24. Dax
DAX
Two words that make grown men question their life choices and pray to whatever deity handles athletic miracles.
I'm standing in the tunnel beneath the United Center, listening to twenty thousand fans lose their collective shit above us, and all I can think about is how Tessa looked when she kissed me goodbye this morning—like she was memorizing my face in case this all goes sideways.
"Kingston!" Martinez appears beside me, clipboard in hand and that expression he gets when he's about to deliver wisdom disguised as a pep talk. "Dr. Bennett wants five minutes with you before we take the ice."
Of course she does. My brilliant wife knows exactly what I need right now, which isn't more hockey strategy or motivational bullshit. It's her.
I find Tessa in the small conference room off the main corridor, and she's got that focused energy that means she's in full professional mode.
She's wearing her lucky blazer—the navy one she had on the first day we met—and her hair is pulled back in that severe bun that perfectly frames the determined set of her jaw.
"How's your head?" she asks without preamble, settling into the chair across from me.
"Attached to my neck, last I checked."
"Dax." Her voice carries that gentle warning that means she's not in the mood for my deflection techniques. "Talk to me. Really talk to me."
I lean back, studying her face. Even in the harsh fluorescent lighting, she's fucking gorgeous. More than that, she's steady. Constant. The thing that doesn't change when everything else is spinning out of control.
"I keep thinking about that conversation we had after the book deal," I admit. "About whether we're brave enough to be the example we wish we'd had."
"And?"
"And tonight feels like the universe's final exam on that question.
" I run both hands through my hair, probably destroying whatever styling gel Jamie insisted I use.
"Every sports analyst in the country is going to dissect whether the guy who chose love over ambition can actually deliver when it matters most."
Tessa leans forward, her expression growing serious in that way that means she's about to either save my sanity or completely destroy it.
"You want to know what I think?" she asks.
"Always."
"I think you're overthinking this like you overthink everything else, you beautiful, philosophical disaster." Her mouth curves into that smile that makes my chest feel too small for my heart. "This game isn't about validating our choices. It's about proving what we've built together."
"What have we built?"
"A team that went to war for us when Harrison tried to destroy our careers.
A family that celebrates each other's success instead of tearing each other down.
A culture where being excellent at your job and being loved don't have to be mutually exclusive.
" She reaches across the table and takes my hands.
"Tonight, you get to show the world that philosophy under pressure. "
Fuck me, this woman. "Have I mentioned lately that I'm stupidly in love with you?"
"Not in the last hour. I was starting to worry."
"Dr. Bennett," I say, adopting that formal tone that always makes her pupils dilate slightly, "you're about to watch your husband captain his team to a playoff victory on national television. How does that make you feel?"
"Professionally? Confident in the mental preparation protocols we've implemented." Her voice drops to that husky register that goes straight to my cock. "Personally? Wet."
"Jesus Christ, Tessa."
"What? You asked how it makes me feel. That's how it makes me feel. Watching you lead, watching you excel at what you love while knowing you chose me over everything else?" She licks her bottom lip, and I swear she does it on purpose. "It's incredibly fucking arousing."
A knock on the door interrupts whatever I was about to say in response, which is probably for the best since we're in a professional setting and I was about to suggest some highly unprofessional activities.
"Five minutes to ice!" someone shouts through the door.
Tessa stands, smoothing down her skirt, instantly back in professional mode. "Remember what we practiced. Breathe through the pressure. Trust your instincts. Trust your team."
"What about after the game?" I ask, standing and moving closer. "When we're alone and this is all over?"
"After the game," she says, pressing a quick kiss to my lips, "you can do whatever you want to me."
"That's a dangerous promise, Dr. Bennett."
"That's the point, Captain Kingston."
The puck drops at center ice, and Game 7 explodes into life with the kind of pace that separates playoff hockey from everything else.
Boston wins the opening draw clean, their center immediately chipping it deep into our zone with the kind of dump-and-chase strategy designed to establish forechecking dominance early.
Their first line comes in hard—Marchand, Bergeron, and Pastrnak flying down the ice like guided missiles. Marchand gets to the puck first, cycling it low while Bergeron crashes the net. I step up to cut off the passing lane, but Pastrnak finds a seam along the far boards.
