3. Tessa
TESSA
T he walk to equipment room B feels like a death march to my own professional execution.
My hands are shaking, and not from the cold.
I keep telling myself this is just a conversation between colleagues, but my body knows better.
My pulse is racing, my palms are sweaty, and there's a fluttering in my stomach that has nothing to do with nerves.
This is exactly how it started in Seattle. The blurred lines. The moments when professional boundaries started to feel negotiable instead of absolute. The slow slide from respected colleague to potential problem.
I can't let that happen again. I won't.
Equipment room B smells like hockey tape, industrial deodorizer, and the faint scent of whatever masculine cologne Dax wore in Vegas. It's a small space lined with metal shelving units holding extra gear, and he's somehow managed to arrange two equipment trunks as makeshift seats facing each other.
He's already there when I arrive, looking less intimidating in dark jeans and a team hoodie but somehow more dangerous.
Maybe it's the way he's sitting—relaxed but coiled, like he could spring into action at any moment.
Or maybe it's the way those storm-gray eyes track my every movement as I close the door behind me.
"You came," he says, and there's something almost vulnerable in his voice that makes my chest tight.
"Yeah." I smooth my skirt and perch on the edge of the trunk across from him, maintaining as much distance as the small space allows. "Though I'm not sure what there is to discuss."
"Really?" He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Because I can think of about thirty things, starting with how the fuck you ended up here."
The profanity shouldn't affect me—I work with professional athletes, I've heard worse—but the way he says it, low and rough, sends heat straight through me.
"I needed a job," I say carefully. "The Renegades offered me one."
"Cut the shit, Tessa." His eyes narrow. "You don't just randomly end up as the mental performance coach for the same team where your..." He pauses, jaw working. "What are we calling this? One-night stand? Hookup? Marriage?"
I can't bring myself to look at him. Instead, I focus on my hands, twisting my ring finger the way I always do when I'm stressed.
"I prefer 'mistake,'" I say quietly.
The silence stretches long enough that I finally risk a glance at him. His expression is unreadable, but there's something sharp in his eyes that makes me want to take the words back.
"How did you find out about the job?" he asks finally.
"I applied for the position six weeks ago.." I pause, then add, "If I had to make the decision again now, knowing what I know, I probably would have turned it down."
"Because it would be awkward?"
"Because it would be impossible." I stand up, suddenly needing to move. "Do you have any idea what happened to me in Seattle?"
"No," he says carefully. "But I'd like to."
I stop pacing and turn to face him, wrapping my arms around myself. "I had a job with the Titans. Good position, working with elite athletes. Everything I'd worked for."
"And?"
"Marcus Williams." The name tastes bitter on my tongue. "Star quarterback. He decided he wanted to add me to his collection of conquests."
Dax's jaw tightens. "What happened?"
"At first, it was just comments. Compliments about my appearance, suggestions that we grab dinner. I kept it professional, redirected conversations back to work. But he kept pushing."
I can feel the familiar knot forming in my stomach. "It escalated. He started showing up at my office unannounced, sending flowers, making increasingly inappropriate comments. I told him repeatedly that I wasn't interested, that our relationship was strictly professional."
"Jesus." Dax's hands are clenched into fists. "What did you do?"
"I reported it to my supervisor. Followed proper channels, documented everything." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You know what they said? They questioned my professionalism. Suggested I'd been too friendly. That maybe I'd given him the wrong impression."
"That's fucking bullshit."
"They said I needed to be more careful about boundaries. That as a young, attractive woman in a male-dominated field, I had a responsibility to avoid situations that could be misinterpreted."
Dax stands up so fast the equipment trunk scrapes against the concrete floor. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"When I refused to accept that narrative, things got worse. Suddenly my work was being questioned, my methods criticized. Other players started treating me differently."
"They forced you out."
"They made it clear that my continued employment was problematic. The team was heading into playoffs, and they couldn't afford any distractions. I was asked to resign quietly."
"And if you didn't?"
"Then they'd let me go for 'performance issues' and 'unprofessional conduct.' No reference, no confidentiality agreement, and a permanent black mark on my record."
He's pacing now, running both hands through his hair. "So, you took the deal."
