12. Dax
DAX
I 'm staring at Tessa's phone like it just grew teeth and threatened to bite me. The threatening text message glares back at me with all the subtlety of a hockey puck to the face, and I can feel my protective instincts kicking into overdrive like a power play with blood in the water.
"Okay," I say, setting the phone down carefully before I crush it in my bare hands. "We need to figure out who sent this."
"It could be anyone," Tessa says, pacing around her living room like a caged panther. "Sports reporter looking for a scoop, gossip blogger, some random asshole with a camera phone?—"
"Or someone with a personal vendetta," I interrupt, my mind already running through possibilities. "Someone who wants to hurt one of us specifically."
She stops pacing and looks at me. For an instant she looks terrified, but quickly recovers. "What kind of personal vendetta?"
"Could be someone from Seattle."
"Jesus Christ." She runs both hands through her hair. "I never even thought about that."
"What about building security? Anyone suspicious hanging around your apartment complex lately?"
"You mean besides you sneaking out at dawn like some kind of hockey-playing vampire?"
Despite everything, I almost smile. "I prefer 'devastatingly handsome dawn departure specialist,' thank you very much."
"Right. Well, there was this guy last week who claimed to be doing maintenance but seemed more interested in asking questions about residents. Mrs. Buckley chased him off with her walking stick."
"Mrs. Buckley is a goddamn hero and should be protected at all costs."
"Agreed."
"Screenshot the message, note the number, check if there are any other threatening contacts. Then we call building security and alert them to watch for suspicious activity."
"And what about us? Do we stop seeing each other?"
"Is that what you want?"
"No. But maybe we should consider it. Temporarily. Until this blows over or we figure out who's behind it."
I stand up and walk over to her, needing to touch her, to reassure myself she's real and safe and mine. "Tessa, look at me."
She does, and I can see the fear she's trying so hard to hide.
"We're not stopping anything. We're not giving some coward with a burner phone the power to control our lives. We're going to be smarter, more careful, but we're not running away from this."
"What if they follow through on the threat? What if they publish photos or make up stories?"
"Then we deal with it. But we don't let fear make decisions for us."
She nods, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she's twisting that damn ring finger again.
"Come here," I say, pulling her against my chest. She melts into me immediately, and I can feel some of the fight go out of her.
"I'm scared," she whispers against my shirt.
"I know. Me too. But remember I am always with you and we're going to figure this out."
Practice the next morning is an absolute shitshow of epic proportions. I'm playing like I've been possessed by the vengeful ghost of every enforcer who ever lived, throwing hits that are perfectly legal but completely unnecessary for a Tuesday morning skate.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Jamie demands during a water break, after I've just flattened two of our own rookies during what was supposed to be a light passing drill.
"Nothing's wrong."
"Bullshit. You just body-checked Martinez's nephew like he owed you money. The kid's twenty-one and weighs about as much as your left skate."
"He needs to learn to keep his head up."
"It's a passing drill, not gladiator combat!"
I take a long drink of water, trying to calm the rage that's been simmering under my skin since I saw that text. "I'm fine, Torres."
"You're about as fine as a screen door on a submarine. And your whatever-this-is is affecting the whole team. Look around."
I glance up to see half the guys giving me a wide berth, while the other half are whispering among themselves and shooting me concerned looks.
"Coach Martinez is heading this way," Jamie continues, "and he's got that expression that means someone's about to get a very serious talking-to. So either you tell me what's going on, or you explain to him why you're playing like a psychopath with anger management issues."
Before I can respond, Martinez appears beside us with his arms crossed and his coach face on full display.
"Kingston. My office. Now."
Fuck.
I follow him to his office.
"Sit down," Martinez says, closing his office door behind us. "And tell me what's eating you alive out there."
"Nothing, Coach. Just need to dial it back a little."
"A little?" He settles behind his desk and gives me that look—the one that says he's seen through every bullshit excuse in the book. "Son, you just played twenty minutes of practice like you were auditioning for the role of team enforcer. We have actual enforcers for that job."
"I was being aggressive. Thought that's what you wanted."
"I want controlled aggression. Strategic intensity. What I saw out there was a man with personal problems taking it out on his teammates."
The accuracy of that statement hits me right in the gut. "It won't happen again."
"It better not. Because whatever's going on in your personal life, you need to handle it or compartmentalize it. This team depends on your leadership, and leaders don't bring their emotional baggage onto the ice."
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now get out of here and go apologize to everyone you tried to murder during passing drills."
An hour later, I'm sitting in my truck in the parking lot, calling the one person I know who can help us figure out who's behind that text.
"Andy speaking."
"Andy, it's Dax Kingston. I need a favor."
Andy's a former teammate who retired two years ago and now runs a private security firm. Good guy, discreet, and owes me for covering his gambling debts back when we played together in Toronto.
"Dax! How's Chicago treating you?"
"Like a beautiful woman with trust issues. Listen, I need you to trace a phone number for me. Someone's been making threats, and I want to know who's behind it."
"What kind of threats?"
I give him the basics without mentioning Tessa specifically—just that someone's trying to blackmail me over my personal life.
"Send me the number. I'll see what I can dig up. Might take a day or two."
"I'll pay whatever it costs."
"Don't worry about money. Just promise me you won't do anything stupid while I'm working on this."
"Define stupid."
"Don't hunt down this person yourself and beat them senseless with your hockey stick."