"Rotate!" I bark to Kevin, who's already sliding over to cover the weak side.
The shot comes hard and low—Pastrnak's signature wrister from the hash marks.
Torres drops into his butterfly, but the puck deflects off Kevin's skate and caroms toward the corner where Bergeron is waiting.
Pure instinct has me diving stick-first, sweeping the puck out of danger just as sixty-three goes for the wrap-around.
"Fuck me, that was close," Kevin pants as we regroup behind our net.
"Stay tight," I tell him. "They're hunting early."
Martinez sends out our second line for the next shift, but Boston's not letting up.
They're running a 1-2-2 forecheck that's designed to trap us in our own zone, forcing turnovers with aggressive stick work and body positioning.
It's textbook playoff hockey—sacrifice individual creativity for systematic pressure.
Three minutes in, their power forward Thomas catches Kevin with a perfectly timed open-ice hit as he's carrying the puck up the wall. It's clean but devastating—the kind of check that echoes through the building and sends a message about pain tolerance.
"That's playoff hockey!" someone shouts from their bench.
Kevin gets up slowly, testing his shoulder, and I'm already moving toward Thomas for the inevitable conversation that happens after hits like that.
"Good hit," I tell him, meaning it. "But remember—I see everything."
Thomas just grins. "Looking forward to it, Captain."
The psychological warfare is as much part of Game 7 as anything that shows up on the score sheet. Both teams know that breaking will beats breaking bones, so every hit, every cross-check, every little tap after the whistle is designed to test mental toughness.
Boston's system is becoming clear—they're running a tight neutral zone trap, clogging the middle ice with bodies and forcing us to make plays along the boards where their forecheckers can pin us. Smart hockey. Frustrating hockey.
"They're sitting on the 1-4," I tell Martinez during a TV timeout. "We need to stretch them vertically."
"Agreed. Start activating your D-partners. Make them respect your gap control."
The next shift, I jump into the play early, timing my pinch perfectly as Cole carries the puck into their zone. Their winger has to respect my positioning, which creates a 2-on-1 down low that Cole almost converts into our first scoring chance.
"That's the read!" Martinez shouts from the bench. "Keep them honest!"
But Boston adjusts immediately—that's why they're in Game 7. Their defensemen start backing off my pinches, giving themselves more gap to work with. It becomes a chess match of positioning and timing, each team probing for systemic weaknesses.
With eight minutes left in the first, they get their breakthrough. A seemingly innocent faceoff in our zone turns dangerous when their center wins it back to the point. Their defenseman— Hampus Lindholm—loads up for a slap shot that's designed less to score than to create chaos in front of our net.
The puck deflects off three different bodies before Torres even sees it. By the time he reacts, Pastrnak is already celebrating what should have been the opening goal. But somehow—pure fucking reflexes—Torres gets his blocker on it, sending the rebound harmlessly into the corner.
"Holy shit, Torres!" I scream, tapping his pads as play continues. "What a save!"
"Saw it late," he pants. "Lucky bounce."
"Skill, not luck."
The momentum shift is palpable. Boston had their best chance, their perfect setup, and Torres stoned them with the kind of save that can define seasons. Now it's our turn to push back.
With five minutes left in the first period, we finally get our opening. Their defenseman—McAvoy—gets caught pinching too aggressively in our zone, and Kevin makes him pay with a perfect stretch pass that sends Cole on a 2-on-1 with Jamie.
But instead of the odd-man rush, McAvoy hooks Cole from behind—a veteran penalty that prevents a scoring chance but costs his team two minutes.
"Power play time!" the PA announcer bellows, and twenty thousand people lose their minds.
In the timeout huddle, Martinez keeps it simple: "PP1, run Umbrella. Kingston, you quarterback from the point. Look for the seam pass first, shot second. Movement creates opportunity."
Our power play unit takes the ice—me at the point, Jamie and Cole on the half-walls, Alexei in the bumper position, and Kevin as the net-front presence. It's the same formation we've run all season, but Game 7 pressure makes everything feel different.
The faceoff is crucial. Jamie needs to win it clean to establish possession and get our setup rolling. Boston's penalty kill is expecting our normal right-side entry, so we audible at the last second.
"Switch!" I bark, and Jamie slides the draw directly back to me instead.