9. Tessa
TESSA
T he sound of Jamie's key in the lock sends me into full panic mode. I literally dive off the couch, army-crawling behind the kitchen island while Dax frantically adjusts his shirt.
"Shit, shit, shit," I whisper.
"Stay calm," Dax mouths at me. "I've got this."
"Dude, I brought enough orange chicken to feed a small army!" Jamie calls out as he closes the door. "Sofia just texted me about this guy who showed up to their date in a Batman costume. Not for Halloween. Just Tuesday night at Applebee's."
"That's... creative?" Dax calls back.
"I figured I'd rather not listen to that soundtrack, so I grabbed food and came home."
I'm crouched behind the kitchen island wearing my best lingerie under my clothes because I had optimistic plans for this evening, and now I'm about to be discovered by my secret husband's best friend who brought Chinese food.
"I could eat," Dax says, probably trying to block Jamie's view of the living room where my wine glass is still sitting next to our abandoned movie.
"Sweet. And I brought beer because I figured— Dude, why is Fifty Shades paused on your TV?"
I freeze in place. We forgot about the movie.
"Oh, uh... I was just curious? About the hype?"
"You were watching Fifty Shades of Grey. Alone. On a Tuesday night." Jamie's voice is thick with amusement. "That's either really sad or really progressive, man."
"It's research," Dax says quickly. "For understanding relationship dynamics."
"Right. And this understanding required pausing right at the part where he's tying her up?"
Oh God. We paused it during a sex scene.
"I'll get plates," Dax says quickly.
"It's cool, I know where everything is." Jamie's voice is getting closer to my hiding spot. "Though I gotta say, this explains why you've been acting so weird lately. How long has it been since you got laid?"
"I'm not talking about my sex life with you," Dax replies.
"We literally discussed your dating dry spell for three hours last month. You said dating apps are 'a psychological hellscape designed to destroy human connection.'"
That actually sounds exactly like something Dax would say.
"Can we just eat and watch hockey highlights like normal people?" Dax asks, sounding desperate.
"Fine, but I'm keeping the Fifty Shades thing for future blackmail." Jamie's footsteps pause. "Did you hear that?"
My stomach drops. I must have made noise shifting position.
"I didn't hear anything," Dax says carefully.
"There it is again. Sounds like... scratching or something. Coming from over here?"
I hold my breath, pressing myself against the cabinet.
"Probably just the building settling," Dax suggests.
"Dax, the building doesn't settle in a rhythm. That sounds like something moving around."
"Maybe it's a mouse," Dax says.
"A mouse? In our apartment?" Jamie sounds horrified. "If we have mice, I'm calling an exterminator immediately. Sofia's coming over this weekend, and she has a phobia about rodents."
The footsteps are getting closer. The pantry door is about three feet to my left. If I can just crawl quietly enough...
I start moving, staying low and praying my knees don't crack. The pantry door is slightly ajar...
"There!" Jamie's voice is sharp. "I definitely heard something that time. Coming from near the pantry."
I throw myself the last few feet and slip inside the pantry, pulling the door closed just as Jamie rounds the corner.
"See? Nothing there," Dax says, voice strained.
"I swear I heard something." Jamie's voice is right outside the pantry door.
I'm pressed against the door, surrounded by canned goods, trying not to breathe too loudly.
"You know what?" Dax says. "I think I left the window open in my bedroom. Could be wind rattling something."
"Wind doesn't make scratching noises, Dax."
"Sure it does. Wind can make all sorts of weird sounds when it hits things at the right angle."
"Since when are you an expert on wind acoustics?"
"Since I started reading about atmospheric physics," Dax replies without missing a beat, and I have to press both hands over my mouth to keep from laughing.
Because of course that's how his brain works. Most people would panic and come up with a terrible lie. Dax's brain immediately goes to atmospheric physics.
"You've been reading about atmospheric physics," Jamie repeats slowly.
"It's fascinating stuff. Did you know that wind patterns can create acoustic phenomena that mimic other sounds?"
"Dax."
"What?"
"You're insane."
"I'm curious about the world around me."
"You're standing in our kitchen explaining wind physics to justify weird noises while Fifty Shades is paused on our TV. This is not normal behavior."
"Define normal," Dax counters.
"Normal is not watching BDSM movies alone while researching atmospheric science!"
"First of all, I wasn't researching atmospheric science while watching the movie. Those are two separate intellectual pursuits."
"Since always, you absolute weirdo."
Jamie's phone rings, saving us both.
"Oh shit, that's Sofia," Jamie says. "I should take this. But we're not done discussing your weird evening activities."
"Looking forward to it," Dax says dryly.
I hear Jamie walk toward his bedroom. As soon as his door closes, the pantry door opens and Dax's face appears.
"Are you okay?" he whispers.
"I'm fantastic," I whisper back. "Just living my best life hiding in your pantry surrounded by protein powder and Pop-Tarts."
"This is not how I planned this evening going."
"Really? 'Romantic dinner interrupted by atmospheric physics lecture' wasn't on your agenda?"
He grins. "I was improvising."
"Atmospheric physics, Dax? Really?"
"It seemed reasonable at the time."
"You're insane."
"You like it."
"I really shouldn't, but I really do."
We can hear Jamie's voice through his bedroom wall. Dax and I look at each other, both realizing how close we came to complete disaster.
"We can't keep doing this," I whisper.
"Hiding in pantries or seeing each other?"
"Both. Neither. I don't know." I run my hands through my hair. "This is getting too complicated."
"Maybe complicated isn't the worst thing."
"Easy for you to say. You didn't just spend ten minutes crouched behind kitchen furniture like some kind of deranged cat burglar."