"That's... actually very specific advice."
"I know how you get when someone threatens people you care about. Remember what happened to that reporter who wrote that hit piece about your mom?"
"I didn't touch him."
"No, but you scared him so badly he quit covering hockey entirely. The man switched to writing about gardening."
Fair point. "I'll behave."
"Good. I'll call you as soon as I have something."
After I hang up, I sit there for a few minutes, trying to figure out how the hell my life got so complicated.
Three weeks ago, my biggest concern was whether Jamie would remember to pay the electric bill.
Now I'm dealing with blackmail threats and trying to protect the woman I'm falling in love with.
Falling in love with.
Fuck. When did that happen?
Actually, I know exactly when it happened.
Andy calls me back six hours later while I'm stress-cleaning my already spotless apartment and trying not to think about how Tessa's probably doing the same thing with her perfectly organized spice rack.
"Got some good news and some bad news," he says without preamble.
"Bad news first. Always."
"Text came from a burner phone purchased with cash at a convenience store on the south side. No cameras, no ID required, basically a dead end for tracking the buyer."
"And the good news?"
"Phone's only been active for three days, only sent that one message, and the purchase pattern suggests amateur hour.
This isn't some professional paparazzi operation or organized harassment campaign.
Probably just some opportunistic asshole who saw something and thought they could make a quick buck. "
"So we're dealing with a garden-variety blackmailer instead of a mastermind."
"Exactly. Still dangerous, but more likely to go away if ignored or scared off properly."
"Jesus, this is like something out of a spy movie."
"Welcome to the modern world of professional athlete dating, my friend. Your love life is worth money to the right buyer."
After Andy hangs up, I sit there staring at my phone and wondering how the hell I'm supposed to tell Tessa that our relationship has officially entered espionage territory.
We meet at a coffee shop in Wicker Park—neutral territory that's far enough from the training facility and both our apartments to minimize the chance of being spotted by teammates or neighbors.
Tessa's already there when I arrive, sitting in a corner booth wearing sunglasses indoors like she's channeling her inner celebrity avoiding paparazzi.
"This is ridiculous," she says as I slide in across from her. "I look like I'm about to sell state secrets to foreign agents."
"You look beautiful. Also mildly paranoid, but beautiful paranoid."
"Flattery will not make this situation less insane."
I fill her in on Andy's findings, watching her process the information with that sharp analytical mind that makes me want to kiss her and discuss philosophy with her in equal measure.
"So our options are what, exactly?" she asks when I finish.
"Continue with increased security measures and hope they get bored and move on. Temporary separation until the threat passes. Go public with our relationship to remove the blackmail potential. Or..." I pause, not wanting to say the last option.
"Or end things entirely to protect our careers."
"That's not happening."
"Dax—"
"I'm serious, Tessa. That's not an option. I don't care if Harrison fires me tomorrow and I have to go play hockey in fucking Siberia. I'm not walking away from this."
She stares at me across the table, and I can see something shift in her expression. "Why?"
"Because you're worth it. Because this—whatever this is between us—is the best thing that's ever happened to me. Because I'd rather have one day of real happiness with you than a lifetime of going through the motions without you."
"That's very romantic and completely insane."
"I've been accused of worse things."
"You know I'm terrified. But I'm also tired of sneaking around like we're doing something wrong. What we have isn't wrong, Dax. It's the most right thing that's ever happened to me."
"I love you," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I love you, and I know it's too soon and probably terrible timing, but I can't sit here listening to you be brave and amazing without telling you that I'm completely, hopelessly in love with you."
Her eyes go wide behind those ridiculous sunglasses. "You love me?"
"Desperately. Embarrassingly. The kind of love that makes guys write terrible poetry and buy billboard space to declare their feelings."
"Please don't buy billboard space."
"No promises."
She laughs, and the sound makes my chest feel like it's going to explode with happiness.
"I love you too, you ridiculous, wonderful man.
I love your brain and your hands and the way you read philosophy books like other people read magazines.
I love how you take care of everyone around you and how you make me feel safe enough to be myself. "
I lean across the table and kiss her, right there in public where anyone could see us, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe properly.
"I want you to meet my family," I say against her lips.
"Your family?"
“My mom and Emma. I managed to deflect Emma's detective mission last weekend with strategic pizza bribes and philosophical discussions, but I don't want to keep hiding you.
I want them to know you exist.I want to show you off and watch my mother fall in love with you and listen to Emma tell you embarrassing stories about my childhood. "
"That sounds terrifying and wonderful."
"That's basically my family in a nutshell."
She's about to respond when my phone rings. Mom's contact photo—her and Emma at last year's Christmas—fills the screen.
"Perfect timing," I mutter, but I answer anyway because ignoring calls from Mama Kingston is like ignoring a natural disaster. It'll just get worse.
"Hey, Ma."
"Dax Patrick Kingston." Her voice has that tone that means I'm either in trouble or about to be. "We need to talk."
"What's wrong?"
"You know what's wrong. Emma's convinced you deflected her questions last weekend, but she's not giving up. She found some gossip blog speculating about your love life, and now she's more determined than ever."
My blood turns to ice. "Ma?—"
"She's driving to Chicago again tonight."
I look at Tessa, who's gone completely pale.
"How long do we have?" I ask.
"About six hours. And this time, son, I'm on her side. So you better start talking."