8. Dax #2
"I was sixteen, she was thirteen. Dad had been... distant for a while. Mom was working two jobs to keep us afloat, and Emma was acting out at school, getting into fights, her grades tanking."
"What did you do?"
"At first, nothing. I figured Mom would handle it, or it would pass.
But one night I found Emma crying in her room because some kids at school were making fun of her clothes—secondhand stuff, you know?
And I realized she wasn't just being a bratty teenager.
She was embarrassed, angry, scared that we were falling apart. "
Tessa nods, making another note. "So what changed?"
"I started paying attention. Really paying attention.
I learned her schedule, figured out what subjects she was struggling with, started helping with homework.
I took her shopping for new clothes with money from my part-time job.
But more than that, I started talking to her.
Not lecturing—talking. Asking what she needed, what would help. "
"And?"
"It worked. Slowly. Her grades came back up, she stopped getting in trouble.
But the real breakthrough was when she told me she was scared Mom would leave too, because Mom was always so stressed.
So I started taking on more at home—cooking dinner, helping with bills, being there when Mom had to work late. "
"That's leadership, Dax."
"That's family."
"What's the difference?" She leans forward slightly. "You saw someone struggling, you assessed what they needed, you adapted your approach based on their personality and situation, and you supported them consistently over time. That's exactly what good team leadership looks like."
I take a sip of wine, considering this. "But Emma's my sister. I love her unconditionally. The team... that's different."
"Is it? You've been here five years. These guys aren't just your teammates anymore, are they?"
She's right, and we both know it. Torres isn't just my roommate—he's the brother I get to choose. The rookies I mentor aren't just kids trying to make it in the league—they're young men trying to find their place in the world, not unlike Emma was.
"You mentored Torres through his confidence crisis last season," Tessa continues. "What was your approach there?"
"I just... listened, I guess. He was overthinking everything, second-guessing his instincts. So I started watching game film with him, breaking down his successful plays to show him what he was doing right. And when he'd start spiraling, I'd remind him of those moments."
"Positive reinforcement combined with concrete evidence. Classic psychological technique."
"I didn't know it was a technique. I just knew he needed to remember who he was as a player."
She's quiet for a long moment, twirling her wine glass between her hands.
"In Seattle, before... before everything went wrong, I was team lead on a research project.
This big study on performance anxiety in elite athletes.
I had a team of graduate students, two post-docs, and a budget that would fund my career for the next five years. "
"That sounds amazing."
"It was. Until one of my graduate students, Sarah, started struggling. Her data collection was sloppy, she missed meetings, her analysis was full of errors. The easy thing would have been to reassign her work to someone else."
"But you didn't."
"No. I sat down with her, tried to figure out what was going on. Turned out she was dealing with her father's cancer diagnosis and couldn't focus. So I adjusted her workload, got her connected with counseling services, helped her develop better time management strategies."
"That sounds like good leadership to me."
Before I can say something more, she pulls out her phone and scrolls through her notes.
"Your first week, Zane—the rookie defenseman—was struggling with his positioning. You spent twenty minutes after practice walking him through proper angles, even though you were exhausted. He told Torres you were the only veteran who bothered to actually teach instead of just criticizing."
"That's just?—"
"Kevin asked Martinez if he could room with you on road trips because, quote, 'Kingston makes me feel like I belong here.' Torres defers to your judgment on line combinations. Even Chen comes to you when he's trying to understand team dynamics."
I stare at her. "How do you know all this?"
"Because I've been watching. It's my job to understand team psychology, and what I see is a group of men who already look to you for guidance, support, and direction. The captaincy would just make it official."
"You really think I can do this?"
"I think you're already doing it. The question is whether you're going to trust yourself enough to do it with confidence."
"Thank you," I say finally. "For the perspective. For helping me see it differently."
"That's what I'm here for."
"Is it?"
Her eyes meet mine.
"Professional consultation hours are over," she says quietly, setting her notebook aside.
"And now?"
"Now we're just Dax and Tessa. I'm going to overthink this," she warns. "I'm going to panic and probably try to convince myself we should stop before we really start."
"I know."
"And you're going to get frustrated with my anxiety and wonder why you're bothering with someone who can't just enjoy a good thing without analyzing it to death."
"I'm not going anywhere, Tessa."
"You say that now..."
I reach out and take her hand, stilling the nervous movement of her fingers. "Hey. Look at me."
She does, and I can see vulnerability in her hazel eyes that she usually keeps hidden.
"I'm not Marcus Williams. I'm not going to turn this into something twisted or use it against you. And I'm not going to disappear when things get complicated."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I've been thinking about you non-stop since Vegas. Because talking to you tonight has been the best part of my week. Because when I imagine the future—the captaincy, next season, anything—you're there."
Her breath catches slightly. "Dax..."
"I'm not asking you to have it all figured out right now. I'm just asking you to try this with me. Really try, not just secretly hook up and hope no one notices."
"What does that look like?"
"I don't know yet. We figure it out as we go. But honestly, openly, together."
She's looking at our joined hands, her thumb tracing across my knuckles. "This is a terrible idea."
"Probably."
"We could both lose everything."
"We could. Or we could have something amazing."
I'm about to kiss her when she pulls back slightly, a small smile playing at her lips.