"I took the deal." I close my eyes, remembering the humiliation. "The story still leaked. Media painted me as a distraction seeking attention."
"Tessa—"
"It doesn't matter whether it was my fault or not," I interrupt. "What matters is that I can't afford another scandal. I can't afford to be seen as anything other than completely professional."
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that whatever happened in Vegas, it can't exist here. Not if I want to keep my job."
He stops pacing and turns to face me. "What if I told you I never said anything to anyone about Vegas?"
"What?"
"I never told anyone about Vegas. Not the guys, not my family, not anyone. As far as the world is concerned, we met this morning."
I stare at him. "Why?"
"Because what happened between us felt too important to turn into locker room talk."
"Dax—"
"I'm not saying we should tell everyone we're married. I'm saying we have options. We can figure this out."
"What options?"
"Option one: we pretend we don't know each other. Act like complete strangers and hope nobody notices the way we look at each other."
"How do we look at each other?"
He gives me a look that makes heat pool low in my belly. "Like we know exactly what the other person looks like naked."
"Option two?" I ask, ignoring the way my pulse kicks up.
"We get an annulment and I request a trade to another team."
"You'd do that?"
"If it meant protecting your career? Yeah."
The fact that he'd even consider it makes my chest tight. "Is there an option three?"
"We keep the marriage secret while we pursue the annulment. Act professional during work hours, handle the legal stuff quietly. Nevada has a thirty-day waiting period, so we've got time."
"And after that?"
"After that, we're just colleagues who used to know each other in Vegas. If that's what you want."
"It's what I need," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
I don't answer, because I'm not sure I know the difference anymore.
"Tessa, I need you to understand something," he says seriously. "The general manager here, Rick Harrison, he's old school. He has a strict no-fraternization policy between staff and players."
"How strict?"
"Immediate termination strict. No exceptions. He's fired people for less."
My stomach drops. "Less than what?"
"Less than being married to a player." He gives me a meaningful look. "If he finds out about Vegas, you're gone. No reference, no severance, just gone."
"So, we're keeping a career-ending secret."
"We're keeping a secret that protects both of us," he corrects. "Harrison doesn't trust relationships between staff and players. He thinks they're distractions that hurt team performance."
"So, what do we do?"
"We follow the rules. Professional behavior during work hours. No personal discussions in team facilities. We pursue the annulment quietly, and no one can know about Vegas."
It sounds simple when he says it like that. Logical and professional. Except for the way my heart rate kicks up every time he looks at me.
But when he extends his hand for a professional handshake, and I take it, the contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. His hand is warm and callused and completely engulfs mine, and for a moment, we both just stand there, staring at our joined hands.
"This is going to be harder than it sounds," I whisper.
"Yeah," he agrees, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. "It is."
We're standing too close, our hands still linked, and I can see the exact moment when his gaze drops to my lips. I know that if either of us moves an inch closer, all our good intentions will go out the window.
That's when we hear footsteps in the hallway, followed by Jamie Torres's voice calling out, "Dax! You in here, man?"
We spring apart like we've been electrocuted, and I immediately smooth my skirt while Dax runs a hand through his hair.
"Shit," he mutters.
"In here, Torres," Dax calls back.
The footsteps get closer, and I can feel panic rising in my chest. "What do I do?"
"Just be professional," he says. "Act like we were discussing your assessment of the team."
The door opens, and Jamie sticks his head in with that easy grin. "There you are, man. I've been looking everywhere for—" He stops when he sees both of us. "Oh. Hi, Dr. Bennett. Didn't expect to see you here."
"Mr. Torres," I say, trying to sound steady. "I was just consulting with Mr. Kingston about some observations from today's practice."
"That's... thorough."
"What did you need, Torres?" Dax's voice has an edge to it.
"Just wanted to see if you wanted to grab dinner. But if you're busy..." Jamie trails off meaningfully.
"We're finished here," I say quickly, moving toward the door.
Behind him, I can see Dax glaring at his teammate.
"I should get back to my office," I say, edging toward the hallway. "Thank you for the consultation, Mr. Kingston."
"Anytime, Dr. Bennett," Dax replies, and there's something in his voice that makes my stomach flip.
I practically flew down the hallway.