Page 25

The flight back from Vancouver was quiet, the team subdued with focused energy rather than celebratory chaos. We'd won, but Edmonton awaited, and playoffs allowed little time for lingering satisfaction.

My mind, however, was still in that hotel suite with Sienna—the taste of her lips, the soft sound she'd made when I deepened the kiss, the way her body had melted against mine with perfect trust.

It felt surprisingly natural having her travel with the team. Other players' wives and girlfriends made the trip regularly, and Sienna had integrated seamlessly into that group.

At home, after traveling back and forth between Edmonton and Seattle during games, the final Perfect Home Furnishings contract arrived via courier—glossy promotional photos, shooting schedules, appearance commitments. Everything I'd wanted when this arrangement began. I set it aside without the triumphant feeling I'd anticipated, more interested in the sound of Sienna's key in the lock as she returned from the bakery.

"You're home early," she observed, setting down grocery bags. She'd taken to shopping for both of us, somehow remembering my preferences without being told. "No practice today?"

"Optional skate. I worked with the trainers instead." I gestured to the contract on the coffee table. "Final paperwork came."

"That's great!" Her smile seemed genuine, though something flickered in her eyes. "Everything you wanted."

"Everything we wanted," I corrected. "Your bakery debt will be officially cleared next week when the first payment processes."

"Right." She busied herself with the groceries, movements slightly too precise. "Our arrangement working perfectly."

I watched her move around the kitchen, realizing how completely she'd transformed not just my house but my entire routine. My formerly empty refrigerator now held actual food. Cabinets contained spices I couldn't name but had developed tastes for. The pristine counters regularly hosted flour dustings and cookbook splays that I'd once have found irritating but now associated with comfort.

My phone buzzed with a text from Coach Miller requesting an early meeting before tomorrow's practice. In Edmonton, I might have been annoyed at the interruption to recovery time. Here, watching Sienna unpack groceries for meals we'd share, I felt a twinge of reluctance to leave even temporarily.

The next morning, Coach ushered me into his office with unusual cordiality.

"Harrison, sit down." He closed the door, a rarity that immediately put me on alert. "I want to talk about your performance this playoff run."

I tensed, preparing for criticism despite our winning record. "Something specific concerning you, Coach?"

"Yes, you've been distracted, daydreaming, while I've been briefing the team and in the locker room." He leaned forward, his expression serious. "But you're playing the best hockey of your career. More physical when needed, more creative offensively, better instincts on when to jump into plays."

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me. Thank your wife." His casual statement hit like a body check. "Marriage clearly agrees with you."

The observation left me momentarily speechless, guilt surging at the deception we'd been maintaining. Yet there was undeniable truth in his assessment—I was playing better, feeling more settled, approaching the game with new perspective.

"Sienna's been... supportive," I managed finally.

"More than supportive, I'd say." Coach's smile widened slightly. "The team's noticed the change in you. Hell, the sports writers have noticed."

I shifted uncomfortably, unused to this level of personal discussion with Coach. "Just focused on winning, sir."

"Right." He mercifully changed the subject to Edmonton's power play tendencies, but his observation lingered with me throughout practice and into the evening.

That night, I surprised Sienna with tickets to a prestigious culinary event she'd mentioned wanting to attend—a showcase of international pastry techniques featuring several renowned chefs. I arranged a private car and VIP access, using connections through the team's corporate partnerships.

"This is sold out!" she exclaimed, examining the tickets with wide eyes. "How did you even get these?"

I shrugged, enjoying her excitement more than I wanted to admit. "Benefits of being a local celebrity, I guess."

"You hate using your status for perks," she observed shrewdly. "You must have called in some serious favors."

"Worth it," I said simply.

Her genuine joy throughout the evening was more satisfying than any game win. I found myself watching her reactions more than the demonstrations themselves—the sparkle in her eyes when she learned a new technique, her thoughtful questions to the chefs, the passionate way she discussed flavor combinations with fellow attendees.

When Chef Moreau, a French culinary icon, recognized me and approached our table, I immediately redirected the conversation to Sienna's expertise.

"My wife is the real talent," I told him, the pride in my voice surprising even me. "She creates pastries that are both technically perfect and somehow...soulful."

Sienna blushed but engaged the chef in a detailed discussion about laminated dough techniques that left me both impressed and slightly bewildered. When Chef Moreau invited us to tour the kitchen, her expression of pure delight made something warm unfurl in my chest.

Walking home through the park afterward, a spontaneous idea struck me. I deliberately stepped away, then walked toward her with purposeful intent, bumping into her gently but catching her before she could lose balance.

"Excuse me," I said formally, fighting a smile. "You should watch where you’re going."

Confusion crossed her face, then understanding dawned. "You spilled my coffee," she replied, falling into the game.

"You walked into me," I corrected, still holding her arms lightly.

"You were texting!"

"I was checking game stats," I countered, pulling her closer.

Her laughter filled the night air, genuine and bright, before fading into something softer as she realized our proximity. We stood chest to chest in the park, her face upturned to mine, illuminated by moonlight filtering through the trees.

I didn't plan to kiss her. Or perhaps I'd been planning it since the hotel in Vancouver. Either way, when my lips found hers, the connection felt inevitable—like returning to a conversation momentarily interrupted.

Her response was immediate, arms wrapping around my neck as she rose slightly on her toes to align our bodies more perfectly. I gathered her closer, one hand at the small of her back, the other cradling her head, deepening the kiss with hungry intent.

We broke apart only when an evening jogger cleared his throat as he passed, both of us breathless and slightly dazed.

"Our acting skills are really improving," I joked weakly, immediately regretting the words when something like hurt flashed in her eyes.

"Very convincing," she agreed, her voice carefully neutral as she stepped back.

The walk home was quieter, the easy connection of earlier replaced by a tension neither of us seemed brave enough to address. At our front door, Sprinkles greeted us with her usual enthusiasm, providing a welcome distraction from the unresolved moment between us.

Later that night, unable to sleep, I found myself standing at my bedroom window staring at the dark waters of Lake Washington. In just a few weeks, our agreed-upon timeline would conclude. The endorsement was secured, her bakery debt would be cleared, our legal arrangement fulfilled.

Everything according to plan. Except I realized with startling clarity that I no longer wanted to follow that plan. The thought of returning to my solitary existence—waking in an empty house, coming home to silent rooms, focusing exclusively on hockey and training—created a hollow sensation in my chest.

I'd learned to appreciate morning singing off-key from the kitchen, flour handprints on counter edges, gentle teasing about my protein obsession, enthusiastic hockey analysis from a novice perspective. I'd grown accustomed to shared bathrooms, compromised television choices, walks with an overenthusiastic golden retriever.

I'd grown accustomed to Sienna.

The realization wasn't exactly surprising—I'd been dancing around it for weeks—but admitting it even to myself felt monumental. The question now was what to do about it. Our arrangement had been clear from the beginning: a temporary agreement for mutual benefit, nothing more.

If I'd developed genuine feelings, that was my problem to manage, not hers to accommodate. For all I knew, she was still counting down the days until she could return to her independent life, free from the constraints of our fake marriage.

Except, she'd kissed me back. Not just tonight, but in Vancouver too. With enthusiasm that seemed difficult to fake.