2. Dax
DAX
I 've been hit in the face with a hockey puck exactly seventeen times in my career, and not one of those experiences prepared me for the absolute clusterfuck of emotions that slam into me when I see Tessa Bennett standing in my locker room.
Because it's not just Tessa Bennett, PhD in Sports Psychology and new mental performance coach.
It's Tessa who laughed at my terrible Elvis impression in that chapel three days ago.
Tessa who tangled her fingers in my hair while I kissed her breathless.
Tessa who disappeared without a trace and left me wondering if I'd dreamed the whole damn thing.
And Jesus Christ, she's even more beautiful than I remembered.
In Vegas, she'd been all soft curves and wild hair and that laugh that made my chest tight.
But here, in her professional armor of a navy blazer and pencil skirt, she's something else entirely.
Untouchable. Controlled. Every strand of that chestnut hair is perfectly in place, pulled back in a low ponytail that makes me want to grab a fistful and mess it up.
Her hazel eyes are doing that thing I remember from Vegas—shifting from green to gold depending on the light. Right now they're more gold, which probably means she's either angry or aroused, and I'm betting on the first one given the way she's trying to pretend she doesn't know me.
Those full lips are pressed into a thin line as she talks, and I can see the faint freckles across her nose that I kissed while she was coming apart beneath me.. She's wearing minimal makeup, but she doesn't need it. The woman could make a nun habit look sexy.
Her hands are clasped behind her back, and I notice she's twisting her ring finger—a nervous habit that makes my stomach clench because I know exactly what used to be there. The matching gold band to the one I'm still wearing like a fucking idiot.
"...looking forward to working with all of you," she's saying, and her voice is different from Vegas. More controlled, more professional. But I can hear the slight tremor underneath, the way it catches on certain words like she's fighting to keep it steady.
Some asshole from the back asks if she's single, and my hands tighten on my helmet hard enough that I'm surprised it doesn't crack. The urge to stand up and inform the entire team that she's married—to me—is so strong I have to bite my tongue until I taste blood.
Instead, I just sit there like a statue, watching her try to maintain her composure while our eyes keep finding each other across the room. Every time our gazes meet, I see her professional mask slip just a little bit more.
When Coach Martinez finally dismisses everyone, I don't move. I can't. If I stand up right now, I'll either storm over there and kiss her until she remembers what we had, or I'll do something stupid like throw my helmet at the nearest wall.
The locker room empties around us, but I stay planted on that bench, holding her gaze like it's the only thing keeping me sane. She's frozen too, probably running through all the same scenarios I am. All the ways this could go wrong.
When Coach Martinez finally leaves us alone, the silence stretches between us like a live wire. She's standing there in her perfect outfit with her perfect posture, but I can see the woman underneath. The one who bit my shoulder when she came and whispered my name like a prayer.
"Well, Dr. Bennett," I say, standing slowly and making sure she gets a good look at what she walked away from. "I guess I'll see you around."
I let all the heat and frustration I've been feeling for three days bleed into those words, watching as her cheeks flush and her breathing quickens. The way she's looking at me—like she wants to run toward me and away from me at the same time—tells me everything I need to know.
She remembers. She remembers everything.
And she's just as fucked up about this as I am.
Morning practice is usually my sanctuary. The one place where everything makes sense, where I can channel all my frustration and anger and need for control into something productive. But today, I might as well be skating in quicksand.
I've missed three passes, blown a coverage drill, and Torres is giving me looks like I've lost my damn mind. Which, to be fair, I probably have.
Because sitting in the observation window above the rink, taking notes on a fucking clipboard like she belongs here, is my wife. My wife who ran away. My wife who's now my colleague. My wife who's pretending she doesn't know me.
The irony would be hilarious if it weren't so goddamn terrifying.
I try to focus on the drill—simple passing exercise that I could do in my sleep—but my eyes keep drifting up to that window. She's got her hair pulled back again, and she's wearing glasses I don't remember from Vegas. They make her look serious and professional and absolutely fucking gorgeous.
She's scribbling something in her notebook, probably documenting how the team's star defenseman has suddenly developed the hockey IQ of a concussed penguin.
"Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?" Torres skates up beside me during a water break, following my gaze up to the observation window. "You're playing like you've never seen a puck before."
"Nothing's wrong," I lie, taking a long drink.
"Right," Jamie says, his voice dripping with skepticism. "And I'm the fucking Easter Bunny. You've been staring at the new shrink like she's the answer to all your problems."
If only he knew.
"She's not a shrink," I correct automatically. "She's a mental performance coach."
"Oh, excuse me," he grins, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. "You already got it bad for Dr. Bennett, don't you? Shit, Kingston, you work fast. She's been here for what, a few hours?"
"Drop it, Torres."
"No way, man. This is too good. Big bad Dax Kingston, slayed by the pretty psychologist on her first day. I'm definitely telling Chen about this."
I grab the front of his jersey and pull him close enough that he can see I'm not fucking around. "I said drop it."
His eyes widen slightly, but he's grinning like Christmas morning. "Holy shit, you're serious about this. What happened? Something wrong?"
