Epilogue
TESSA
O ne year, two championships, three book tours, and approximately ninety-seven orgasms later—not that I'm counting or anything—I'm sitting across from my husband at the same restaurant where we had our first official date, trying not to ugly-cry into my overpriced pasta.
"Stop it," Dax says, reaching across the table to thumb away a tear that escaped despite my best efforts. "You're going to make me cry too, and then we'll both be a mess. ."
"I can't help it," I sniffle, gesturing vaguely at the framed photo he just presented me with. "Look at this disaster. We look like drunk college kids who wandered into a costume party."
The Vegas wedding photo is even worse than I remembered.
There we are, both wearing plastic Elvis sunglasses that are somehow crooked and too big, grinning like absolute lunatics while an Elvis impersonator who looks more like a discount Wayne Newton performs what I can only assume was supposed to be a ceremony.
My hair is a mess, Dax's shirt is buttoned wrong, and we're both holding those tacky chapel flowers like they're Olympic torches.
"It's the worst wedding photo in the history of marriage," Dax says solemnly. "I fucking love it."
"I kept the receipt," I admit, pulling the crumpled piece of paper from my wallet. "Look at this thing. 'One Premium Elvis Wedding Package - $147.99.' We got married for less than what I spent on my dry cleaning last month."
"Best hundred and forty-seven dollars I ever spent," he grins, taking the receipt and examining it like it's a historical artifact. "Though I'm pretty sure we also tipped Elvis another twenty for the deluxe serenade."
"Oh my God, yes! He sang 'Love Me Tender' while we exchanged those plastic rings!" I dissolve into laughter, remembering how serious we both looked during that ridiculous moment. "I can't believe we thought that was romantic."
"Hey, drunk me had excellent taste in wives. Sober me just got lucky that you didn't bolt when you saw what a disaster I was."
"Are you kidding? You read Nietzsche for fun and had the best hands I'd ever seen. Drunk me knew exactly what she was doing."
"Speaking of my hands," Dax's voice drops to that register that makes my thighs clench involuntarily, "I seem to remember someone mentioning plans for later..."
Before I can respond with something appropriately filthy, our waiter appears with champagne.
"Compliments of the gentleman at table twelve," he says, setting down the bottle with a flourish. "He says congratulations on the championship and the bestseller."
I look over to see a middle-aged man in a business suit raising his glass in our direction. We wave back politely, but Dax's jaw tightens slightly.
"Does it ever bother you?" I ask after the waiter leaves. "Being recognized everywhere we go?"
"Only when people act like they own pieces of our story," he admits, pouring the champagne. "But tonight? Tonight I just want to celebrate how fucking incredible this year has been."
"Incredible is one word for it," I laugh, thinking about everything that's happened since Game 7. "Completely insane is another."
The Stanley Cup victory two months after that Game 7 still feels surreal.
Dax lifting the Cup above his head while twenty thousand people screamed his name, tears streaming down his face as he skated toward me in the stands.
The way he kissed me right there on national television, not caring who saw or what they thought, because we'd already proven that love makes you stronger, not weaker.
"I still can't believe we won the fucking Cup," Dax says, echoing my thoughts. "Two months ago I was worried about validating our choices. Now I'm Director of Player Development and you're running mental performance for the entire organization."
"Don't forget bestselling authors," I add, clinking my glass against his. "Though I still think you're better at the interview circuit than I am."
"That's because you actually know what you're talking about. I just smile and let you handle the smart questions."
"You handle the smart questions too, you beautiful genius. Remember that corporate conference where you explained the intersection of athletic performance and emotional intelligence? I nearly jumped you on stage."
His eyes darken with that familiar heat. "You did jump me. In the hotel elevator, if I recall correctly."
"That was your fault for wearing that navy suit that makes your shoulders look illegal."
"Everything I wear makes my shoulders look illegal. I'm very well-built."
"Modest, too." I roll my eyes, but I'm grinning. "Speaking of which, have I mentioned how fucking gorgeous you look tonight?"
He's wearing a simple black button-down that he's left open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and I swear to God the man could make a garbage bag look like haute couture. The way the fabric stretches across his chest should be classified as a public hazard.
