4. Dax
DAX
TWO DAYS LATER
I 'm staring at the team meeting schedule when Coach Martinez drops the news that makes my blood run cold: "Detroit road trip starts Thursday. Hotel assignments are posted on the board."
Because fate’s a sadistic. Little. Bitch.
Jamie bounces back over, grinning like Christmas morning.
"This is perfect! We can order room service and watch those terrible action movies you pretend to hate but actually love, and—" He stops mid-sentence when he sees my face.
"What's wrong? You look like someone just told you hockey's been canceled. "
"Nothing's wrong," I lie, because how do I explain that having my secret wife in the hotel room directly adjacent to mine is my personal version of torture?
"Bullshit. You've been acting weird since Dr. Feel-Good showed up."
"Dr. Feel-Good?"
"That's what Chen's calling her. You know, because she's supposed to make us feel good about our performance or whatever." Jamie flops back into his chair. "Speaking of which, what the hell is up with you lately?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you actually stayed for the entire team meeting yesterday instead of sneaking out after ten minutes. You haven't mentioned Tinder in days. And you folded your laundry last night like you were preparing for a fucking military inspection."
I hadn't realized I'd been that obvious. "Maybe I'm just being more responsible."
"Responsible?" Jamie snorts. "Dude, you ironed your practice jersey. Your practice jersey. The thing that's gonna be soaked in sweat and smell like a locker room in two hours."
"It's called taking care of your equipment."
"It's called being whipped, and you haven't even hooked up with anyone recently." He leans forward with that look he gets when he thinks he's figured something out. "Unless... holy shit, are you seeing someone?"
"I'm not seeing anyone," I say, which is technically true. Being married to someone you're pretending not to know doesn't count as seeing them.
"Then explain why you've been walking around here like a lovesick teenager who just discovered his dick."
"Torres."
"I'm serious! You used to bitch about team meetings, now you show up early. You used to swipe through dating apps during video review, now you actually pay attention. And yesterday during practice, you were staring at the observation window like it held the secrets of the universe."
My head snaps up. "I was focused on the drill."
"The drill was on the ice, genius. You were staring at Dr. Bennett taking notes up there like she was about to cure cancer." He makes air quotes. "Since when do you give a shit about being observed?"
Since my wife started doing the observing. "I was just being professional."
"Professional," Jamie repeats slowly. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Calling what?"
"Whatever's happening between you and our hot new sports psychologist."
The words are out before I can stop them: "She's not hot."
Jamie stares at me like I've just claimed the earth is flat. "Are you fucking kidding me? Dax, the woman looks like she stepped out of a magazine. She's got that whole sexy librarian thing going on, and those legs?—"
"Don't," I interrupt, my voice coming out sharper than intended. "Don't talk about her like that."
"Like what?"
"Like she's some piece of ass instead of a professional doing her job."
Jamie's eyebrows shoot up. "Okay, first of all, when did you become the white knight of professional respect? Second, I wasn't being disrespectful. I was making an observation about an objectively attractive woman."
"Find something else to observe."
"Holy shit." Jamie sits back in his chair, grinning like he's just won the lottery. "You like her. You actually like Dr. Bennett."
"I don't like anyone."
"You do! You totally do! That's why you've been acting so weird. You've got a thing for the team shrink."
"She's not a shrink," I correct automatically. "She's a mental performance coach."
"Oh my God, you're defending her professional title. You're so fucked."
I am so fucked. But not in the way he thinks.
"Look," Jamie continues, apparently mistaking my silence for confession, "I get it. She's gorgeous, she's smart, she's got that whole mysterious thing going on. But you know Harrison's policy about staff fraternization, right?"
"I'm aware of the policy."
"Good. Because getting fired for pussy would be the stupidest way to end your career."
Every muscle in my body tenses. "What did you just say?"
"I said getting fired for?—"
"Don't ever call her that again." I stand up so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. "Don't ever talk about her like that."
Jamie holds up his hands. "Whoa, okay. Sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."
"Yes, you did."
"Fine, maybe I did. But Dax, you're proving my point. You're acting like a crazy person about this woman."
"I'm not acting like anything."