Wrong isn’t the word I’d use… More like we met, got drunk, talked for hours like we’d been waiting our whole lives to meet, got married, had the best sex of my life, and then she ghosted me like Cinderella at midnight. But I can't exactly tell him that.
"It's complicated," I say instead, releasing his jersey.
"Everything's complicated with you, man. But this is different. You never look at women like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're drowning and she's the only one who knows CPR."
Coach Martinez blows his whistle, calling us back to the drill, and I've never been so grateful for the distraction. But even as I try to focus on the play, I can feel her watching me.
The thought should piss me off. Instead, it just makes me want to give her something worth analyzing.
I throw myself into the next drill with more intensity than necessary, making hits that are perfectly legal but probably excessive for a practice. I can practically feel her pen moving across that clipboard, documenting my aggression levels or whatever the hell she's supposed to be measuring.
When practice finally ends, I storm off the ice. I need to get out of here before I do something stupid. Like march up to that observation window and demand to know why she ghosted me like it meant nothing.
But as I'm walking toward the tunnel, something makes me look back. She's still sitting there, still writing in that damn notebook, but her pen has stopped moving. She's just staring down at the ice where I was, and even from this distance, I can see the conflict written all over her face.
The locker room is mostly empty by the time I make it back, just a few stragglers packing up their gear. I grab my towel and head straight for the showers, needing the hot water to wash away the frustration of the worst practice I've had in years.
But the moment I step under the spray, my mind goes straight back to Vegas. To Tessa.
I close my eyes and I can see her so clearly it's like she's standing right here with me. The way she looked that first night at the bar, wearing that black dress that hugged every curve. How her eyes had gone wide when I'd finally gotten her naked, like she couldn't believe what she was seeing.
And fuck, what I was seeing. Perfect breasts that fit in my hands like they were made for me, nipples that peaked when I ran my tongue over them.
The curve of her waist, the flare of her hips.
That incredible ass that I'd gripped while I was buried deep inside her, pulling her back against me while she moaned my name.
My cock hardens at the memory, and I have to brace one hand against the shower wall. I shouldn't be doing this. Not here, not now. But I can't stop myself from wrapping my other hand around my length, stroking slowly while I remember the feel of her.
The way she'd gasped when I'd first pushed inside her, so tight and wet and perfect. How she'd arched beneath me, her nails digging into my shoulders while I moved inside her. The little sounds she'd made – not loud, but desperate. Needy.
I stroke faster, remembering how she'd looked riding me, her hair wild around her shoulders, her head thrown back in abandon.
The way her body had moved, rolling her hips in a rhythm that had me seeing stars.
How she'd bitten her lip when she came, her whole body trembling as she collapsed against my chest.
The water pounds against my back as I work myself harder, chasing the release that's been building for three days. Since I woke up to find her gone, leaving nothing but that fucking note and the scent of her perfume on my pillow.
I come with a groan that echoes off the shower tiles. But instead of relief, I just feel more frustrated. More empty.
Because my hand isn't her. This isn't her. And no matter how good the memory is, it's not enough.
I finish washing quickly and get dressed, pulling on jeans and a team hoodie. My hair is still damp when I head back toward the observation area, but I don't give a shit. We're going to talk, and we're going to talk now.
The guys have already cleared out, which is perfect because this conversation definitely doesn't need an audience.
I find her exactly where I expected to: still in that damn observation window, surrounded by files and notebooks like she's building a fortress of professionalism around herself.
She's taken off her blazer, and the simple white blouse she's wearing underneath hugs her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
She's got her hair down now, probably without realizing it, and it falls in soft waves around her shoulders.
She looks up when I knock on the doorframe, and I watch her entire body go rigid. Those hazel eyes widen slightly before she forces her expression back into neutral territory.
"Mr. Kingston, did you need something?"
Mr. Kingston. Like we're strangers. Like she didn't scream my name while I made her come with my tongue.
"Yeah," I say, stepping into the small space and closing the door behind me. "I need to talk to my wife."
The color drains from her face, and she nearly drops the pen she's holding. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't." My voice comes out harsher than I intended, but I'm tired of this game. "Don't insult my intelligence, Tessa. We both know exactly what I'm talking about."
She stands up abruptly, moving to gather her files with shaking hands. "I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding. I'm new here, and I don't know you personally, so?—"
"Room 2447 at Caesar's Palace," I interrupt, watching as she freezes mid-motion. "The Elvis chapel on the third floor."
Her mask cracks completely, and for a moment, I see the real Tessa. The one who laughed at my jokes and traced my scars with her fingertips and told me about her mother's work ethic.
"Dax, please," she whispers, and hearing my name on her lips again does something dangerous to my chest. "This isn't... we can't..."
"Equipment room B," I say, stepping aside so she can pass. "Ten minutes. If you want to have this conversation like adults instead of playing games, that's where I'll be."
I walk away without waiting for her response
Because one way or another, we're going to talk about Vegas. About the fact that she's still wearing my ring on a chain around her neck—yeah, I noticed it when her blouse shifted.
Ten minutes.
The question is: will she show up?