Page 27

The conference finals brought new levels of intensity—faster play, harder hits, higher stakes. We'd advanced with a thrilling Game 7 overtime win against Edmonton, sending the home crowd into a frenzy and Seattle media into a playoff fever unlike anything before.

I played with singular focus, each shift a battle of wills and physical endurance. But even in the midst of the most important games of my career, part of my awareness remained fixed on the stands where Sienna sat with the other players' wives and girlfriends, her custom-made signs becoming fan favorites and regular features on the arena's big screen.

Tonight's read "ice man = nice man" with a cartoon drawing of me blocking a shot with my stick. The childlike quality of the art made me smile every time it appeared on the jumbotron.

Late in the third period, with the score tied, I saw Fitzpatrick from Vegas lining up Reynolds for what would have been a devastating blindside hit. Without hesitation, I threw myself between them, absorbing the full impact of Fitzpatrick's charge. Pain exploded through my side as I crumpled to the ice, the wind knocked completely from my lungs.

The arena erupted—part concern, part bloodlust for the ensuing penalty. I managed to skate to the bench under my own power, waving off the trainer initially, though my ribs screamed in protest with each breath.

We won 4-3 on a late power play goal, taking a crucial 2-1 series lead. The locker room was euphoric, though my participation in the celebration was limited by the ice pack now strapped to my ribs.

"Going to feel that one tomorrow," Coach Miller said, clapping my shoulder. "Brave play, Harrison. Stupid, but brave."

I nodded, trying not to wince. "Had to be done."

After media obligations, there was a thorough examination by the team doctor. There were bruised ribs, but no fracture. I headed home much later than usual. Despite the hour, lights were still on, and I found Sienna waiting up, pacing the living room with obvious worry.

"You're still awake," I observed unnecessarily, carefully lowering myself onto the couch.

"Of course I'm still awake." She approached, eyes immediately finding the way I was favoring my left side. "How bad is it?"

"Just bruised," I assured her. "Looks worse than it is."

She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with an ice pack and two ibuprofen. "Take these. And lift your shirt."

"Trying to take advantage of my vulnerable state?" I joked, immediately regretting it when her expression remained serious.

"I want to see how bad it is," she insisted.

I complied, wincing as I raised my jersey and t-shirt to reveal what was already developing into an impressive bruise spanning my left ribcage.

Sienna inhaled sharply. "Just bruised? That looks horrible."

"Occupational hazard," I said, trying to sound casual despite the throbbing pain. "Worth it for the win."

She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "men and their stupid sports" as she gently positioned the ice pack against my side. Her touch was professional but tender, careful not to cause additional pain.

"Twenty minutes on, twenty off," she instructed, sounding remarkably like the team trainer. "And those painkillers should help you sleep."

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, earning a half-hearted glare that quickly softened into concern.

"You scared me," she admitted quietly. "When you went down like that and didn't get up right away... I thought..."

"It takes more than one goon to keep me down," I assured her, catching her hand before she could move away. "But I'm sorry you were worried."

She allowed the contact for a moment before gently disengaging. "You should get some rest. Big game tomorrow."

The next morning, the bruise had darkened impressively, but the sharp pain had dulled to a manageable ache. Sienna insisted on helping me wrap it properly before I left for morning skate, her hands moving confidently as she applied just the right amount of pressure.

"Where'd you learn to do this?" I asked, watching her work.

"Online videos," she admitted with a small smile. "Last night after you went to bed. 'How to wrap bruised ribs for stubborn hockey players.'"

The image of her researching proper medical techniques just to help me created a warm sensation completely unrelated to my injury.

That evening, we attended a dinner with Perfect Home Furnishings executives to celebrate the finalized contract. Throughout the meal, I watched Sienna charm the room with the same natural ease she'd displayed at the bakery. The CEO's wife particularly adored her, laughing at her self-deprecating stories about learning hockey terminology and asking detailed questions about the bakery.