"But first, let’s just... be normal for a while? No more heavy conversations about our future or analyzing our feelings to death?"
I laugh, some of the tension leaving my shoulders. "What did you have in mind?"
"I don't know. What do normal people do when they're getting to know each other?"
"Watch terrible reality TV shows and argue about whether pineapple belongs on pizza?"
"Perfect. Though for the record, pineapple absolutely belongs on pizza."
"And that's our first fight as a couple," I grin, as I stand and start making my way to the kitchen. "What's your stance on show choices? I should warn you, Jamie's Netflix account is... eclectic."
She follows me to the kitchen, hip-checking me playfully as I load the dishwasher. "Surprise me. But nothing too scary—I'm a terrible screamer."
The innocent comment sends heat straight through me, but I keep my expression neutral. "Noted. No horror."
We settle onto the couch, and I flip through the options while she curls up beside me, close enough that I can smell her perfume.
"Okay, let's see..." I scroll through the recommendations. "We've got Friends—the entire series, apparently Jamie's been binge-watching. Some action movies that look terrible. Oh, here's something... Fifty Shades of Grey?"
I glance at her.
"Have you seen it?"
"No. You?"
"No." She takes a sip of wine. "Might be interesting."
"We could always switch to Friends if it gets too... analytical."
"Right. Too analytical."
I hit play before I can overthink it, and we settle back to watch. For the first twenty minutes, it's easy to pretend this is just a normal movie night. Tessa makes occasional comments about the character development, I point out plot inconsistencies, and we share the rest of the wine.
But then Anastasia enters Christian's apartment for the first time, and everything changes.
The tension in the room shifts immediately as we watch Christian lead Anastasia through his penthouse, his hand possessively on her lower back.
I become hyperaware of every point where Tessa's body touches mine—her thigh pressed against my leg, her shoulder brushing my arm when she reaches for her wine glass, the way her breathing has changed.
On screen, Christian backs Anastasia against the elevator wall, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss that's hungry and demanding.
His hands tangle in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat, and I can feel the heat radiating from Tessa beside me.
When she shifts slightly, crossing her legs, I catch a glimpse of the skin above her knee where her skirt has ridden up.
I'm watching the way her lips part slightly when she's concentrating, the way her fingers twist around the stem of her wine glass.
The scene cuts to Christian's bedroom, all dark wood and expensive sheets.
He's undressing Anastasia slowly, reverently, his mouth following the path of each piece of clothing as it falls away.
The camera lingers on the arch of her back, the way she gasps when his teeth graze her collarbone, and I feel Tessa tense beside me.
When I glance at her, her cheeks are flushed, and she's biting her lower lip in a way that makes me want to do things.
"This is..." she starts, then trails off as Christian's hands roam over Anastasia's bare skin on screen.
"What?"
She turns to look at me, and the heat in her eyes nearly undoes me. "This is not helping with the being normal thing."
"No," I agree, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's really not."
On screen, Christian is whispering something that makes Anastasia's breath hitch, and I can't help myself.
"You know what I'm thinking about right now?" I say quietly, my eyes never leaving her face.
"What?" she breathes.
"How much I want to find out if you make those same sounds when I kiss your neck."
Her cheeks flush pink immediately. "Dax..."
"Or if your pulse races like hers does when someone tells you exactly what they want to do to you."
"You can't just say things like that," she whispers, but she's leaning closer instead of pulling away.
"Why not? It's true." I let my gaze drop to her mouth, then back to her eyes. "I've been thinking about it since Detroit. About how you'd look in my bed, wearing nothing but that smart mouth of yours."
"Jesus," she breathes, her hand coming up to touch her throat unconsciously.
"I want to kiss you until you forget every professional boundary you've ever set," I continue, my voice getting rougher. "Want to make you come apart with just my hands until you're begging me not to stop."
She's staring at me now, her lips parted, and I can see her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
"And then," I lean closer, close enough that my breath brushes her ear, "I want to take my time learning every inch of you until I know exactly how to make you scream my name."
The wine glass slips from her fingers, and she doesn't even notice when it lands on the couch cushion.
"That's..." she swallows hard, "that's very detailed."
"I'm a details kind of guy, Tessa. Especially when it comes to things I want." My thumb traces along her jawline, and she shivers. "And I want you more than I've ever wanted anything."
"We're supposed to be taking things slow," she says weakly, even as she tilts her head into my touch.
"We are taking things slow. If I was doing what I really wanted to do right now, you'd already be naked and I'd be finding out if you taste as good as you did in Vegas."
Her breath hitches audibly. "Dax Kingston, you are absolutely terrible for my self-control."
"Good. Because your self-control is overrated anyway."
We're staring at each other now, the movie forgotten, and I can see the exact moment when her resolve crumbles. Her gaze drops to my mouth, and when she unconsciously licks her lips, I lose what's left of my self-control.
"I really want to kiss you right now."
"That would be very unprofessional of you, Mr. Kingston."
"Good thing we're off the clock, Dr. Bennett."
She's already moving toward me when we hear the unmistakable sound of a key in my front door lock, followed by Jamie's voice calling out,
"Yo, Dax! You home? I brought Chinese food and gossip about my sister's terrible taste in men!"