrutiny. She'd included small details I wouldn't have thought of—favorite date spots we'd supposedly frequented, inside jokes we'd allegedly developed, the fictional story of how I proposed.

The level of commitment to our fiction was simultaneously impressive and depressing.

I didn't wake her. Instead, I carefully removed the pen from her fingers and draped a blanket over her sleeping form. Up close, I could see the shadows beneath her eyes, evidence of the long hours she'd been putting in at the bakery while still maintaining our domestic front.

The following morning, a registered letter from Perfect Home Furnishings arrived—a draft contract that came weeks ahead of schedule. I stared at it, knowing it embodied everything I'd wanted when this all began: financial security, brand expansion, and post-hockey opportunities.

Inside, a letter requested any changes or additional clauses for the final contract. Part of me longed to ask for a delayed signing, to buy a few more precious moments with Sienna in this staged marriage. But I wasn’t sure if she would be happy staying with me any longer.

Instead of marking a step toward victory, this draft felt like the start of a ticking time bomb.

After practice, I found myself driving not home but to a shopping mall, parking outside an exclusive jewelry store I'd passed a hundred times but never entered. Inside, a discreet salesperson guided me through glass cases containing more diamonds than I'd ever seen in one place.

"Something for your wife, Mr. Harrison?" he asked, clearly recognizing me. "An anniversary perhaps?"

"Just a gift," I replied, uncomfortable with the questioning. "Something... significant."

He nodded knowingly and directed me toward a collection of necklaces. One immediately caught my eye—a teardrop diamond pendant on a delicate platinum chain, elegant without being ostentatious. It reminded me of Sienna somehow—beautiful but not flashy, with a quiet sparkle that revealed itself only upon closer inspection.

"That one," I said decisively.

As the salesperson wrapped my purchase, a figure appeared in the store window—Anders, staring at me with raised eyebrows. I quickly completed the transaction and stepped outside.

"Fancy seeing you here," he said mildly.

"Just picking something up." I tried for casual but failed miserably.

Anders studied me with his characteristic intensity. "For Sienna?"

"Yes." No point lying about the obvious.

"Big gesture." He fell into step beside me as I walked toward my car. "Bigger than a contract would require."

I stopped walking. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Anders shrugged, his expression neutral. "Nothing. Just an observation."

"I want to thank her properly," I found myself explaining. "For everything she's done to help with the endorsement. It's been... beyond what we agreed."

"I see." Anders was quiet for a moment. "Just be careful, Jax."

"Of what?"

"Confusing gratitude with something else. Or using gifts to avoid saying what needs to be said." He met my eyes directly. "Jewelry is easy. Honesty is harder."

His insight, as usual, hit uncomfortably close to the mark. But I wasn't ready to examine what exactly I was trying to say with this purchase.

At home, I found Sienna in the kitchen, her hair piled messily atop her head as she reviewed documents spread across the counter—bakery invoices from the look of them. She glanced up with a smile that made my rehearsed speech evaporate from memory.

"Hey! Great game last night. That assist was incredible." Her enthusiasm was genuine, her knowledge of hockey terminology now solid enough to converse with actual understanding. "Though that hit in the second period looked painful."

"I've had worse," I said, suddenly nervous about the small box burning a hole in my pocket. "I, uh... got you something."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "What? Why?"

Rather than answer, I placed the jewelry box on the counter between us. She stared at it without touching it, as if it might bite.

"Jax..."

"Open it," I encouraged, my heart inexplicably racing.

She carefully lifted the lid, her sharp inhale confirming I'd chosen well. "This is... Jax, this is too much."

"It's not." I took the necklace from the box. "Turn around."

She hesitated but complied, lifting her hair to allow me to fasten the clasp around her neck. My fingers brushed against her warm skin, lingering longer than necessary. She turned back to face me, the diamond settling perfectly at the base of her throat.

"It's beautiful," she said softly, touching it with reverent fingers. "But seriously, this is way beyond what we—"

"I wanted to thank you," I interrupted. "For everything you've done to help with the endorsement. The draft contract came today. It's happening because of you."

Something flickered in her eyes—disappointment? But that didn't make sense.

