23. Tessa
TESSA
T he universe has a sick sense of humor, and apparently it's been taking notes from the most sadistic romance novelist alive.
Because three days after our secret marriage explodes across every sports network in North America, we're sitting in the team meeting room staring at playoff brackets that look like they were designed by someone who enjoys psychological torture.
"Boston," Martinez announces, and the word hangs in the air like a fucking guillotine. "First round. Best of seven. Home ice advantage goes to us."
I watch Dax's jaw clench so hard I'm surprised his teeth don't shatter. Beside him, Jamie lets out a low whistle that sounds like air escaping from a punctured tire.
"Well," Jamie says cheerfully, "this isn't going to be a complete shitshow at all."
"Torres," Martinez warns, but there's no real heat in it. We're all thinking the same thing.
"Coach, with respect," Cole speaks up from the back, "every major sports network is going to lose their collective minds over this matchup. Kingston versus the team that wanted to make him captain? The guy who chose love over money? This is going to be a fucking media circus."
"Language," Martinez says automatically, then seems to realize the futility. "Actually, fuck it. Cole's right. This is going to be intense. More intense than anything we've dealt with this season."
I'm scribbling notes on my tablet, trying to look professional while internally screaming.
The irony is so sharp it could cut diamond.
Dax turned down Boston twice—once for the original trade, once for the sweetened offer—and now we have to prove that choice was worth it by beating them when it matters most.
"Dr. Bennett," Martinez turns to me, "I need you to prepare the team for unprecedented media attention. This isn't just hockey anymore. This is a goddamn narrative that's going to be dissected by every talking head with a microphone."
"Already on it," I reply, proud of how steady my voice sounds. "I'm scheduling individual sessions with anyone who wants them, plus team meetings focused on maintaining focus despite external noise."
"What about you two?" Alexei asks, his Russian accent making the question sound more pointed. "This affects Kingston most, yes? Former dream team wants to crush dreams they rejected?"
Dax finally speaks, his voice low and controlled. "It affects all of us. But yeah, it's going to be fucking personal." He looks around the room, meeting each player's eyes. "Question is: are you with me on this? Because I need to know my team has my back when Boston tries to get in my head."
The response is immediate and unanimous.
"Hell yes," Jamie says.
"Ride or die, Captain," Cole adds.
"Boston can eat shit," Zack growls, which gets a round of approving nods.
"We got you, man," Kevin says quietly, and the sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight.
Martinez clears his throat. "Alright, enough group therapy.
We've got three days to prepare for the most scrutinized playoff series in recent memory.
Dr. Bennett, I want specific protocols for handling media questions about personal decisions.
Kingston, you're going to get asked about regret, second-guessing, divided loyalties—all the bullshit designed to get under your skin. "
"Bring it on," Dax says simply. "I've never been more sure of a decision in my life."
The meeting breaks up with players heading to practice, but Martinez catches my arm as I'm gathering my things.
"How's he really doing?" he asks quietly. "This can't be easy, facing down his childhood dream team while the entire hockey world watches."
"He's processing," I say carefully. "But Tom, I've been studying him for months now. When Dax is completely certain about something, when he's fighting for something he believes in? That's when he's most dangerous."
"Good. Because Boston's going to throw everything they have at us. Their media, their fans, their psychological warfare team—all of it designed to make him question his choices."
"Then they're about to learn something about the man they couldn't convince to join them," I smile, feeling fierce pride surge through me. "When you try to break Dax Kingston, he doesn't bend. He destroys."
Two hours later, I'm in my office reviewing game film when my door opens. Dax fills the doorframe, still in his practice gear, hair damp with sweat and expression unreadable.
"How bad is it out there?" I ask, gesturing toward the windows that face the parking lot where I've been watching news vans accumulate like vultures.
"Romano's back, plus about fifteen other reporters. They're asking about everything—our marriage, Boston, whether I'm going to choke under pressure." He steps inside and closes the door, his presence immediately making the room feel smaller and more electric.
"And what did you tell them?"
