13. Tessa #2
"I want to. Plus, I need to interrogate you properly, and that's much easier when my brother isn't hovering like an overprotective bodyguard."
Dax looks between us with obvious trepidation. "Should I be worried?"
"Probably," Emma says cheerfully. "But you're going to let us cook anyway because you're whipped and you want us to get along."
"I'm not whipped."
Emma and I exchange a look, and I feel something click into place between us.
Emma stands up, grabbing my hand. "Come on, Tessa. Let's cook and discuss all the ways my brother has gone soft since meeting you."
"I have not gone soft," Dax calls after us as Emma drags me toward the kitchen.
"Keep telling yourself that," Emma calls back.
I can hear Dax muttering something as we reach the kitchen, and Emma dissolves into giggles.
Emma starts pulling ingredients from the fridge.
"It's what people do when they're falling in love. They don't want to admit it yet." Emma hands me an onion and a knife. "Though between you and me, I think he's past the falling part and firmly in the 'completely gone' territory."
Something flutters in my chest at her words. "You think so?"
"Tessa, my brother once told me that relationships were a distraction from hockey and that he'd rather focus on his career than deal with 'emotional complications.
'" Emma makes air quotes around the last part.
"That was six months ago. Now he's asking Mom for advice on how to cook for someone else. "
"He asked your mom for cooking advice?"
"Last week. He wanted to know how to make breakfast that wasn't cereal or protein bars." Emma grins as she starts chopping vegetables. "Mom nearly cried from happiness. She's been waiting for him to care about someone this much for years."
I focus on dicing the onion, partly because it needs to be done and partly because I'm not sure how to respond.
"Can I ask you something?" Emma's voice has gone softer, more serious.
"Sure."
"Are you in this for real? Like, really in this, not just having fun or seeing where it goes?"
I stop chopping and look at her. "Why do you ask?"
"Because Dax doesn't do anything halfway. When he cares about something—hockey, family, people—he goes all in. And if you're not planning to stick around..." She trails off, but the protective edge in her voice is clear.
"I'm in this for real," I say quietly.
Emma studies my face for a moment, then nods. "Good. Because he's been hurt before, and I won't watch it happen again."
"Hurt how?"
Emma hesitates, glancing toward the living room where we can hear Dax moving around. "It's not really my story to tell, but... let's just say the last person he cared about left when things got complicated."
She doesn't finish the sentence.
"I'm not going anywhere," I tell her firmly. "Complicated doesn't scare me."
"Even if it gets really complicated? Like, publicly complicated?"
There's something in her tone that makes me pause. "What do you mean?"
Emma bites her lip. "I just... I work in media, right? Communications major, internship at a sports marketing firm. I know how fast things can spread, how quickly private becomes public in the sports world."
A chill runs down my spine. "Emma, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that if you two are serious about this, you should probably prepare for people to find out eventually. And when they do..." She shrugs. "It might get messy."
Before I can respond, Dax appears in the kitchen doorway.
"Everything okay in here? You two got quiet all of a sudden."
"Just talking about your hobbies," Emma says smoothly, but I can see the concern in her eyes.
Dax moves behind me, his hands settling on my waist as he peers over my shoulder at the onions I'm chopping. The gesture is so natural, so domestic, that for a moment I forget all about Emma's warning.
"Smells good," he murmurs against my ear, and I'm not entirely sure he's talking about the food.
"Down, boy," Emma says, but she's grinning. "At least let me finish interrogating her before you start the romantic cooking montage."
"There's no montage," Dax protests, but his hands don't leave my waist.
"There's totally a montage. But well, it's disgustingly cute."
She's not wrong.
Dinner comes together faster than expected, maybe because we're all working together, maybe because the conversation is flowing so easily that time seems to slip away.
Emma tells stories about Dax as a kid—how he used to practice hockey moves in the hallway until their downstairs neighbor complained, how he once tried to teach their goldfish to play fetch, how he cried during every Disney movie until he turned thirteen and decided emotions weren't cool.
"He's still emotional," Emma confides as we sit down to eat. "He just hides it better now."
"I'm right here," Dax points out.
"We know," Emma and I say at the same time, then look at each other and laugh.
"Great. You're already ganging up on me."
"It's what we do," Emma says sagely. "It's called bonding. Very important for family dynamics."
The word 'family' hits me unexpectedly hard. I've been on my own for so long that I forgot what it feels like to be included in something bigger than myself.
"Tell me about your family, Tessa," Emma says, as if she can read my thoughts. "Are your parents still together? Any siblings?"
"Just me and my mom," I say, which is my standard answer. "My dad wasn't really in the picture growing up."
"I'm sorry," Emma says gently. "That must have been hard."
"We did okay. My mom is... she's incredible, actually. Worked three jobs to keep us afloat, never once made me feel like I was missing out on anything."
"She sounds amazing," Dax says quietly. "I'd like to meet her sometime."
The casual way he says it, like meeting my mother is a given rather than a maybe, makes my heart skip. "She'd like that. She's already decided she likes you."
"Really?"
"She says you have 'good hands' and 'honest eyes,' whatever that means."
Emma snorts. "Good hands? Mom would love that. She's always going on about how you can tell everything about a person by their hands."
"Emma," Dax warns, but he's fighting a smile.
"What? I'm just reading her palm. Very scientific." Emma traces a line across my palm with her finger. "This line here says you're going to make my brother very happy for a very long time."
"Palm reading isn't scientific," I point out.
"Are you questioning my methodology, Dr. Bennett?"