"You're acting like a guy who's about to do something stupid for a girl he can't have."
If only he knew how stupid I'd already been.
"Just... be careful, okay?" Jamie's voice is gentler now. "I know you haven't had anything real in a while, but Harrison doesn't fuck around with that policy. One hint of something inappropriate and you're both gone."
"There's nothing inappropriate happening."
"Good. Keep it that way."
I walk out without responding, because what am I supposed to say? That he's right? That the woman I can't stop thinking about is my wife, and we're both pretending we don't know each other while slowly driving each other insane?
Yeah, that'll go over well.
As I head toward the ice for practice, I catch a glimpse of Tessa in the observation window, and my chest does that stupid fluttering thing it's been doing since Vegas.
She's wearing a navy blazer and those glasses that make her look like every fantasy I've ever had about smart women, and when she glances down at me, I swear I can feel the weight of her gaze.
Three days in Detroit. Three days of trying to pretend I don't know what she sounds like when she comes. Three days of acting like I don't want to pin her against the nearest wall and remind her exactly why she married me.
It’s evening and today I'm playing like I've been lobotomized by a particularly vindictive Zamboni. I've missed three easy passes, taken a penalty for boarding when the guy barely touched the boards, and I'm pretty sure I just tried to pass to a referee.
I'm in the middle of a passing drill when my stick decides to snap in half like a twig. Perfect. Because apparently the hockey gods have a sense of humor about my suffering.
"Equipment room, Kingston!" Coach Martinez calls out. "Get a replacement and get back out here!"
I skate toward the tunnel, trying not to think about how this is exactly the kind of coincidence that always happens in those romantic comedies Jamie's always forcing me to watch. Except this isn't a movie, and I'm not some lovesick protagonist who's going to stumble into a cute meet-cute with?—
"Oh. Hi."
Fuck my life.
Tessa is standing in the middle of the equipment room, surrounded by clipboards and supply lists, looking like she belongs here.
She's traded her blazer for a simple black sweater that hugs her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry, and her hair is pulled back in a messy bun that makes me want to slide my hands along her waist and pull her against me.
"Dr. Bennett," I manage, grabbing a replacement stick from the rack with more force than necessary.
"Mr. Kingston." Her voice is steady, professional, but I can see the slight flush in her cheeks. "I was just reviewing the equipment supply lists with Mike."
Mike Henderson, our equipment manager, chooses that moment to pop his head up from behind a stack of helmets. "Dr. Bennett here is a godsend, Dax. She's helping us understand the psychological impact of equipment consistency on player performance."
"Is that right?" I ask, testing the flex of the new stick while trying not to stare at the way her sweater clings to her breasts.
"It's fascinating stuff," Mike continues, oblivious to the tension crackling between us. "Did you know that players who use the same equipment setup for more than six months show 23% better performance metrics than those who switch regularly?"
"I did not know that," I reply, even though I couldn't give less of a shit about performance metrics right now. Not when Tessa is standing three feet away, smelling like that perfume that's been haunting my dreams.
"The psychological comfort of familiarity translates directly to on-ice confidence," Tessa explains, and fuck if her professional voice doesn't do things to me. "When players trust their equipment completely, they can focus entirely on execution instead of worrying about potential failures."
"Makes sense," I say, which is about all my brain can manage when she's looking at me like that.
"Anyway," Mike says, gathering up his paperwork, "I should get back to the bench. Thanks for your help, Dr. Bennett. This is exactly the kind of insight we need."
He disappears back toward the tunnel, leaving us alone in the small space. The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we're not saying.
"You should get back to practice," she says quietly, not meeting my eyes.
"Yeah." But I don't move. Neither does she.
We're standing maybe two feet apart, and I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The way her lips are slightly parted. The way she's gripping that clipboard like it's the only thing keeping her grounded.
"Dax," she whispers, and the sound of my name on her lips almost breaks me.
"I know." I take a step closer, and she doesn't back away. "I know we said we'd keep it professional."
"We have to."
"I know."
"If Harrison finds out?—"
"He won't."
"You don't know that."
