7. Tessa #2
"Always," Dax agrees, and when he glances up at me again, there's something wicked in his smile that makes my thighs clench involuntarily.
The rest of practice passes in a blur of professional note-taking punctuated by moments of completely unprofessional awareness every time Dax so much as breathes in my direction.
By the time it's over, I have three pages of psychological observations and approximately seventeen fantasies about what we could do with that equipment room.
As the players file off the ice, my phone buzzes with a text.
Dax
Lunch? We need to talk.
Too risky. People will notice.
Dax
Not if we're smart about it.
I'm not feeling particularly smart lately.
Dax
Good thing you're with someone who knows strategy.
Despite my better judgment, I find myself smiling at my phone like a lovesick teenager.
Where?
Dax
Small café in Lincoln Park. Away from team territory. One hour?
I should say no. Should remind him that we agreed to keep things professional during work hours. Should be the responsible adult who makes smart career decisions.
See you there.
Apparently, I'm not that adult anymore.
The café Dax chose is exactly the kind of place I would have picked—small, tucked away on a quiet side street, with mismatched furniture and the kind of cozy atmosphere that makes you want to linger over coffee for hours.
It's also blissfully free of anyone wearing Renegades gear, which feels like a minor miracle.
I arrive first, claiming a corner table that offers a view of the door and ordering a latte I don't particularly want. My hands are shaking slightly as I check my phone, and I realize I'm more nervous about this conversation than I was about presenting my doctoral thesis.
"Dr. Bennett."
I look up to find Dax standing beside my table, and my breath catches.
He's traded his usual team hoodie for a simple black sweater that hugs his chest in ways that should be illegal, and his hair is still slightly damp from his post-practice shower.
He looks like every fantasy I've ever had about the mysterious stranger in a coffee shop.
"Mr. Kingston," I reply, hyperaware of how formal we sound. "Thank you for meeting me."
He slides into the chair across from me, and suddenly the small table feels intimate instead of cozy. A barista approaches our table—young, probably a college student, with the kind of easy smile that suggests she hasn't yet learned that life is complicated. "What can I get you?"
"Black coffee," Dax says. "And whatever pastry you'd recommend."
"The blueberry scones are amazing," she chirps. "Just came out of the oven."
"Perfect."
After she leaves, we sit in silence for a moment, and I realize this is the first time we've been alone together outside of hotel rooms and equipment closets. The first time we can just... be.
"So," I say finally, because I'm terrible at comfortable silence. "Strategy meeting?"
He grins, and the sight of it makes my stomach flip. "You could call it that. Though I'm pretty sure most strategy meetings don't involve discussing how incredible the other person looks naked."
"Dax!" I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one heard. "We're in public."
"Relax. No one's listening." He leans forward, his voice dropping to that low register that makes me want to climb across the table. "Besides, I'm just stating facts. You are absolutely incredible naked."
Heat floods my cheeks. "You can't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because we're supposed to be having a serious conversation about... about whatever this is."
"This," he repeats, his gray eyes holding mine. "I like that better than 'mistake.'"
The barista returns with his coffee and two scones, giving us both bright smiles before disappearing again. Dax takes a sip of his coffee and makes a satisfied sound that reminds me entirely too much of the noises he made last night.
"Okay," I say, trying to get us back on track. "We need to establish some ground rules."
"I'm listening."
"First, absolutely no personal interaction during work hours. No meaningful looks, no casual touches, no inside jokes that might make people suspicious."
"Agreed, but what counts as meaningful? Because I look everyone in the eye when I'm talking to them."
"You know what I mean. The way you looked at me during practice yesterday when you scored that goal."
"How did I look at you?"
"Like you scored it for me."
He's quiet for a moment. "Maybe I did."
"See? That. We can't do that."
"Okay, fair point. Professional eye contact only. What else?"
"Second, we keep this completely separate from the team. No one can know, which means no dates anywhere we might be recognized."
"Hence the off-the-beaten-path café choice."
"Exactly." I take a sip of my latte, grateful for something to do with my hands. "Third, we pursue the annulment as planned. This doesn't change our timeline."
His expression shifts slightly. "And fourth?"
"Fourth?"
"Yes, fourth, Tessa. I can tell there is something else that you’re not saying."
I stare into my coffee cup, trying to find the words. "Fourth, we don't let this affect our professional performance. The moment either of us starts compromising our work, we stop."
"What if our work gets better because we're happy?"
"That's not how it works."
"Isn't it? Martinez said I played the best game of my season after Detroit. After we..."
"That's correlation, not causation."
"You sure about that, Dr. Bennett?"
"I'm sure that happiness doesn't fix everything. Trust me on that one."
He studies my face. "What happened to make you so sure about that?"
"Life. Experience. Watching people make stupid decisions because they confused temporary feelings with permanent solutions."
"Is that what you think this is? A temporary feeling?"
"I don't know what this is. That's the problem."
"Fair enough." He breaks off a piece of scone and offers it to me. "Now can I add a rule?"
"What kind of rule?"
"We're honest with each other. No pretending this is just physical when it's not, no downplaying what's happening because it's complicated."
"What if honesty makes it more complicated?"
