Page 103 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
The puck drops, and for the next three hours, Dax Kingston proceeds to remind the hockey world exactly why the BostonBruins should have tried harder to convince him to leave Chicago.
He doesn't just play hockey. He orchestrates a fucking symphony of athletic dominance, team leadership, and pure competitive fire that leaves Boston's bench looking like they've been hit by a very attractive, very skilled natural disaster.
First period: Dax sets up two goals with passes that defy physics and common sense.
Second period: He scores one himself, a wraparound goal that the Boston goalie never even sees coming. As the puck crosses the goal line, Dax looks directly at the Boston bench and taps his chest twice.
Same gesture he made to me during the anthem.
Message received, assholes.
Third period: With Chicago leading 4-1, Boston makes a desperate push. But every time they threaten, Dax is there—blocking shots, breaking up plays, making defensive decisions that turn potential scoring chances into frustrated Boston line changes.
Final score: Chicago 5, Boston 2.
In the post-game interviews, when a reporter asks if he felt any regret facing his "dream team," Dax's response becomes the sound bite that plays on every sports show for the next week:
"Dreams change when you grow up. My dream now is winning a Stanley Cup with the Chicago Renegades while married to the most brilliant woman I've ever met. Tonight was just the beginning of making that dream come true."
The series becomes a war of attrition—each game decided by a goal, both teams playing playoff hockey at its finest. Boston wins Game 2 in overtime. Chicago takes Game 3. Boston evens it in Game 4.
By Game 6, with Chicago leading the series 3-2, the national narrative has shifted from "hockey player chooses love over ambition" to "love story becomes championship story." But Boston forces Game 7 with a 2-1 overtime victory that leaves the series tied 3-3. And now, walking into the United Center for Game 7, I realize we're sixty minutes away from either validating every choice we've made, or watching our fairy tale end in front of the largest television audience in playoff history.
"No pressure," I mutter to myself, heading toward what might be either the best or worst night of our lives.
CHAPTER 24
DAX
Game 7.
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 oneshe 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."
