Page 14 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
The bus goes quiet for a moment, and I can practically feel everyone processing the fact that their star defenseman just casually dropped an intellectual bomb.
"I have no idea what that means," Jamie says finally, "but it sounds very smart and slightly terrifying."
"It means Kingston's been reading again," another voice chimes in. "Remember when he tried to explain that Nietzsche guy to us?"
"That was one time," Dax says, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
"One time was enough, man. I had nightmares about the abyss staring back at me."
The conversation dissolves into laughter and chirping, but I'm stuck on one thought: the man I married in Vegas reads philosophy. Heavy philosophy. The kind that makes you question reality and existence and the nature of consciousness.
No wonder the sex was so good. A man who thinks deeply about existence probably thinks deeply about everything.
"Earth to Dr. Bennett," Ethan says, waving a hand in front of my face. "The bus stopped. We're at the hotel."
I blink, realizing everyone is standing up and gathering their things. "Right. Hotel. Perfect."
As I grab my bag and follow the coaching staff off the bus, I catch a glimpse of Dax stretching in his seat, and the way his t-shirt rides up to reveal a strip of toned abs nearly makes me trip down the bus steps.
Actually, scratch that. Itdoesmake me trip down the bus steps.
One second I'm walking like a normal, coordinated human being, and the next I'm doing some kind of interpretive dance routine that would make a drunk flamingo look graceful. Mylaptop bag swings wildly as I try to catch my balance, my heel catches on the bottom step, and I go down in a spectacular display of flailing limbs and wounded dignity.
"Shit!" I yelp, which probably isn't the most professional thing to say, but it's better than the string of profanity running through my head.
I brace myself for the impact with the concrete, but instead of hitting the ground, I find myself caught by two strong arms that wrap around me like steel bands. The world spins for a moment, and then I'm looking up into storm-gray eyes that are way too close and way too concerned.
"You okay?" Dax asks, his voice rough with worry, and I realize he's essentially holding me in a dip position like we're dancing. His face is inches from mine, close enough that I can see the tiny scar through his eyebrow.
"Fine," I squeak, which is a lie because I'm definitely not fine. I'm being held by my secret husband in front of the entire hockey team, and my body is responding in ways that are completely inappropriate for a professional setting.
"You sure?" He's still holding me, and I can feel the heat of his hands through my blazer. "That was quite a fall."
"I'm sure," I manage, trying to ignore how his thumb is unconsciously stroking against my back. "You can, um, let me go now."
"Right."
"Nice reflexes, man," one of the rookies calls out. "That was like something out of a movie."
That breaks the spell. Dax immediately helps me stand upright, his hands lingering on my waist for just a second longer than necessary before he steps back.
"Are you hurt, Dr. Bennett?" Coach Martinez appears at my elbow, looking concerned. "Do you need medical attention?"
"I'm fine," I say, smoothing down my blazer and trying to regain some semblance of professional composure. "Just clumsy. Thank you, Mr. Kingston."
"How gallant," Jamie grins, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. "Good thing you were right there to catch her."
"Good thing," I echo weakly, because what else can I say?Actually, he was sitting three rows behind me on the bus, which means he would have had to move pretty damn fast to catch me, which suggests he might have been watching me as closely as I was watching him?
Yeah, that's not suspicious at all.
"Anyway," I say, hefting my bag more securely, "I should probably go check in before I embarrass myself further."
Several players make appreciative noises, and I feel my cheeks burn. Because yes, I'm very aware of exactly how quick Dax's hands are, and thinking about it is not helping my current state of professional panic.
"I should go," I say again, practically fleeing toward the hotel entrance.
But as I walk away, I can feel Dax's eyes on me, and I swear I can still feel the phantom warmth of his hands on my waist.
