6. Dax
DAX
This is not how I planned to start game day.
The shower runs for exactly twelve minutes, not that I'm counting or anything, followed by the whir of a hair dryer and the soft sounds of someone moving around a hotel room. Probably in those conservative blazers and pencil skirts that somehow make her even more fucking gorgeous.
I lie there like a complete masochist, listening to her morning routine and torturing myself with fantasies of what normal could look like.
Rolling over to watch her get ready, messy hair and sleepy eyes.
Her stealing my Renegades hoodies and wearing them with nothing underneath while she makes us coffee.
Lazy Sunday mornings where she'd curl up against me and tell me about her dreams while I traced patterns on her bare shoulder.
Christ. I've officially lost my mind.
Here I am, a grown-ass man fantasizing about domestic bliss with a woman who left me a goodbye note and ran.
But it’s not like she was a stranger.
From the second I saw her, something shifted—like a thread pulled tight between us. Instant. Electric. That deep-in-your-gut kind of knowing.
And even if she ran, I do know her.
I know she takes her coffee black with exactly one sugar. I know she hums old jazz standards when she thinks no one's listening. I know she gets this little wrinkle between her eyebrows when she's concentrating, and that she laughs at her own jokes before she tells them.
And I know what she sounds like when she comes.
A knock on my door interrupts my spiral into dangerous territory. "Maintenance," a gruff voice calls out.
I throw on jeans and open the door to find a guy in coveralls holding a toolbox. "Here about the connecting door," he says, already moving past me into the room.
"The what now?"
"Connecting door between 413 and 414. Front desk said it's not locking properly." He walks over to examine the door.
"Is it..." I clear my throat. "Is it open?"
"Closed but not secured," he confirms, jiggling the handle. "Need a replacement part. Won't be in until tomorrow, but I can leave it like this if you want privacy."
"Yes," I say quickly. "Privacy would be good."
He shoots me a look like he's questioning my intelligence. "Right. Well, it's closed tight, so unless someone actively tries to open it, you should be fine."
After he leaves, I stare at that door like it's a bomb.
The Detroit Red Wings' arena is exactly the kind of hostile environment that usually gets my blood pumping in the best way. Twenty thousand fans screaming for our destruction, their team desperate for a win after three straight losses, and enough tension in the air to power the city for a week.
But tonight feels different. Tonight, I can feel Tessa watching from the press box, and instead of making me nervous, it makes me feel invincible.
"You seem focused tonight," Torres says as we wait for puck drop, bouncing on his skates like an over-caffeinated golden retriever.
"I'm always focused."
"Yeah, but this is different. You look like you're about to murder someone, but in a good way."
Before I can respond, the referee drops the puck and the game begins.
Three minutes in, I lay a hit on their power forward that sends him into the boards so hard the glass shakes. Clean hit, perfectly timed, but the crowd loses their minds anyway.
"Holy shit, Kingston!" Torres laughs as we skate back to position. "What did that guy ever do to you?"
Nothing. But I've got three days of sexual frustration and emotional confusion to work out, and unfortunately for Detroit, hockey is the only outlet I've got.
By the end of the first period, we're up 2-0 and I've already registered four hits and two assists. My timing is perfect, my passes are crisp, and I'm reading the ice like I wrote the playbook myself.
"Whatever you had for breakfast," Coach Martinez says during the first intermission, "eat it before every game."
"Just focused, Coach."
"Focused my ass. You're playing like your life depends on it."
He's not wrong. Every time I glance up at the press box and catch a glimpse of Tessa taking notes, something primal kicks in. Like I need to prove I'm worth watching. Worth analyzing. Worth whatever risk she's taking by being here.
The second period is more of the same. I break up two scoring chances, set up another goal for Torres, and deliver a hit so clean and devastating that the Detroit captain spends the rest of his shift looking over his shoulder.
"Dude," one of the rookies pants during a line change, "you're fucking terrifying tonight."
"Damn right I am," I shoot back, grinning as I tap my stick against the boards. "Try to keep up."
By the third period, we've got a comfortable 4-1 lead and I'm feeling like I could play another full game. Every muscle is firing perfectly, every decision is instinctive, and for the first time in weeks, my head is completely clear.
