Page 35

Game 7. The two most exciting words in sports. One game to determine a champion, legacies defined in sixty minutes of play. The culmination of a lifetime of training, sacrifices, and dreams.

I'd visualized this moment countless times throughout my career – standing in a locker room before the decisive game of the Finals. In those visualizations, my focus had been singular, my mind empty of everything except hockey.

The reality proved different.

As I dressed methodically in my gear – the routine unchanged for over a decade – my thoughts weren't solely on forechecking systems or defensive zone coverage. They drifted repeatedly to Sienna, to the life we were building together, to the bakery expansion plans spread across our dining room table.

"Harrison." Coach Miller's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "Package for you."

He handed me a small, carefully wrapped parcel. Inside, I found individually packaged protein bites – Sienna's special pregame recipe, developed specifically for my nutritional needs. The accompanying note read simply: For energy and luck. I'll be cheering louder than anyone. All my love – S

The signature – All my love – created a warmth in my chest that spread outward, settling my pregame nerves more effectively than any visualization technique.

"Do they taste good?" Coach asked, nodding toward the protein bites.

"Yes." I couldn't help the pride that colored my voice. "She's been perfecting the recipe for weeks."

Coach's expression softened slightly. "She made breakfast for the entire team this morning, you know. Personalized pastries for everyone – cartoon characters for guys with kids, hometown landmarks for the rookies. Never seen anything like it."

"That's Sienna," I said simply. "She pays attention to what matters to people."

"You're a lucky man, Harrison." He clapped my shoulder before moving on to check on other players. "Don't forget it."

I hadn't forgotten – not for a moment.

Before final preparations began, I slipped into the hallway to present Sienna with a gift of my own – a key to a storage unit where I'd been collecting baking equipment from around the world. Japanese precision knives, French copper pots, Italian marble slabs, German scales – tools gathered from cities visited during matches, each representing places we might explore together throughout my hockey career.

When I handed her the key, explaining what it unlocked, her eyes widened with emotion. "You did this during playoffs? With everything else going on?"

"It gave me something positive to focus on during travel," I explained. "Thinking about your reaction kept me grounded."

Her embrace – fierce and immediate – conveyed everything words couldn't. When she finally pulled back, determination shone in her eyes. "Go win that Cup, Jax Harrison. Then come home to me."

As game time approached, unexpected messages of support flooded my phone:

From my father, still recovering but watching from home: Proud of you, son. Not just for the hockey, but for the man you've become.

From Mr. Henderson, Sienna's elderly bakery regular whom I'd befriended: Wearing my jersey and lucky socks. That check you threw in Game 6 reminded me of the match in 1942!

From Sienna's Aunt Carol: She's happier than I've ever seen her. That's worth more than any trophy.

And most surprisingly, a joint text from Chloe and Leo: We're stress-eating bakery leftovers and terrifying the delivery guys with our screaming. Bring home that silver cup!

The breadth of the support network that had developed around us struck me profoundly. However I'd defined success before this season, the definition had expanded to include relationships I'd never anticipated valuing.

In the locker room, Coach Miller's final words didn't focus on tactics or opponent weaknesses as usual. Instead, he spoke about family – the one we'd formed as a team and the ones supporting us from home.

"Look around this room," he said, his normally gruff voice softening. "Brothers in everything but blood. Then think about who's sitting in those stands, watching at home, waiting for your call afterward. That's who you're playing for tonight. Not just yourselves, not just each other, but everyone who's sacrificed alongside you to reach this moment."

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."