"Then we deal with complicated. But we don't lie to each other or ourselves."
"That's a dangerous rule."
"Why?"
"Because honesty means admitting that I haven't felt this way about anyone since... maybe ever. And that terrifies me more than losing my job."
He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. "There it is."
"There what is?"
"Honesty. And for the record, I’ve never felt this way about anyone, ever. Which should terrify me, but instead it just makes me want to figure out how to make this work."
"What if we can't make it work?"
"What if we can?"
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have right now. We try, and we see what happens."
"I need more certainty than that."
"I can't give you certainty, Tessa. I can give you commitment to trying, but I can't promise it'll be easy or that we won't screw it up."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Screwing it up?"
"Caring too much and then losing everything anyway."
He squeezes my hand gently. "What if the alternative is never trying and always wondering what if?"
"What if wondering is safer?"
"Maybe it is. But is safer what you want?"
I look at our joined hands, at the way his thumb is unconsciously stroking across my knuckles. "No. But wanting something and being brave enough to go after it are two different things."
"So we start small. We try this, we see how it goes. If it becomes too much, too risky, we stop."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. But we don't stop because we're scared. We stop because we've actually tried and it's not working."
"And if it does work?"
"Then we figure out the next step when we get there."
"You make it sound so simple."
"It is simple. It's just not easy."
I accept another piece of scone, and when our fingers brush, the contact sends electricity up my arm.
I'm about to respond when I catch sight of someone at a table near the window.
Middle-aged man in a Cubs jacket, laptop open, taking notes while talking on his phone.
He looks familiar in that nagging way that makes my stomach clench.
"Don't look," I say quietly, "but I think there's a sports reporter at the table by the window."
Dax tenses but doesn't turn around. "You sure?"
"Pretty sure. Mike Romano from the Tribune. He covers hockey."
"Fuck."
"Well, that's one way to make an impression," I murmur, earning a surprised laugh.
"How do we handle this?"
I think quickly. "We're having a professional consultation about team psychology. You came to me with concerns about performance anxiety affecting some of the younger players."
"That's... actually not bad."
"I'm good under pressure."
"Among other things."
Despite the situation, I have to fight back a smile. "Stop it."
Romano glances in our direction, and I see the moment recognition kicks in. He ends his phone call and stands up, heading straight for our table.
"Mr. Kingston! Mike Romano, Chicago Tribune." He extends his hand to Dax, who shakes it politely. "Mind if I ask what brings you and Dr. Bennett together outside the rink?"
"Just a consultation," Dax says smoothly. "Dr. Bennett was generous enough to meet with me about some team psychology strategies."
"That's right," I add, slipping into my professional voice. "Mr. Kingston had some thoughtful questions about supporting younger players who might be struggling with performance anxiety."
"Interesting." Romano's eyes dart between us. "And this required a meeting outside team facilities because..."
"Privacy," I say. "Players need to feel safe discussing mental health concerns without worrying about being overheard or judged by teammates."
"Makes sense." Romano seems to buy it. "Any insights you can share?"
"Player confidentiality prevents me from discussing specifics," I reply, "but I can say that Mr. Kingston demonstrates exceptional leadership qualities and genuine concern for his teammates' wellbeing."
"High praise from the expert," Romano grins. "Kingston, any comment on Dr. Bennett's impact on the team so far?"
"She's incredibly professional and insightful," Dax says without hesitation. "The guys respect her knowledge and appreciate her approach. We're lucky to have her."
"Well, this is great stuff. Mind if I quote you both?"
"As long as you focus on the professional aspects," I say carefully.
"Of course." Romano makes a few notes. "Thanks for your time."
After he leaves, Dax and I sit in silence for a moment, the weight of how close we came to exposure settling between us.
"We should go," I say finally. "Separately."
"Yeah." He signals for the check.
"I'll text you later."
"Okay."
I leave first, walking quickly to my car without looking back. But as I drive home, I can't shake the feeling that we're playing a very dangerous game—and that eventually, our luck is going to run out.
My phone buzzes as I'm pulling into my apartment parking lot.
Dax
Made it home okay?
Yeah. You?
Dax
Yeah. That was close.
Too close.
Dax
Worth it though. I liked seeing you outside work.
Me too.
Dax
What are you doing tonight?
I stare at the message, knowing I should shut this down. Should remind him about our rules and professional boundaries.
Probably overthinking everything that happened today.
Dax
Want company while you overthink?
That would defeat the purpose of overthinking.
Dax
Good point. Sweet dreams, Dr. Bennett.
Good night, Mr. Kingston.
I'm still smiling at my phone when I walk into my apartment. As I'm setting down my keys, my phone buzzes with a voicemail notification I must have missed during the drive home.
I press play, expecting a telemarketer or my landlord.
"Dr. Bennett, this is Harrison's office. We need you to come in tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. for a meeting regarding team personnel evaluation protocols. Please confirm receipt of this message."
My blood turns to ice.
Personnel evaluation protocols. That could mean anything. Routine paperwork. Budget discussions. Performance reviews.
Or it could mean someone saw something they shouldn't have, and my career is about to go up in flames.
Again.