Page 17 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
"I'm always focused."
"Yeah, but this is different. You look like you're about to murder someone, but in a good way."
Before I can respond, the referee drops the puck and the game begins.
Three minutes in, I lay a hit on their power forward that sends him into the boards so hard the glass shakes. Clean hit, perfectly timed, but the crowd loses their minds anyway.
"Holy shit, Kingston!" Torres laughs as we skate back to position. "What did that guy ever do to you?"
Nothing. But I've got three days of sexual frustration and emotional confusion to work out, and unfortunately for Detroit, hockey is the only outlet I've got.
By the end of the first period, we're up 2-0 and I've already registered four hits and two assists. My timing is perfect, my passes are crisp, and I'm reading the ice like I wrote the playbook myself.
"Whatever you had for breakfast," Coach Martinez says during the first intermission, "eat it before every game."
"Just focused, Coach."
"Focused my ass. You're playing like your life depends on it."
He's not wrong. Every time I glance up at the press box and catch a glimpse of Tessa taking notes, something primal kicks in. Like I need to prove I'm worth watching. Worth analyzing. Worth whatever risk she's taking by being here.
The second period is more of the same. I break up two scoring chances, set up another goal for Torres, and deliver a hit so clean and devastating that the Detroit captain spends the rest of his shift looking over his shoulder.
"Dude," one of the rookies pants during a line change, "you're fucking terrifying tonight."
"Damn right I am," I shoot back, grinning as I tap my stick against the boards. "Try to keep up."
By the third period, we've got a comfortable 4-1 lead and I'm feeling like I could play another full game. Every muscle is firing perfectly, every decision is instinctive, and for the first time in weeks, my head is completely clear.
We win 4-2, and as I skate off the ice, I can't help but look up at the press box one more time.
"That was some of the best hockey I've seen you play," the Detroit reporter says, shoving a microphone in my face. "What was different about tonight?"
I could mention the new mental performance coaching. Could talk about team chemistry or preparation or any of the standard bullshit hockey players are supposed to say.
Instead, I hear myself saying, "Sometimes you just feel locked in. Credit to our new staff for helping us prepare mentally. Dr. Bennett's been working with us on focus and confidence, and I think you saw the results tonight."
It's not a lie. But it's not the whole truth either.
The whole truth is that I played the best game of my season because I wanted to impress my wife.
Post-game dinner is at some upscale steakhouse downtown, the kind of place that reserves its entire back room for professional athletes and charges accordingly. The mood is celebratory—nothing bonds a team like a convincing road win—and for once, I'm not sitting at the edge of the group counting down minutes until I can escape.
Tessa is sitting three seats down from me, talking to Chen about something that's making her laugh, and I'm trying not to stare at the way her eyes light up when she's genuinely amused.
"She fits in well," Torres observes, following my gaze.
"Who?"
"Dr. Bennett. The guys like her. Usually takes weeks for new staff to feel comfortable, but look at her."
He's right. She's not just sitting there politely while conversations happen around her—she's actively engaging. Asking the rookies about their families. Listening to Martinez explain some complicated play while nodding like she actually gives a shit. Making dry observations that have half the table cracking up.
"She's good at her job," I say carefully.
"She's good at a lot of things, apparently." Torres steals a piece of bread from my plate. "Did you see how she handled that reporter who asked about 'psychological manipulation'? Shut him down without making him look like an idiot."
I hadn't seen that, but now I wish I had.
