7. Tessa
TESSA
T he pounding on Dax's door feels like a countdown to my professional execution. I’m flushed, breathless, and wildly turned on while my secret husband's best friend is literally three feet away demanding hockey equipment.
"Shit, shit, shit," I whisper, leaping off the bed like it’s on fire.
"Stay calm," Dax mouths. "I'll handle Jamie."
"How exactly are you going to handle this?" Straightening my blouse and trying to smooth down my hair.
"Dax!" Jamie's voice comes again, louder this time. "You up?"
"Give me thirty seconds," Dax whispers, pressing a quick kiss to my lips that makes me want to drag him back regardless of the consequences. "I need to get to my room to answer the door."
I glance over at the connecting door between our rooms, which is standing slightly ajar like a portal to my own stupidity. "The maintenance guy said it doesn't lock properly."
"Lucky us," Dax grins, and even in the middle of our panic, that smile makes my stomach do gymnastics.
"Dax!" Jamie's voice comes through the wall, followed by knocking. "I know it's late, but I saw your light was still on and I’m freaking out!"
Dax slips through the connecting door into his room, and I can hear him moving around, probably messing up his hair and trying to look like he was actually sleeping.
"Coming!" Dax calls out, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at the unintentional innuendo.
I hear Dax open his door. "Hey, Torres. What's up? It's pretty late."
"I know, sorry man. I saw your light under the door and figured you were up. I need to borrow a backup stick—mine snapped during warmups and my backup is acting weird."
He pauses. "Why are you breathing so hard?"
My blood freezes.
"I was doing push-ups," Dax lies smoothly. "Couldn't sleep after the game."
"At this hour? You're weird, man. Anyway, can I come in? I brought leftover pizza from dinner, and my sister Sofia just texted me the most insane dating story. This guy showed up in a Batman costume—not for Halloween, just because it was Tuesday."
My heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised it's not audible through the hotel walls, but I try to laugh.
"Yeah, and about that stick," Jamie continues, and I can hear him moving around Dax's room. "Mine's completely fucked, and you know how psycho I get about using unfamiliar equipment."
"Yeah, no problem," Dax says. "It's in my gear bag."
"Thanks, man. You're a lifesaver." There's a pause, then Jamie's voice gets suspicious. "Are you sure you're okay? You seem... I don't know. Different."
Fuck. Different how?
"Different how?" Dax echoes my thoughts.
"Relaxed. Like, genuinely relaxed. When's the last time you looked this chill after a game?"
Oh God. I've given him post-hookup glow. I've made my secret husband visibly satisfied, and his best friend is going to figure us out.
"Maybe the mental performance coaching is working," Dax says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
"Dr. Bennett's that good, huh?"
"She's... very effective," Dax replies, and I have to press my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.
"Well, whatever she's doing, keep it up. I haven't seen you this loose in months."
Their voices start to muffle as they move deeper into the room, and I take that as my cue to retreat.
I tiptoe to the bathroom, flip on the light, and splash cold water on my face like it might wash away the panic.
By the time I’ve patted myself dry and attempted to tame the chaos on my head, the murmur of conversation fades into background noise.
I wait until I hear Jamie's door close across the hall before collapsing onto my bed.
A soft knock on the connecting door makes me jump. I open it to find Dax leaning against the doorframe.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
“Ohhh, I’m fantastic. That wasn’t completely terrifying or anything—just my career flashing before my eyes while I tried not to die of horniness."
“That makes two of us. You were one more second away from ruining my ability to walk.”
"What did you tell Jamie about why you were breathing like you ran a marathon?"
"Push-ups."
"Push-ups?
"Seemed believable."
"Dax, you read philosophy to relax. You're not the midnight push-up guy."
"Maybe I'm expanding my stress management techniques."
"How'd that work out?"
"He suggested I try yoga instead. Said his sister swears by it."
"The same sister whose dating disasters he spent twenty minutes describing?"
"That's the one. Apparently she does hot yoga and just went on a date with a guy who negged her outfit, flirted with the waitress, ordered lobster, and still asked to split the check."
"Those facts might be related."
"Very scientific analysis, Dr. Bennett."
"I have a PhD. All my analyses are scientific."
"Is that what you told yourself when you married me?"
"No, that was a complete lapse in scientific judgment."
"A lapse you're not regretting."
"I'm professionally concerned about it."
"But you're smiling."
"I am not smiling."