"That's what this is about? The contract?" Her voice was carefully neutral.

"Yes. I mean, no, not entirely. I just..." I was fumbling now, Anders' warning echoing in my head. "I wanted you to have something nice. From me. As a thank you."

She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "It's lovely. Thank you. But it's more suited to a real wife than a temporary one, don't you think?"

The question hung between us, loaded with implications neither of us seemed ready to address.

"Wear it anyway," I said finally. "It suits you."

Later that week, as I packed for a playoff road trip to Vancouver, an idea took root. Before I could overthink it, I found myself on the phone with the team travel coordinator, making arrangements that were definitely outside our original agreement.

"I want to invite you to the Vancouver game," I told Sienna that evening, attempting casualness. "I've arranged a private flight that can leave after your morning bakery shift. We'll have a night in Vancouver, and you can fly back while we continue to Edmonton."

She looked startled. "You want me to come to an away game?"

"If you want to." I tried to keep my tone neutral, though I surprised myself with how much I wanted her to say yes. "Playoff hockey is different. More intense. Thought you might want to experience it."

Her face lit up with a genuine smile. "I'd love to."

"Good. Great. I'll arrange everything." I turned to leave before she could see how much her enthusiasm pleased me.

"Jax?" she called after me.

I paused in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"This isn't part of our arrangement, is it? The away games, the jewelry... we never discussed any of this."

"No," I admitted. "It's not part of the arrangement."

I left before she could ask the obvious follow-up question: Then why are you doing it?

Because I didn't have an answer I was ready to give.

That night, I called my younger brother, Alex.

"The playoff wonder himself!" he answered cheerfully. "To what do I owe this unprecedented mid-playoff phone call? Are you dying? Is it aliens?"

"Very funny." Despite my tone, I was smiling. Alex had always been able to pull me out of my seriousness. "I need... advice."

A dramatic gasp came through the phone. "The great Jackson Harrison needs my advice? Alert the media!"

"Forget it," I grumbled.

"No, no, I'm listening. Seriously." His tone shifted to something more genuine. "So, what's up?"

I hesitated, unsure how to articulate what I'd barely admitted to myself. "It's about Sienna."

"Your wife? The baker? What about her?"

"She's not really my wife," I blurted out, then glanced toward my closed door to ensure she couldn't overhear. "I mean, legally yes, but... it was an arrangement. For the endorsement deal. Temporary. Three months, then divorce."

The silence that followed was so prolonged I thought we'd lost connection.

"Alex?"

"I'm processing," he replied finally. "You fake married someone for an endorsement deal? You? Mr. Everything-By-The-Book? Mr. No-Romantic-Entanglements-During-Season?"

"It made sense at the time," I defended. "Her bakery needed financial help, I needed the family-man image for Perfect Home Furnishings..."

"Okay, so you entered a business arrangement disguised as marriage. Got it." Alex sounded more intrigued than judgmental, thankfully. "So what's the problem? Contract dispute? She eating all your protein bars? Leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor?"

"No, she's..." I struggled to find the right words. "She's perfect, Alex. She's kind and funny and works harder than anyone I've ever met. She makes everything better—the house, the team events, even playoff pressure. She learned hockey rules just to understand my world better. She stress-bakes when she's worried about me taking hits. She..."

"Oh my god," Alex interrupted, laughter bubbling in his voice. "You've fallen in love with your fake wife. This is the best thing that's ever happened."

"I'm not in love," I protested automatically. "I'm just... confused. The lines are blurring."

"Jax." My brother's voice turned serious. "I've known you my entire life. I've heard you talk about hockey, about championships, about training regimens. I have never, not once, heard you talk about a person the way you just talked about this woman."

I didn't respond, his words settling uncomfortably in my chest.

"The question isn't whether you have feelings for her," Alex continued gently. "It's what you're going to do about it."

What indeed. The contract signing with Perfect Home Furnishings was only a few steps away. The arrangement had served its purpose. In a few weeks, we could go our separate ways as planned, returning to our individual lives with our individual goals accomplished.

The thought created a hollowness inside me I wasn't prepared to examine.

"I don't know," I admitted finally.

"Yes, you do," my brother replied. "You're just afraid."