"Tessa." I reach out, my fingers barely grazing her wrist. "I know."
She shivers at the contact, and I can see her resolve wavering. For a moment, I think she might close the distance between us. Might let me kiss her the way I've been dying to since I saw her in that locker room.
I want to tell her that I don't give a fuck what the team thinks. That I'd rather stand in this equipment room with her than play hockey. But I can't. Because she's right. We have rules. Boundaries.
Even if they're killing me.
"See you around, Dr. Bennett," I say, and walk away before I do something we'll both regret.
Later that day, Jamie catches me in my bedroom doorway, arms crossed, wearing the expression he gets when he thinks I've lost my mind.
"Dude, what the hell are you doing?"
Jamie's been my roommate since we were rookies five years ago, back when we were both too broke and too overwhelmed by the NHL to figure out adult life on our own.
What started as a practical arrangement—splitting rent on a shitty apartment near the training facility—had somehow evolved into this.
Even after we could both afford our own places, we'd gotten a house together in Lincoln Park.
Jamie claimed it was because he was a disaster at remembering to pay bills, but really, neither of us was good at being alone.
The arrangement worked. Jamie handled the social calendar and made sure there was always food in the fridge.
I handled the practical stuff—lease agreements, insurance, anything that required reading more than a paragraph.
We'd become a package deal, the kind of friends who knew each other's routines so well that Jamie could predict my behavior better than I could.
I look up from my dresser, where I've been folding the same t-shirt for the past five minutes. Jamie is standing in my bedroom doorway, arms crossed, staring at me like I've developed an unhealthy relationship with laundry. "Packing," I say, like it's obvious.
"You're folding clothes like you're about to meet the fucking Pope. Since when do you care what you wear to Detroit?"
Since my wife will be sleeping in the room next to mine, and I'm apparently a masochist who thinks looking good will somehow make this easier. "I'm just being organized."
"Organized." Jamie steps into the room, picking up one of my perfectly folded shirts. "Dax, you have color-coordinated your underwear."
"That's not color-coordinated. That's just... organized."
"It's arranged by color. Literally. Black, gray, navy, white. In perfect little rows." He stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Are you having some kind of breakdown? Do I need to call Dr. Bennett?"
"Don't call her."
"Why not? She's supposed to help with mental performance issues, right? And you're clearly having some kind of mental performance issue if you're organizing your underwear drawer like Martha fucking Stewart."
My phone rings, saving me from having to explain my sudden descent into domestic perfection. The caller ID makes me smile for the first time all day: Mom.
"Hey, Ma."
"There's my boy," her warm voice fills the room. "How are you, sweetheart?"
"I'm good. Just packing for Detroit."
"Oh, that's right. The road trip." I can hear her moving around the kitchen—probably making dinner for Emma and the kids. "Your sister's been asking when you're coming to visit again. She says you actually seemed relaxed last time you were here."
"I'm always relaxed around you guys."
"Mm-hmm." There's the sound of a pot clanging. "You know, you called me twice last week. Twice. Usually I'm lucky to get one call every ten days."
I pause, trying to remember. Had I called her twice? "I was just... checking in."
"And you listened to Emma's entire story about Jake's science project without changing the subject to hockey once. That's a forty-minute conversation about volcanoes, Dax. You hate science."
"Maybe I'm expanding my interests."
"Maybe you are." Her voice gets that knowing tone mothers perfect. "Or maybe something's got you in a good mood lately. You've been different on the phone. Lighter."
"I'm fine, Ma. Same as always."
"Are you? Because when I asked how your week was going, you actually told me about your week instead of just saying 'fine' and asking about Emma."
Fuck. She's right. I have been more talkative lately, haven't I?
"I should go," I say, suddenly uncomfortable. "Early morning tomorrow."
"Okay, sweetheart. Have a safe trip. And Dax? Whatever's making you happy lately, don't overthink it to death."
"I should go," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "Early morning tomorrow."
"Okay, sweetheart. I love you."
"Love you too, Ma."
I hang up and find Jamie staring at me with that look again.
"What?"
"Something's going on."
I go back to folding clothes. "You're just imagining things."
I'm so fucked.