Page 11 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
"Good. Keep it that way."
I walk out without responding, because what am I supposed to say? That he's right? That the woman I can't stop thinking aboutis my wife, and we're both pretending we don't know each other while slowly driving each other insane?
Yeah, that'll go over well.
As I head toward the ice for practice, I catch a glimpse of Tessa in the observation window, and my chest does that stupid fluttering thing it's been doing since Vegas. She's wearing a navy blazer and those glasses that make her look like every fantasy I've ever had about smart women, and when she glances down at me, I swear I can feel the weight of her gaze.
Three days in Detroit. Three days of trying to pretend I don't know what she sounds like when she comes. Three days of acting like I don't want to pin her against the nearest wall and remind her exactly why she married me.
It’s evening and today I'm playing like I've been lobotomized by a particularly vindictive Zamboni. I've missed three easy passes, taken a penalty for boarding when the guy barely touched the boards, and I'm pretty sure I just tried to pass to a referee.
I'm in the middle of a passing drill when my stick decides to snap in half like a twig. Perfect. Because apparently the hockey gods have a sense of humor about my suffering.
"Equipment room, Kingston!" Coach Martinez calls out. "Get a replacement and get back out here!"
I skate toward the tunnel, trying not to think about how this is exactly the kind of coincidence that always happens in those romantic comedies Jamie's always forcing me to watch. Exceptthis isn't a movie, and I'm not some lovesick protagonist who's going to stumble into a cute meet-cute with?—
"Oh. Hi."
Fuck my life.
Tessa is standing in the middle of the equipment room, surrounded by clipboards and supply lists, looking like she belongs here. She's traded her blazer for a simple black sweater that hugs her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry, and her hair is pulled back in a messy bun that makes me want to slide my hands along her waist and pull her against me. "Dr. Bennett," I manage, grabbing a replacement stick from the rack with more force than necessary.
"Mr. Kingston." Her voice is steady, professional, but I can see the slight flush in her cheeks. "I was just reviewing the equipment supply lists with Mike."
Mike Henderson, our equipment manager, chooses that moment to pop his head up from behind a stack of helmets. "Dr. Bennett here is a godsend, Dax. She's helping us understand the psychological impact of equipment consistency on player performance."
"Is that right?" I ask, testing the flex of the new stick while trying not to stare at the way her sweater clings to her breasts.
"It's fascinating stuff," Mike continues, oblivious to the tension crackling between us. "Did you know that players who use the same equipment setup for more than six months show 23% better performance metrics than those who switch regularly?"
"I did not know that," I reply, even though I couldn't give less of a shit about performance metrics right now. Not when Tessa isstanding three feet away, smelling like that perfume that's been haunting my dreams.
"The psychological comfort of familiarity translates directly to on-ice confidence," Tessa explains, and fuck if her professional voice doesn't do things to me. "When players trust their equipment completely, they can focus entirely on execution instead of worrying about potential failures."
"Makes sense," I say, which is about all my brain can manage when she's looking at me like that.
"Anyway," Mike says, gathering up his paperwork, "I should get back to the bench. Thanks for your help, Dr. Bennett. This is exactly the kind of insight we need."
He disappears back toward the tunnel, leaving us alone in the small space. The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we're not saying.
"You should get back to practice," she says quietly, not meeting my eyes.
"Yeah." But I don't move. Neither does she.
We're standing maybe two feet apart, and I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The way her lips are slightly parted. The way she's gripping that clipboard like it's the only thing keeping her grounded.
"Dax," she whispers, and the sound of my name on her lips almost breaks me.
"I know." I take a step closer, and she doesn't back away. "I know we said we'd keep it professional."
"We have to."
"I know."
"If Harrison finds out?—"
"He won't."