"That my wife is the best mental performance coach in the league, my team is ready to prove Chicago hockey is championship-level, and Boston's about to find out exactly what they missed when they couldn't convince me to join their organization."
The way he says 'my wife' sends heat straight through me, low and demanding. "Very diplomatic."
"I'm feeling diplomatic today." He moves closer, that predatory grace that makes my pulse skip. "Want to know what I'm really thinking?"
"Tell me."
"I'm thinking about how fucking incredible it's going to feel to beat Boston in Game 1 while you're watching from the observation box, taking notes on how a man performs when he's playing for everything that matters.
" His voice drops to that gravelly register that makes my knees weak.
"I'm thinking about coming home to you after we win and showing you exactly how celebrating feels. "
"Dax..." I breathe, suddenly hyperaware of how alone we are, how the tension in the room has shifted from professional to something much more dangerous.
"I'm thinking," he continues, backing me against my desk, "about how every time someone asks if I regret choosing you over Boston, I get to remember what you look like when I make you come.
How you sound when you say my name. How it feels to wake up next to the woman who makes me want to be better at everything. "
My hands fist in his practice jersey, pulling him closer even though every rational part of my brain is screaming about professional boundaries and people who might walk in.
"You're playing a very dangerous game, Mr. Kingston."
"The only game worth playing, Dr. Bennett." His mouth is inches from mine now, his hands braced on either side of me against the desk. "Boston thinks they can psyche me out by making this personal? They have no fucking idea how personal this already is."
"How personal?" I whisper, completely lost in the storm-gray intensity of his eyes.
"Personal enough that I'm going to score a goal in Game 1 and look directly at their bench to make sure they know exactly what they lost when they couldn't convince me to leave Chicago.
Personal enough that every save, every hit, every play I make is going to be a love letter to the woman who chose me right back. "
Before I can respond, he's kissing me against my desk, his mouth claiming mine with the kind of intensity that makes rational thought impossible.
My hands slide up his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart through his practice jersey, and when he lifts me onto the desk, scattering papers everywhere, I forget about professionalism entirely.
"Fuck," I gasp against his lips as his hands grip my thighs, positioning me exactly where he wants me. "Anyone could walk in."
"Let them," he growls, his mouth moving to my throat. "Let them see exactly what Boston couldn't take away from me."
The possessive edge in his voice sends liquid heat straight through me, and when his teeth graze that sensitive spot below my ear, I arch against him with a soft moan.
"You're going to get us both in trouble," I breathe, even as my legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer.
"We're already in trouble, baby. Might as well make it worth the scandal."
A knock on my door makes us spring apart like teenagers caught making out. I slide off the desk, smoothing my skirt while Dax runs a hand through his hair, both of us breathing hard.
"Dr. Bennett?" Jamie's voice comes through the door. "Martinez wants to see you about media protocols."
"Coming!" I call out, proud of how normal my voice sounds despite the fact that I'm still vibrating with want. I look at Dax, who's grinning like the smug bastard he is.
"Rain check?" he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
"You're terrible," I whisper back, but I'm smiling.
"You love it."
"I love you, you impossible man."
The look he gives me could melt steel. "Hold onto that feeling, Tessa. Because in forty-eight hours, the entire hockey world is going to be watching me prove that choosing you was the best decision I've ever made."
Game day hits like a freight train, but somehow I sleep straight through until nine. When I finally roll over, the bed’s empty—Dax already at morning skate. All he’s left behind is the warm scent of his cologne and a note on my pillow:
Today we show them what real love looks like. See you after we destroy Boston.
- Your devoted husband
The term of endearment makes my heart do stupid gymnastics, even though we're still technically getting that annulment. Eventually. When we get around to it. Which seems less and less likely as time goes on.
My phone starts buzzing before I'm even fully caffeinated. Text after text from reporters, colleagues, family members who've apparently just discovered that their quiet daughter/friend/whatever is married to one of the most recognizable athletes in Chicago.
Riley
BITCH YOU'RE MARRIED TO DAX KINGSTON AND I HAD TO FIND OUT FROM ESPN???
Mom
Honey, why are there news trucks in our neighborhood asking about your "whirlwind romance"?
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