1. Tessa
TESSA
PRESENT DAY
T hree hours early. That's how I roll when I'm having a full-scale panic attack disguised as professional enthusiasm.
The Chicago Renegades' training facility is intimidating as hell—all gleaming surfaces and championship banners that seem to mock my insecurities. But it's also my lifeline. My chance to prove that what happened in Seattle was an anomaly, not a pattern.
"You've got this," I whisper to my reflection in the window, smoothing down my blazer for the hundredth time. "Professional. Competent. Definitely not thinking about how Marcus Williams destroyed your career because you wouldn't fuck him."
God, I need therapy. Maybe I should find a mental performance coach.
My phone buzzes with a text from my best friend.
Riley
First day! You're going to kill it. Also, send pics of hot hockey players. For science.
I snort out a laugh. Riley's been my rock through everything—the only person who knew the real story about Seattle. She's also convinced that the cure for career trauma is "getting back on the horse, preferably a really tall one with good hands."
A knock on my door frame interrupts my spiraling thoughts. "Dr. Bennett?"
I turn to find a man in his fifties with kind eyes and graying hair. Everything about him says "coach"—the way he carries himself, the slight Boston accent, the genuine warmth in his smile.
"Coach Martinez," I say, extending my hand. "Please, call me Tessa."
"Tom," he replies, shaking my hand firmly. "Ready for the circus?"
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"Honey, you're about to meet thirty professional athletes who think psychology is just something their ex-girlfriends majored in. Half of them will test you, the other half will ignore you, and a few might actually listen." His grin takes the sting out of his words. "But they're good kids. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"Well, there's always one asshole in every group. Usually the pretty ones." He winks. "Come on, let's get you introduced before they start practice."
We walk through corridors lined with photos of past teams, and I catch glimpses of the current roster in action shots as Tom explains the team dynamics.
"The important thing is to establish boundaries early," he's saying. "These guys will charm the pants off you if you let them, but respect is earned through consistency, not friendship."
We reach the locker room, and Tom pauses outside the door. "They're mostly dressed, but fair warning—modesty isn't really their strong suit. Try not to let them see you blush."
"I'm a professional," I say, lifting my chin. "I don't blush."
Famous last words.
The locker room is exactly what you'd expect—the scent of sweat, equipment and testosterone, the sounds of laughing and trash talk, and holy hell, so much exposed skin. But I've worked with professional athletes before. I can handle this.
"Gentlemen!" Tom's voice cuts through the chatter. "Meet your new mental performance coach, Dr. Tessa Bennett. She's here to help you get your heads out of your asses, so be nice."
A chorus of "Hey, Doc" and "Welcome to the zoo" greets me, and I smile, scanning the room to put faces to the files I've been studying.
There's Jamie Torres, the second-line center with the infectious grin and the sleeve tattoo.
Ethan Chen, the assistant coach who's younger than most of the players.
A handful of others whose names I'm mentally cataloging.
"Thank you all for the warm welcome," I begin, falling into my professional voice. "I know having a new staff member can be an adjustment, but I'm here to support you however I can. My door is always open, and everything we discuss is confidential. I'm looking forward to working with each of?—"
That's when I see him.
Storm-gray eyes. Dark hair that's somehow perfectly disheveled. Those cheekbones that could cut glass and the small scar through his left eyebrow that I remember tracing with my finger.
My mouth falls open. Actually falls open like I'm some kind of cartoon character.
Dax Kingston. Number 47. The Dax Kingston.
Star defenseman for the Chicago Renegades, two-time All-Star, the man ESPN called "the most dangerous player in the league.
" The man whose jersey hangs in sports bars across the city.
The man I married in Vegas three days ago and abandoned like a coward the next morning.
Holy shit. This can’t be happening.
He's sitting on the bench in full gear except for his helmet, and those eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
Three seconds. That's how long we stare at each other, but it feels like three hours.
Three lifetimes. Three different realities where I didn't run away like a scared little girl.
The room has gone quiet. I realize I've stopped talking mid-sentence and everyone is looking between us like they're watching a tennis match.
"I, um..." I clear my throat, tearing my gaze away from his. "I'm looking forward to working with all of you. Any questions?"
"Yeah," comes a voice from the back. "Are you single?"
The room erupts in laughter and catcalls, but I barely hear it over the pounding of my heart. I risk another glance at Dax, and his jaw is clenched tight, his hands gripping his helmet like he's imagining it's someone's throat.
"That's inappropriate," Tom says sharply. "Dr. Bennett is here to do a job, not to date any of you knuckleheads."
"Come on, Coach," Jamie Torres grins. "We're just being friendly."
"Be friendly with your sticks," Tom shoots back. "Dr. Bennett, anything else you'd like to add?"
I should say something witty. Something that establishes boundaries and earns respect. Instead, I'm hyperaware of Dax's presence and of the way he's watching me.
"Just that I'm excited to be here," I manage. "And I hope we can work together effectively."
"Alright, you heard the lady," Tom claps his hands. "Practice in ten minutes. Move your asses."
The room comes alive with movement as players finish getting ready, but I'm frozen in place, watching as bodies flow around me toward the door. Most of them nod or smile as they pass, and a few make comments about being excited to work with me.
But Dax doesn't move. He stays seated on that bench, still watching me with those storm-gray eyes that seem to see straight through my professional facade to the woman who wrote him a goodbye note and fled.
The locker room empties around us. Tom gives me a questioning look, but I wave him off with what I hope passes for a confident smile.
"I'll catch up with you in a few minutes," I tell him, my voice surprisingly steady.
He nods and follows the last of the players out, leaving me alone with the man who's been haunting my dreams for three days.
Dax finally stands, and Jesus Christ, I'd forgotten how tall he is. How he seems to take up all the oxygen in a room just by existing. In his hockey gear, he's even more imposing—all broad shoulders and controlled power wrapped in padding and attitude.
Three days ago, I married a stranger in Vegas. Now that stranger is my colleague, and he's making it very clear that he has no intention of pretending we're strangers.
I'm so fucked.
I turn back to face him, and the sight of him standing there in all his gear, helmet tucked under his arm, looking like every fantasy I've ever had, almost does me in.
"Well, Dr. Bennett, I guess I'll see you around."
The way he says my title makes it sound like a dirty word, and I flee before I can do something we'll both regret.