"And what about the future?" Mrs. Chambers asked, leaning forward with the air of someone seeking insider information. "Children perhaps? A little hockey team of your own?"

The innocent question hung awkwardly between us. We'd never discussed this aspect of our fictional relationship, having focused primarily on our supposed whirlwind romance rather than hypothetical future plans.

"Someday," Sienna replied smoothly after only the slightest hesitation. "When the time is right. Though I think we'd be happy with just one or two little skaters, not an entire line."

Her casual reference to our future children—children that would never exist—created an unexpected pang in my chest. For a brief, disorienting moment, I allowed myself to imagine it: a little girl with Sienna's smile and determination, or a boy with her kindness and creativity. The mental image was so vivid, so appealing, it caught me completely off guard.

I'd never given serious thought to fatherhood before. Hockey had consumed my life planning, with retirement and coaching as the only post-career considerations. Yet now, I found myself dwelling on the possibility of a future that included not just professional achievements but family milestones.

As we left the restaurant, paparazzi waited outside—a new development that highlighted our elevated public profile. Sienna handled it with graceful poise, smiling naturally as I guided her to the waiting car with a protective hand at the small of her back.

"That was... intense," she commented once we were safely inside and settled in. "Are they always like that?"

"It's getting worse," I admitted. "The playoff run plus the endorsement has created more interest than usual."

"The bakery's been swamped too," she said. "We've had food bloggers, social media influencers, even a segment request from a News Channel."

"That's amazing." I reached across to squeeze her hand. "Your grandmother would be proud."

She smiled, though something sad lingered in her expression. "It's not just my baking they're interested in. It's being married to you."

The reminder of our arrangement's foundation hung between us. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, I cleared my throat.

"I transferred the endorsement payment yesterday," I said, immediately regretting the clinical tone. "Your bakery loan should be cleared by tomorrow."

"Oh." She looked out the car window, her profile partially hidden from my view. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," I replied, suddenly needing her to understand. "It was our agreement. But the success you're having now—the interest, the new customers—that's because of your talent, not just the connection to me."

At the house, we found Leo's car in the driveway. He was waiting inside with Chloe, both looking unusually serious.

"Sorry to ambush you," Leo began without preamble. "But something's come up that couldn't wait."

"What's wrong?" Sienna asked, immediately concerned.

"Nothing's wrong, exactly," Leo clarified. "But there's... a development. The Perfect Home Furnishings publicist called today. They want to arrange a high-profile feature about your romance—childhood photos, family interviews, the full love story spread across multiple platforms."

"Okay," I said slowly, not understanding the issue. "We've done interviews before."

"This would be different," Chloe explained, her expression worried as she looked at Sienna. "Much more intimate. And the timeline they're proposing would extend well beyond your... original agreement."

The implication sank in slowly. They wanted a long-term commitment to the narrative we'd created—a commitment that would extend past our planned divorce.

"How long?" I asked.

"At least a year," Leo replied. "Possibly longer if the campaign performs well."

Sienna's expression remained carefully neutral, but I noticed her hands tighten around her purse strap. "A year of... pretending."

The word cut deeper than it should have, given the reality of our situation.

"Or," Leo said cautiously, "you could... not pretend."

"What does that mean?" I asked sharply.

Leo looked uncomfortable. "You could tell the truth. Or..." he glanced between us, "you could decide if there's any part of this that isn't pretend anymore."

His perceptiveness was unsettling. Had we been so transparent that even Leo could see the shifted dynamics between us?

"We need time to discuss this," I said firmly, effectively ending the conversation.

After they left, Sienna and I stood in loaded silence, the decision before us impossible to ignore yet difficult to address directly. Continue the charade indefinitely? End it and face the professional consequences? Or acknowledge the truth that neither of us had been brave enough to voice—that somewhere along the way, our performance had developed authentic foundations?

"We should get some rest," Sienna finally said, not meeting my eyes. "You have a game tomorrow, and I have gala preparations."