The use of my title makes me stiffen slightly. I'd almost forgotten, in the warmth of family dinner and easy conversation, that there are parts of my life I can't share.
"Sorry," Emma says quickly, noticing my reaction. "I just... Dax mentioned you have a PhD. I think it's cool."
"It's fine," I say, forcing a smile. "I just don't use the title much outside of work."
"That's modest of you," Emma says, but there's something in her expression that suggests she's filing away my reaction for later consideration.
After dinner, we migrate back to the living room with the cookies Emma brought. They're incredible—soft and warm with perfectly melted chocolate chips and just a hint of sea salt that makes them addictive.
"Your mom is a goddess," I tell Emma around a bite of cookie.
"I'll pass that along. She'll be so happy to hear you liked them." Emma settles onto the couch next to me while Dax claims the armchair. "She's already planning Thanksgiving dinner, by the way."
"It's February," Dax points out.
"Mom plans everything six months in advance. You know this." Emma turns to me. "Please tell me you'll come to Thanksgiving. Mom's already setting a place for you."
"Emma—" Dax starts.
"What? It's February. That's plenty of time to plan." Emma looks between us. "Unless... oh God, are you guys not at the 'meet the whole family' stage yet? I'm sorry, I just assumed since you're clearly living in each other's pockets?—"
"We're not living in each other's pockets," I protest.
"Okay cool bro." Emma stands up, stretching. "Speaking of which, what's the sleeping situation tonight? Couch or guest room?"
"Guest room," Dax says quickly. "I cleared it out last week."
Emma raises an eyebrow. "You cleared out the guest room? The room that was full of hockey equipment and old textbooks? The room you've been using as storage for two years?"
"It needed to be cleaned anyway."
"Uh-huh. And this has nothing to do with potentially having overnight guests who aren't your messy college friends?"
The pink tinge is back around Dax's ears. "It's just good to have a proper guest room."
"Right. For guests. Like girlfriends' families who might visit." Emma's grin is positively wicked now. "Very forward-thinking of you."
"I'm going to bed," Dax announces, standing up abruptly. "You two can continue psychoanalyzing my interior decorating choices without me."
"We will," Emma calls after him cheerfully. "Sweet dreams! Don't forget to use those expensive sheets you bought!"
After Dax disappears upstairs, Emma turns to me with a more serious expression.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
"For what?"
"For making him happy. For being patient with his emotional constipation.
For caring enough to let him buy you throw pillows.
" Emma smiles. "I haven't seen him like this since.
.. well, since before everything went to shit.
None of us knew how to fix it. And then you came along, and suddenly he's laughing again.
Really laughing, not just going through the motions. "
"He's pretty amazing," I say softly.
"He is. He's also stubborn and overprotective and has a tendency to bottle up his feelings until they explode." Emma gives me a meaningful look. "But I think you already know that."
"I'm learning."
"Good."
A chill runs through me as I realize Emma has no idea how complicated our situation is.
She thinks the biggest challenge will be media attention on our relationship.
She doesn't know about the secret marriage, the professional ethics violations, the career-ending potential of what Dax and I are doing.
Emma stands up. "I should probably head to bed too. Early drive tomorrow, and I want to get back before Mom starts calling every hour to check on me."
We say goodnight, and I help Emma get settled in the newly cleaned guest room. She's right—it's completely transformed from the storage disaster it was before. There's a proper bed with new sheets, a cleared dresser, even a small bouquet of flowers on the nightstand.
I find Dax in his bedroom, already under the covers with a book propped on his chest. He looks up when I enter, and the smile that spreads across his face is so warm it makes my chest tight.
"How'd the rest of the interrogation go?" he asks as I change into sleep clothes.
"She likes me."
"Of course, she does. What's not to like?"
"She also thinks you're completely whipped."
"Emma thinks everyone's whipped. She's a romantic." Dax sets his book aside and holds up the covers for me. "Come here."
I slide into bed next to him, and he immediately pulls me against his side. This is still new enough that it makes my pulse skip—the casual intimacy, the assumption that this is where I belong.
"She wants me to come to Thanksgiving," I tell him.
"Do you want to? Come to Thanksgiving, I mean."
"That's months away, Dax."
"So?"
"So that's... that's a long time to plan ahead for a relationship."
"Is it?" His voice is carefully neutral, but I can feel the tension in his body. "Too long?"
I prop myself up on my elbow to look at him. "Is it too long for you?"
"Tessa, I'm planning way further ahead than Thanksgiving."
I want to ask what he means, how far ahead he's planning, what exactly he sees when he imagines our future. But I'm also terrified of the answer.
"Your sister is really great," I say instead.
"She likes you. I can tell."
"How can you tell?"
“Trust me—if she didn’t like you, you’d know. She’s not exactly subtle.”
"How many girls have you brought home to meet Emma?"
Dax is quiet for a long moment. "One. Before you."
"And what happened to her?"
Another pause, longer this time. "She decided that dating someone with a complicated family situation wasn't worth the hassle."
This is the hurt Emma was talking about, the person who left when things got difficult.
"I'm not her," I say quietly.
"I know." His arms tighten around me. "I know you're not."
I'm almost asleep when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I consider ignoring it, but something makes me reach for it.
Ms. Bennett, this is Harrison's office. Please report to his office Monday morning at 8 a.m. for a meeting regarding personnel protocols and team policy compliance. Confirm receipt.
A shiver races through me, sharp as broken glass. I stare at the message, reading it over and over, looking for some clue about what Harrison might have discovered.