8. Dax
DAX
I 'm staring at the ice during morning practice, but my brain is approximately three miles away in Harrison's office where Tessa is currently sitting in what could be either a routine meeting or the end of both our careers.
My stick handling is shit, my passes are landing nowhere near their intended targets, and I'm pretty sure I just tried to body-check one of my own teammates.
"Kingston!" Coach Martinez's voice cuts through my mental spiral. "What the hell was that?"
"Sorry, Coach," I call back, skating over to retrieve the puck I just sent flying into the stands like a fucking amateur.
"You okay, man?" Jamie appears beside me, concern written all over his face. "You've been playing like your brain's been replaced with cottage cheese."
"I'm fine," I lie, because how do I explain that I'm having a nervous breakdown over a woman I'm supposed to be pretending I don't know?
"Right. And I'm the Queen of England." Jamie steals the puck from me during what should have been an easy drill. Before I can come up with a believable excuse, my phone buzzes from the bench. I skate over during the water break, my heart hammering against my ribs as I check the message.
Tessa
Routine evaluation protocols. All good. Breathe.
The relief that floods through me is so intense I actually have to sit down on the bench for a second. She's okay. We're okay. I'm not about to lose the best thing that's happened to me since I learned how to shoot a puck.
"Good news?" Jamie asks, appearing beside me like the nosy bastard he is.
"Just my mom," I say quickly, shoving my phone back in my bag. "Checking in about weekend plans."
"Your mom checks in during practice? That's... actually kind of sweet."
"She worries."
"About what?"
"Everything. My stress levels, whether I'm eating enough, if I'm getting enough sleep. Standard mom stuff."
"Huh. Speaking of your mom, she called me yesterday."
"She what?"
"Yeah, she wanted to know if you were seeing someone because apparently you mentioned a girl during your last conversation and then got all weird and secretive when she asked follow-up questions."
Double fuck. I don't remember mentioning anyone, but knowing how my brain works when I'm thinking about Tessa, I probably said something without realizing it.
"I never mentioned anyone," I say, which is probably true.
"That's what I told her. But then she said Emma's been asking questions too, and you know how your sister gets when she thinks you're hiding something."
Triple fuck with a side of we're-completely-screwed.
"It's nothing," I insist. "Ma's just being Ma. You know how she gets about me being alone."
"Mm-hmm." Jamie gives me that look he gets when he knows I'm full of shit.
"Well, just so you know, Emma's coming home this weekend specifically to investigate because, and I quote, 'Dax is terrible at hiding things from family and I'm going to figure out what's got him acting like a lovesick teenager. '"
I drop my head into my hands. "Jesus Christ."
"So either you come clean about whatever's going on, or you prepare for the Spanish Inquisition, Kingston family style."
"There's nothing going on," I repeat, but even I don't believe myself anymore.
"Right."
Have I really been that obvious?
"You're imagining things," I say instead.
"Am I? Because I've been your roommate for five years, and I know all your moods. This isn't your normal 'hockey's going well' mood. This is your 'someone's making me happy and I'm trying not to think about how much I like it' mood."
Sometimes I hate how well Jamie knows me.
My phone buzzes again, and I can't help but smile when I see Tessa's name.
Tessa
Are you free this afternoon for a legitimate mental performance session? I think we should discuss your leadership role and how pressure affects decision-making.
Absolutely. Professional consultation only, of course.
Tessa
Of course. My office at 3?
Perfect.
I look up to find Jamie watching me with raised eyebrows.
"Your mom again?" he asks dryly.
"Team stuff," I say, which is technically not a lie.
"Uh-huh. Well, just so you know, I’m going to go visit my sister Sofia today and I’ll be back tomorrow."
Practice ends without any more incidents, mostly because I manage to keep my phone in my bag and my head somewhat in the game. But as I'm heading to the locker room, my phone rings with a number I recognize immediately.
"Hey, Em."
"Don't 'hey Em' me," my sister's voice comes through the speaker, and I can picture her sitting in her dorm room with that determined expression she gets when she's on a mission. "I'm coming home this weekend, and we're going to have a conversation."
"About what?"
