Page 110 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
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."
