21. Tessa
TESSA
I 'm staring at my phone like it just announced the apocalypse, and honestly, that might be less catastrophic than what I'm actually reading.
"Holy shit, holy shit, holy fucking shit," I mutter, scrolling through what feels like a digital assassination. There are photos—actual goddamn photos—of us stumbling out of that Elvis chapel, looking drunk and blissful and completely oblivious to the media firestorm we were creating.
Dax appears behind me, reading over my shoulder, and I can feel the fury radiating from his body like heat from a nuclear reactor. "That vindictive son of a bitch."
"Harrison?" My voice sounds strangled.
"Has to be. Look at this bullshit." He points to a highlighted quote that makes my stomach drop straight to hell.
"'Sources close to the organization suggest Dr. Bennett specifically targeted Kingston for his wealth and status, using her position as team psychologist to manipulate a vulnerable athlete during a difficult period. '"
"Manipulate?" I spin around to face him, rage and humiliation colliding in my chest like a fucking car crash. "They're making me sound like some predatory whore who seduced you for your money!"
"It gets worse, baby. Keep reading."
I scroll further, each sentence feeling like a knife twist. "'Kingston's judgment has been notably compromised since Bennett's arrival, with sources indicating his recent decision to decline a lucrative Boston trade was influenced by his inappropriate relationship rather than professional considerations. '"
"So you're thinking with your cock instead of your brain, and I'm a manipulative bitch. Got it." I laugh, but it sounds hysterical. "This is exactly what happened in Seattle. Exactly what I was afraid of."
"This isn't Seattle," Dax says firmly. "This is different."
"Yeah? well reading quotes about how our relationship 'created significant disruption within the organization' and 'concerns about preferential treatment,' makes it sound pretty fucking familiar to me."
My phone explodes with incoming calls—unknown numbers flooding my screen like a plague of electronic locusts.
"Don't answer any of them," Dax says immediately. "It's reporters wanting quotes, probably asking if we're getting divorced or if this was all some publicity stunt."
"A publicity stunt?" I want to laugh and cry simultaneously. "Because secretly getting married and then desperately trying to hide it is such brilliant fucking marketing."
His phone starts ringing, and when I see "Mom" on the caller ID, my heart sinks even further.
"Shit. I have to take this." He swipes to answer. "Hey, Ma."
"Dax Patrick Kingston," comes his mother's voice through the speaker, sharp with maternal fury that could cut diamond. "What in the Sam Hill is happening? I've got reporters calling me asking about your 'secret Vegas wedding' and whether I knew you were married!"
"Ma, I can explain?—"
"You better damn well explain! Some reporter just asked me if I thought Tessa was a gold digger, and I told him if he called back I'd report him for harassment and maybe kick his ass for good measure. But Dax, honey, what is going on?"
I can hear the hurt underneath her anger, and guilt twists in my stomach like a rusty knife. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Kingston. This is all my fault?—"
"Like hell it is," she interrupts fiercely. "Don't you dare blame yourself for some journalist's lack of human decency. But I need to know—are you two okay? Are you safe?"
"We're okay, Ma," Dax says, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. "Rattled as fuck, but okay. What about Emma? Please tell me they haven't found her?—"
"Too late for that, sweetheart. She called me twenty minutes ago, crying because some reporter cornered her outside her dorm asking about the family's reaction to your 'whirlwind romance.' I'm driving up to get her right now."
"Bring her here," I say immediately, my protective instincts kicking in. "Both of you. Stay with us until this shitstorm dies down."
"That's very sweet, honey, but we don't want to impose?—"
"You're not imposing," Dax says firmly. "You're family. Our family. And we protect family from vultures."
The moment we hang up, my phone starts buzzing again. This time it's Martinez, and I answer with dread pooling in my stomach.
"Coach, please tell me you have good news."
"Depends on your definition of good," his gravelly voice comes through.
"The good news is the entire team is ready to burn the fucking city down for you both.
Jamie's already called three reporters to give statements about your professional excellence.
Luca's drafting something about team chemistry improvements since you arrived. "
"And the bad news?"