"About whoever this mystery woman is that's got you acting weird. Mom says you've been different on the phone, happier but secretive. Jamie says you're humming during practice. And I know for a fact that you don't hum unless you're either really drunk or really smitten."
"I don't hum," I protest.
"You absolutely do. You hummed the entire morning after prom when you thought Sarah Miller might actually like you back."
"That was high school, Em."
"And you hummed for three days straight when you thought you were going to get drafted first overall."
"I was nervous."
"Exactly. You hum when you're nervous about something good. So who is she?"
I close my eyes, knowing I'm about to lie to my favorite person in the world. "There's no she, Em. I'm just... I don't know. In a good place with hockey."
"Bullshit."
"Why are you like this?"
"Don't deflect. I know you, big brother. And I know when you're hiding something. So either you tell me now, or I show up this weekend and interrogate you until you crack."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Fine. But just so you know, I've already booked my train ticket. And I'm bringing Mom's chocolate chip cookies as bribes for Jamie in case I need him to spy on you."
"You're evil."
"I'm thorough. See you Friday night."
She hangs up before I can protest further, leaving me staring at my phone and wondering how the hell I'm going to survive a weekend with my sister's detective skills while keeping my secret wife under wraps.
This is so much more complicated than I thought it would be.
Change of plans. Can we meet at my place instead? I'll cook.
Tessa
Your place?
Jamie's visiting his sister overnight. We'll have complete privacy.
Tessa
That sounds dangerous.
The most dangerous thing will be my cooking. I promise to order pizza if I burn dinner.
Tessa
In that case, yes. Send me your address.
As I type out my address, I can't shake the feeling that inviting Tessa to my place is crossing some kind of line we haven't crossed yet.
My apartment suddenly feels like it's being judged when I unlock the door for Tessa at exactly 6 p.m. I spent the better part of an hour making sure everything was perfect—which for me means hiding the pile of sports magazines, actually making my bed, and confirming that my bathroom doesn't look like a biohazard zone.
"Wow," she says, stepping inside and looking around with genuine interest. "This is not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. More... hockey cave? Beer cans and pizza boxes? Maybe a hot tub shaped like a Stanley Cup?"
I laugh, closing the door behind her and trying not to notice how perfect she looks in my space. She's traded her usual professional armor for dark jeans and a soft gray sweater that hugs her curves, and her hair is down in loose waves.
"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm actually house-trained." I gesture toward the living room. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Wine would be good. If you have it."
"I have a bottle of something that Torres assures me is 'classy as fuck.'" I head toward the kitchen. "So either it's really good wine or Jamie has terrible taste."
"Knowing Jamie, it could go either way."
She wanders around the living room while I pour wine, and I find myself watching her take in my space.
The minimalist furniture that actually cost more than my first car.
The family photos on the mantle—Mom and Emma at my first NHL game, the three of us at Emma's high school graduation.
The bookshelf that's half hockey biographies and half philosophy texts.
"Heidegger," she observes, running her finger along the spine of one of the books. "Really?"
"What can I say? I like to think about existence while getting checked into the boards."
"That explains so much about you." She accepts the wine glass I offer, our fingers brushing in the exchange. "Most hockey players I know think Descartes is a type of pasta."
"To be fair, Jamie probably does think that."
She laughs, settling onto my couch. I sit beside her, maintaining what I hope is a professional distance.
"So," she says, pulling out a small notebook. "Martinez mentioned the captaincy might be official by next month. How are you feeling about that?"
I was expecting small talk, maybe some flirting disguised as work discussion. But she's looking at me with those sharp hazel eyes, and I realize she's genuinely here to help me work through this.
"Terrified," I admit. "Being responsible for thirty guys, their careers, their confidence... What if I make the wrong call? What if I let them down?"
"What makes you think you would?"
"Because I'm better at reading plays than reading people. Hockey makes sense—you see the patterns, you anticipate the moves, you react. But leadership? That's all about understanding what makes someone tick, how to motivate them, when to push and when to back off."
She makes a note, then looks up at me. "Tell me about a time when you had to lead someone through a difficult situation."
"What do you mean?"
"Outside of hockey. A moment when someone needed you to step up and guide them."
I think for a moment, then feel my chest tighten. "Emma. My sister. When our dad left."
"How old were you both?"