5. Tessa
TESSA
T he team bus to Detroit is basically a mobile testosterone chamber with wheels, and I'm seated in the coaching staff section pretending I don't notice that Dax Kingston is three rows behind me reading what looks like a philosophy book.
Because of course he is. Because apparently my secret husband is not only devastatingly gorgeous and skilled with his hands, but he's also intellectually stimulating.
I'm so fucked.
"Dr. Bennett, you okay?" Ethan Chen asks from the seat beside me, following my gaze. "You look like you're about to throw up."
"Just reviewing game footage," I lie, turning back to my laptop where I've been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes. "Making notes about player behavior patterns."
"Mm-hmm." Ethan's too smart to buy that, but he's also too polite to call me out. "Well, if you need anything, just let me know. Road trips can be overwhelming at first."
If only he knew how overwhelming.
I risk another glance back and immediately regret it.
Dax has shifted in his seat, and now I can see the title of his book: Being and Time by Heidegger.
What kind of hockey player reads German existentialist philosophy?
The same kind who made me feel like I was the only woman in the world during one perfect night in Vegas, apparently.
Our eyes meet for exactly two seconds before I whip my head around so fast I probably look like I'm having a seizure. Professional. Calm. Definitely not thinking about how those same hands holding that book had mapped every inch of my body.
"You sure you're okay?" Ethan presses. "You seem... tense."
"I'm fine," I say through gritted teeth, just as the bus hits a pothole and my laptop nearly flies off my lap. "Perfectly fine."
From somewhere behind us, I hear Jamie Torres's voice: "Yo, Dax, what the hell are you reading? That looks like homework."
"It's philosophy," Dax replies in that low, gravelly voice that makes my insides do gymnastics.
"Philosophy?" Another voice—I think it's one of the rookies. "Like, on purpose?"
"Yeah, on purpose."
"Great. But why?"
"Because understanding existence and consciousness makes you a better player."
The bus goes quiet for a moment, and I can practically feel everyone processing the fact that their star defenseman just casually dropped an intellectual bomb.
"I have no idea what that means," Jamie says finally, "but it sounds very smart and slightly terrifying."
"It means Kingston's been reading again," another voice chimes in. "Remember when he tried to explain that Nietzsche guy to us?"
"That was one time," Dax says, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
"One time was enough, man. I had nightmares about the abyss staring back at me."
The conversation dissolves into laughter and chirping, but I'm stuck on one thought: the man I married in Vegas reads philosophy. Heavy philosophy. The kind that makes you question reality and existence and the nature of consciousness.
No wonder the sex was so good. A man who thinks deeply about existence probably thinks deeply about everything.
"Earth to Dr. Bennett," Ethan says, waving a hand in front of my face. "The bus stopped. We're at the hotel."
I blink, realizing everyone is standing up and gathering their things. "Right. Hotel. Perfect."
As I grab my bag and follow the coaching staff off the bus, I catch a glimpse of Dax stretching in his seat, and the way his t-shirt rides up to reveal a strip of toned abs nearly makes me trip down the bus steps.
Actually, scratch that. It does make me trip down the bus steps.
One second I'm walking like a normal, coordinated human being, and the next I'm doing some kind of interpretive dance routine that would make a drunk flamingo look graceful.
My laptop bag swings wildly as I try to catch my balance, my heel catches on the bottom step, and I go down in a spectacular display of flailing limbs and wounded dignity.
"Shit!" I yelp, which probably isn't the most professional thing to say, but it's better than the string of profanity running through my head.
I brace myself for the impact with the concrete, but instead of hitting the ground, I find myself caught by two strong arms that wrap around me like steel bands. The world spins for a moment, and then I'm looking up into storm-gray eyes that are way too close and way too concerned.
"You okay?" Dax asks, his voice rough with worry, and I realize he's essentially holding me in a dip position like we're dancing. His face is inches from mine, close enough that I can see the tiny scar through his eyebrow.
"Fine," I squeak, which is a lie because I'm definitely not fine. I'm being held by my secret husband in front of the entire hockey team, and my body is responding in ways that are completely inappropriate for a professional setting.
"You sure?" He's still holding me, and I can feel the heat of his hands through my blazer. "That was quite a fall."
"I'm sure," I manage, trying to ignore how his thumb is unconsciously stroking against my back. "You can, um, let me go now."
"Right."