We win 4-2, and as I skate off the ice, I can't help but look up at the press box one more time.
"That was some of the best hockey I've seen you play," the Detroit reporter says, shoving a microphone in my face. "What was different about tonight?"
I could mention the new mental performance coaching. Could talk about team chemistry or preparation or any of the standard bullshit hockey players are supposed to say.
Instead, I hear myself saying, "Sometimes you just feel locked in. Credit to our new staff for helping us prepare mentally. Dr. Bennett's been working with us on focus and confidence, and I think you saw the results tonight."
It's not a lie. But it's not the whole truth either.
The whole truth is that I played the best game of my season because I wanted to impress my wife.
Post-game dinner is at some upscale steakhouse downtown, the kind of place that reserves its entire back room for professional athletes and charges accordingly.
The mood is celebratory—nothing bonds a team like a convincing road win—and for once, I'm not sitting at the edge of the group counting down minutes until I can escape.
Tessa is sitting three seats down from me, talking to Chen about something that's making her laugh, and I'm trying not to stare at the way her eyes light up when she's genuinely amused.
"She fits in well," Torres observes, following my gaze.
"Who?"
"Dr. Bennett. The guys like her. Usually takes weeks for new staff to feel comfortable, but look at her."
He's right. She's not just sitting there politely while conversations happen around her—she's actively engaging.
Asking the rookies about their families.
Listening to Martinez explain some complicated play while nodding like she actually gives a shit.
Making dry observations that have half the table cracking up.
"She's good at her job," I say carefully.
"She's good at a lot of things, apparently." Torres steals a piece of bread from my plate. "Did you see how she handled that reporter who asked about 'psychological manipulation'? Shut him down without making him look like an idiot."
I hadn't seen that, but now I wish I had.
"And she actually seems to understand hockey," Torres continues. "Not just the psychology part. During the second period timeout, she made some comment to Chen about our defensive rotation that was spot-on."
Of course she did. Because apparently my wife is not only beautiful and brilliant, but she's also making everyone around her better just by existing.
I'm so fucked.
"Kingston?" Torres waves a hand in front of my face. "You still with us?"
"Yeah. Just tired."
"Right. Well, maybe you should get some sleep. Big practice tomorrow."
Sleep. In a hotel room with a broken connecting door lock, three feet away from the woman who's been haunting my dreams.
This should be interesting.
By the time we get back to the hotel, it's nearly 11 p.m. and most of the guys have peeled off to their rooms or the hotel bar. I'm walking toward the elevators with Tessa and a few stragglers when Torres announces he's going to check out the lobby's sports bar.
"Anyone want to join me for a victory drink?" he asks, but his question is really directed at me.
"I'm beat," I lie. "Early practice tomorrow."
"Dr. Bennett?" Torres turns his charm on her, and I have to resist the urge to step between them. "One drink to celebrate your first road win with us?"
"That's sweet of you, but I should probably review my notes from tonight," she says with that professional smile. "Lots of good data to analyze."
"Your loss," Torres shrugs, but he's grinning like he knows something we don't.
The elevator arrives, and suddenly it's just Tessa and me stepping inside. The doors close with a soft ding, and the silence that follows is thick enough to cut with a skate blade.
I press the button for the fourth floor and try to ignore how her perfume fills the small space. Try not to notice how she's standing just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body.
"Great game tonight," she says quietly, her professional voice slightly strained.
"Thanks to you."
She looks at me sharply. "What do you mean?"
"Your prep work. The mental training. It showed tonight." I meet her eyes in the polished steel of the elevator doors. "You're incredible at what you do."
Her cheeks flush pink, and she looks down at her hands. "I just did my job."
"You did more than your job. You made everyone better." The elevator dings for the fourth floor, but neither of us moves toward the doors. "Including me."
"Dax..." she whispers, and hearing my name on her lips sends heat straight through my cock.
The doors start to close again, and I reach out to hold them open. We need to get out of this elevator before I do something that'll get us both fired.
We walk down the hallway in silence, the space between us charged with everything we're not saying. When we reach our doors, I stop with my key card halfway to the reader.
"Tessa."
She freezes at her door, key card trembling slightly in her hand.