"You have a dimple. Right there when you try not to smile."
"That's not a dimple, that's facial structure."
"It's adorable."
"Stop calling me adorable. I'm a serious professional."
"Serious professionals can be adorable."
"Serious professionals don't marry strangers in Vegas."
"Fair point. Should I come back over there?"
"Absolutely not. Jamie might come back."
"He's passed out by now."
"He could still hear us through the walls."
"Then we'll be very quiet."
"That sounds like a terrible idea."
"But tempting?"
"Very tempting. Which is why I'm closing this door."
"Good night, Tessa."
"Good night, Dax. No more midnight push-ups."
"No promises."
I close the door and lean against it, still smiling. My phone buzzes.
Dax
You definitely have a dimple.
It's not a dimple.
Dax
Sweet dreams, Mrs. Kingston.
I stare at the text, my heart doing something complicated. Then I turn off my phone and try not to think about how much I like the sound of that.
I look... happy. Thoroughly satisfied and genuinely happy in a way I haven't seen in months. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes are bright, and despite everything that just happened, I look like a woman who's been well and truly cared for.
And that terrifies me more than Harrison's fraternization policy ever could.
Morning practice arrives with all the subtlety of a hockey puck to the face.
I'm running on about three hours of sleep, two cups of hotel coffee that taste like they were brewed in someone's gym sock, and the kind of emotional whiplash you only get from almost hooking up with your secret husband after a late night heart-to-heart.
I've chosen my most conservative blazer—the one that screams "I definitely don't know what a penis looks like"—and pulled my hair back in a bun so tight it's practically giving me a facelift, but I still feel like I'm wearing a neon sign that says "I’VE SLEPT WITH THE STAR DEFENSEMAN AND IT WAS AMAZING. "
"Morning, Dr. Bennett," Coach Martinez greets me as I settle into the observation box. "You're here early."
"Couldn't sleep," I reply, which is technically true. Hard to sleep when your body’s buzzing from unresolved sexual tension and your heart’s doing gymnastics over a guy you’re not supposed to want.
"Game excitement," he nods knowingly. "Gets to all of us."
If only he knew what kind of excitement kept me awake.
The players file onto the ice for warm-ups, and I make a concentrated effort not to look for Dax. Which lasts approximately fifteen seconds, because apparently my self-control is about as reliable as hotel WiFi.
I know it's a stretch. I know that. But when Dax drops to all fours, knees out wide, and starts rocking his hips back and forth in a move that’s allegedly a groin stretch, I find it very hard to think professional thoughts about athletic mobility instead of thinking about how he moves like that in other contexts.
Focus, Tessa. You're a mental performance coach, not a horny teenager.
But when he glances up at the observation window mid-stretch, our eyes meet for exactly two seconds, and the heat in his gaze nearly makes me forget where I am.
He knows exactly what I'm thinking, the smug bastard, and there's definitely a hint of a smirk on his face as he transitions into another stretch that somehow manages to showcase his ass.
I'm pretty sure hockey players don't need to stretch like that, but I'm not complaining.
"Interesting," Ethan Chen says from beside me, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
"What's interesting?" I ask, trying to act natural and praying my face doesn’t look like a horny cartoon wolf.
"Kingston's focus today. He seems... centered. More relaxed than I've seen him in weeks.
Great. Now Ethan's noticing the change too.
"Maybe he's adjusting well to the mental performance protocols," I suggest, proud of how steady my voice sounds.
"Maybe." Ethan makes a note on his clipboard. "Whatever's working, we should bottle it. He's been different since you arrived."
Different how? I want to ask, but that would definitely raise suspicions.
Practice begins, and I force myself to focus on the job I'm actually being paid to do. I take notes on team dynamics, individual performance markers, and communication patterns, trying to ignore the way Dax moves across the ice like he's dancing.
Twenty minutes in, Jamie Torres takes a particularly aggressive shot during a drill and his stick explodes on impact, sending splinters across the ice.
"Fucking hell!" he shouts, "did you see that? Thing just exploded!"
"Bad batch of sticks," Dax calls out, skating over with a replacement. "Equipment manager's been complaining about the new supplier all week."
"This is my backup," Jamie grins. "The one I borrowed from you last night when mine snapped."
My pen stops moving across my notepad. Last night. When he came pounding on Dax's door while I was naked and thoroughly debauched in the next room.
"Good thing you're prepared," Coach Martinez observes. "Kingston always has extra gear."