"Nice reflexes, man," one of the rookies calls out. "That was like something out of a movie."
That breaks the spell. Dax immediately helps me stand upright, his hands lingering on my waist for just a second longer than necessary before he steps back.
"Are you hurt, Dr. Bennett?" Coach Martinez appears at my elbow, looking concerned. "Do you need medical attention?"
"I'm fine," I say, smoothing down my blazer and trying to regain some semblance of professional composure. "Just clumsy. Thank you, Mr. Kingston."
"How gallant," Jamie grins, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. "Good thing you were right there to catch her."
"Good thing," I echo weakly, because what else can I say? Actually, he was sitting three rows behind me on the bus, which means he would have had to move pretty damn fast to catch me, which suggests he might have been watching me as closely as I was watching him?
Yeah, that's not suspicious at all.
"Anyway," I say, hefting my bag more securely, "I should probably go check in before I embarrass myself further."
Several players make appreciative noises, and I feel my cheeks burn. Because yes, I'm very aware of exactly how quick Dax's hands are, and thinking about it is not helping my current state of professional panic.
"I should go," I say again, practically fleeing toward the hotel entrance.
But as I walk away, I can feel Dax's eyes on me, and I swear I can still feel the phantom warmth of his hands on my waist.
The hotel lobby is all marble and gold fixtures, the kind of place that screams "expensive" and "we definitely don't want hockey players destroying anything." I'm standing with the coaching staff, trying to look competent while internally panicking about room assignments.
"Dr. Bennett?" The desk clerk hands me a key card. "Room 413. Fourth floor."
"Thank you," I manage, praying my voice sounds normal.
"Kingston, Torres," she continues, "rooms 414 and 412. You're all on the same floor."
I feel the blood drain from my face. Same floor is one thing. But when I catch Dax's eye across the lobby, his expression mirrors my own horror.
We're neighbors. Hotel neighbors. With probably paper-thin walls and?—
"Awesome!" Jamie bounces over, grinning like Christmas morning. "We're all together! This is going to be so much fun."
"That sounds great," I interrupt, because Jamie's enthusiasm is both endearing and terrifying. "I should probably get settled in. Early morning tomorrow."
"Right, of course," Jamie says, then turns to Dax. "Dude, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," Dax says quickly, but his jaw is tense. "Just tired."
"Tired," Jamie repeats, clearly not buying it. "Okay, well, I'm gonna go check out the room service menu. You two should come hang out later."
"Maybe," I say, which is code for "absolutely not."
"Definitely not," Dax says at the same time.
Jamie looks between us, his expression shifting from confusion to suspicion. "Are you two... do you know each other or something?"
"No," we both say simultaneously.
"That wasn't suspicious at all," Jamie mutters.
I grab my bag and head for the elevators before this conversation can get any worse. But as I'm waiting for the doors to open, I hear Dax's voice behind me.
"Hold the elevator?"
Fuck.
The doors slide open, and I step inside, hyperaware of how small the space becomes when Dax joins me. He presses the button for the fourth floor, and we stand there in silence as the elevator climbs.
"This is fine," I say to myself, not realizing I've spoken out loud until Dax responds.
"Is it?"
I look at him, and the intensity in those storm-gray eyes makes my breath catch. "It has to be."
The elevator dings, and the doors open to reveal a long hallway lined with identical doors. We walk in silence until we reach our section, and I realize the universe has a sense of humor.
Room 413 is directly between 412 and 414. I'm literally sandwiched between Dax and Jamie.
"Well," I say, stopping in front of my door, "this is me."
"This is me too," Dax says, stopping at 414. Which is right next to mine. As in, we probably share a wall.
"And this is me!" Jamie calls out cheerfully from 412. "We're like one big happy family!"
I fumble with my key card, desperate to get inside before I do something stupid. Like stare at Dax's ass in those perfectly fitting jeans. Or notice how his t-shirt stretches across his chest. Or remember what it felt like to wake up next to him.
"See you tomorrow," I manage, finally getting my door open.
"Yeah," Dax says, his voice rough. "See you tomorrow."
I escape into my room and immediately lean against the door, heart pounding. This is fine. I'm a professional. I can handle sleeping next to—adjacent to—not next to, adjacent to my secret husband for one night.
One night in Detroit. How hard can it be?
That's when I hear it: the sound of a shower running. From the room next door. Where Dax is presumably getting naked and wet and soapy.
I am so incredibly fucked.