"The bad news is Harrison really went nuclear. He's painting this as organizational chaos caused by inappropriate relationships, suggesting the board's decision to fire him was the result of player pressure rather than his own discriminatory bullshit."
I close my eyes, feeling the walls closing in around me like a fucking coffin. "So we're not just dealing with a relationship scandal. We're dealing with allegations that we corrupted the entire organization."
"That's about the size of it. But Tessa, listen to me—Chairman Ashford is furious. Not at you two, at Harrison. He's already called the legal team about potential defamation issues."
"Defamation?"
"Some of these quotes attributed to 'organizational sources' are demonstrably false. Your performance metrics, team improvement statistics, player satisfaction scores—it's all documented. Harrison's painting a picture that directly contradicts measurable fucking data."
Dax takes the phone from me. "What do you need us to do, Coach?"
"I need you both here in two hours. We're doing a press conference."
"A press conference?" I practically shriek. "Martinez, that's like throwing gasoline on a house fire!"
"No, hiding is like admitting guilt. Fighting back is like proving innocence.
The team wants to stand with you publicly, and so does the organization.
We're going to present the facts—performance improvements, team chemistry metrics, professional conduct documentation—and let the media draw their own damn conclusions. "
"What if it backfires?" I ask, panic creeping up my throat. "What if more attention just makes everything worse?"
"Then we'll deal with that when it happens. But right now, Harrison's controlling the narrative, and his narrative is complete bullshit. Time to tell the truth."
After he hangs up, Dax and I sit in silence for a moment, the weight of what's happening settling over us like a lead blanket soaked in poison.
"You know what the worst fucking part is?" I say finally.
"Tell me."
"Somewhere out there, people are reading this and thinking, 'Of course the female psychologist manipulated the rich athlete.
Of course she targeted him for his money.
Women like that always do.'" My voice cracks despite my best efforts.
"All my degrees, all my professional accomplishments, all the players I've helped—none of that shit matters.
I'm just another scheming bitch who fucked her way to the top. "
Dax turns to face me, his storm-gray eyes blazing with protective fury that could melt steel. "Anyone who thinks that doesn't know you. Anyone who believes Harrison's bullshit over your actual track record is a fucking idiot not worth considering."
"But what about the people who do matter? Future employers, professional colleagues, other teams who might think twice about hiring the 'manipulative psychologist' from Chicago?"
"We’ll see the truth when this settles. They'll see your results, your integrity, your character. And if they don't, then fuck them. We'll build something better somewhere else."
"You keep saying 'we,'" I observe, something warm and desperate unfurling in my chest despite the chaos.
"Because it's we. It's always been we, from the moment you married my drunk ass in Vegas." He reaches for my hands, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. "This doesn't change anything between us, Tessa. If anything, it proves we're stronger together than apart."
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number, and I almost ignore it until I read the preview:
Dr. Bennett, this is Rebecca Whitmore from Harmony Publishing...
I open the full message:
We'd like to discuss a potential book opportunity about relationship equity in professional sports. Would you and Mr. Kingston be interested in co-authoring? Significant advance, national platform, chance to control your narrative. Please call when convenient.
I show Dax the message, and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.
"Well," he says slowly. "That's fucking unexpected."
"Think it's legitimate?"
"One way to find out." He looks at me seriously. "The question is—do we want to extend this media circus, or do we want it to end?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean a book deal means more interviews, more public appearances, more people dissecting our relationship with a microscope. But it also means we control the narrative instead of letting assholes like Harrison write our story for us."
I stare at the message, my mind racing faster than Dax on a breakaway. "A book about relationship equity in professional sports..."
"Could help other people going through similar situations," Dax finishes. "Could change policies, challenge assumptions, make a real fucking difference instead of just surviving this shitstorm."
"Or it could make us poster children for workplace romance scandals forever. The cautionary tale parents tell their daughters about what happens when you mix business with pleasure."
"Maybe. But maybe that's not the worst thing in the world, if we can use it to help people. Show them it's possible to be professional and human at the same time."