"Tell me more about how gorgeous I am," he says, leaning back in his chair with that cocky smile that makes me want to climb across the table. "I live for your scientific analysis of my attractiveness."
"Scientifically speaking, you're absolutely devastating. Those storm-gray eyes that see everything, the way your hands move when you're talking—which I've been fantasizing about since our first team meeting, by the way—and don't get me started on what you look like in hockey pants."
"What about hockey pants?" His grin turns wicked.
"Oh please, like you don't know. The way they hug your ass? The thigh muscles? I used to time my observation schedule around your equipment room visits just to watch you walk."
"You did not."
"I absolutely did. And you know what the worst part was? Pretending not to notice while taking notes about 'player movement patterns' and 'athletic positioning.' I'm pretty sure half my early reports were just detailed descriptions of how your body moved."
Dax nearly chokes on his champagne. "Jesus Christ, Tessa. Are you telling me you were professionally documenting how much you wanted to fuck me?"
"Professionally documenting your physical capabilities, thank you very much. The fucking part was just excellent research methodology."
"Dr. Bennett, you're absolutely filthy and I'm obsessed with you."
"Good, because you're stuck with me. Legally and everything."
"Speaking of legally," he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope. "I have something else for you."
"More surprises? Dax, the photo was already perfect."
"Open it."
Inside the envelope are official documents—our annulment papers, which we never filed, now stamped with "VOID" in red ink.
"I voided them," he says simply. "Last week. Had them officially stamped so there's no going back. Thought you should know we're officially, permanently, ridiculously married."
"You voided our annulment papers?"
"Also bought us real wedding rings to replace those plastic disasters from Vegas." He pulls out a small velvet box. "Because my wife deserves better than costume jewelry, even if she looked fucking perfect wearing it."
The ring is simple, elegant—a platinum band with a single perfect diamond that catches the candlelight and throws rainbows across my champagne glass.
"Dax," I breathe, staring at the ring. "It's beautiful."
"Not as beautiful as you, but it'll have to do until I figure out how to bottle starlight." He takes my left hand, sliding the ring onto my finger with infinite care. "There. Now you look properly married to a man who's stupidly in love with you."
"I can't believe you did this."
"I can't believe you're surprised. Did you really think I was going to let some technicality about drunk Vegas marriages stop me from being your husband forever?"
"Forever is a long time, Kingston."
"Not long enough, Bennett. Or should I say Mrs. Kingston?"
"I'm keeping my name professionally, thank you very much. Dr. Bennett has worked too hard to build her reputation to give it up now."
"Fair enough. But in bed, you're Mrs. Kingston. And when I introduce you at parties. And when I'm talking to my teammates about how incredible my wife is."
"In bed I'm usually too busy screaming your name to worry about titles."
"My favorite kind of research," he grins, flagging down our waiter. "Check, please. I need to get my wife home so I can properly celebrate our non-annulment."
"What exactly did you have in mind for this celebration?"
"I'm going to worship every inch of your body until you remember why you married me in Vegas.
Then I'm going to remind you why you chose to stay married to me.
Then, if you're very good, I'll show you exactly what I've been thinking about during all those board meetings where you look so professional and untouchable. "
Heat floods through me, settling low and demanding between my thighs. "Jesus, the way you talk should be illegal in twelve states."
"Wait until you hear what I'm going to whisper in your ear when I'm buried deep inside you tonight."
"Dax Kingston, you're going to make me come right here at this table if you keep talking like that."
"Don't tempt me, Dr. Bennett. I have very creative ideas about public spaces and the sounds you make when you're trying to stay quiet."
The waiter returns with our check, and Dax pays quickly while I try to remember how to breathe normally. The man has ruined me for polite dinner conversation. Everything he says sounds like foreplay, and frankly, that's exactly how I like it.
"Ready to go home, Mrs. Kingston?" he asks, standing and offering me his arm.
"Ready to go anywhere you want to take me, Dr. Bennett's Husband."
"I prefer 'Tessa's Very Lucky Bastard,' actually."