"True. But you looked really cute doing it."
"I did not look cute. I looked terrified."
Despite everything, I'm smiling. Because somehow, even in the middle of the most ridiculous situation imaginable, he makes me feel like the most fascinating woman in the world.
"I should go," I whisper.
"Probably."
"Walk me to the door?"
"Obviously."
Walking into the training facility Monday morning feels like stepping into an alternate universe where the air itself is charged with electricity. I've been away from Dax for exactly thirty-six hours, and apparently my body has decided that's approximately thirty-five hours too long.
"Morning, Dr. Bennett," Martinez greets me with his usual warm smile as I settle into the observation box. "Good weekend?"
"Productive," I reply, which is technically true if you count spending two days replaying every moment of Friday night and wondering if it's possible to die from sexual frustration.
"Excellent. I've got some good news for you this morning."
"Oh?"
"We've got a home stand coming up—five games in the next two weeks. Gives you more time to work with the guys, really dive into individual sessions."
Five games. Two weeks. Which means Dax and I will be in the same city, sleeping in our own beds, with actual opportunities for privacy that don't involve hiding in pantries or equipment rooms.
"That sounds wonderful," I manage, proud of how professional I sound despite the fact that my brain immediately starts calculating logistics.
"The guys are excited too," Martinez continues. "Home crowds, familiar routines, their own beds. Always puts them in a better mood."
Their own beds. Yes, I'm definitely thinking about beds now. Specifically, Dax's bed, and whether it's as perfectly organized as the rest of his life, and whether he sleeps in boxers or nothing at all, and?—
"Dr. Bennett?"
"Sorry, just thinking about session scheduling," I lie quickly.
The players file onto the ice for practice, and I force myself to look anywhere except directly at number 47. Which lasts approximately twelve seconds, because apparently my self-control has the lifespan of a fruit fly.
He's doing warm-up stretches, and Jesus Christ, the man makes athletic wear look like it should be featured in museums dedicated to the art of masculine perfection.
His practice jersey clings to every muscle of his chest and shoulders, and when he bends forward to stretch his hamstrings, I have to grip my pen so hard I'm surprised it doesn't snap.
When he straightens up and his eyes find mine through the observation window, the smile that spreads across his face is pure sin wrapped in hockey gear.
"You're documenting a lot of detail on Kingston today," Ethan Chen observes from beside me.
My heart stops. "What do you mean?"
"Your notes. You've got three pages just on his defensive positioning and leadership cues. Very thorough analysis."
"I'm preparing individual assessment reports," I say, trying to sound casual while my pulse performs acrobatics. "Some players require more detailed observation."
"Maybe. Though I noticed he's been asking more questions about team psychology lately. Specifically about leadership dynamics and how personal satisfaction affects professional performance."
Oh God. He's been asking about me. About us. In the most Dax way possible—philosophical and analytical and completely transparent.
"That shows intellectual curiosity," I say carefully. "It's a good sign for potential captaincy."
"Agreed. Martinez has been talking about making it official soon."
Practice begins, and I force myself to focus on actual work instead of the way Dax moves across the ice like he's choreographing poetry. I take notes on team communication patterns, individual performance markers, and the subtle shifts in dynamics that indicate growing confidence.
Twenty minutes in, my phone buzzes with a text.
Dax
We never finished that movie Friday night.
Because someone interrupted us with atmospheric physics lectures.
Dax
We should watch the ending sometime. See how it all turns out.
I glance up to find him looking directly at me from center ice, and the heat in his gaze makes it clear he's not just talking about the movie.
You're supposed to be practicing.
Dax
I’m multitasking. Thinking about Christian Grey's techniques while working on my defensive positioning.
That's a very specific combination of skills.
Dax
I'm a very thorough student. Especially when it comes to... learning new methods.
My cheeks burn so hot I'm surprised my phone doesn't melt in my hands.
Focus on hockey. We'll talk later.
Dax
About the movie?
Among other things.
I put my phone away and try to concentrate on my job, but it's impossible to ignore the fact that Dax is playing with the kind of intensity that makes it clear he's showing off.
Every pass is crisp, every hit is perfectly timed, and when he scores during a scrimmage drill, he glances up at the observation window with a grin that makes my stomach flip.
"He's on fire today," Martinez observes. "Whatever's motivating him, I hope it continues."
If only he knew that his star defenseman's motivation is currently sitting three rows behind him, trying not to think about atmospheric physics lectures and pantry hideouts.
After practice, I'm gathering my notes when a knock on the observation window door makes me look up. It's one of the administrative assistants, holding an envelope with my name on it.
"This came for you this morning, Dr. Bennett. Marked urgent."
"Thank you."
I recognize the law firm's letterhead immediately, and my stomach clenches as I tear open the envelope. Inside are the final annulment documents, official and intimidating, requiring both signatures for processing.
Petition for Annulment - Kingston vs. Bennett
This should be routine paperwork, the logical conclusion to an impulsive mistake. But staring at the signature line, all I can think about is how wrong it feels.
Dax
Got the papers too. We should probably discuss this.
Agreed. Your place tonight?
Dax
Jamie's definitely home tonight. Your place?
Yes. 7 p.m.?
Dax
I'll bring dinner.
Of course, that's when I notice Harrison standing in the hallway outside my office, clipboard in hand, watching me through the window with an expression I can't quite read.
He's been doing that more often lately—observing my interactions with players, taking notes during my sessions, appearing at unexpected moments with that calculating look that makes my stomach clench with unease.
Our eyes meet through the glass, and he nods politely before walking away, but something about his demeanor suggests this isn't casual interest in my work.