Page 26 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
Focus, Tessa. You're a mental performance coach, not a horny teenager.
But when he glances up at the observation window mid-stretch, our eyes meet for exactly two seconds, and the heat in his gazenearly makes me forget where I am. He knows exactly what I'm thinking, the smug bastard, and there's definitely a hint of a smirk on his face as he transitions into another stretch that somehow manages to showcase his ass.
I'm pretty sure hockey players don't need to stretch like that, but I'm not complaining.
"Interesting," Ethan Chen says from beside me, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
"What's interesting?" I ask, trying to act natural and praying my face doesn’t look like a horny cartoon wolf.
"Kingston's focus today. He seems... centered. More relaxed than I've seen him in weeks.
Great. Now Ethan's noticing the change too.
"Maybe he's adjusting well to the mental performance protocols," I suggest, proud of how steady my voice sounds.
"Maybe." Ethan makes a note on his clipboard. "Whatever's working, we should bottle it. He's been different since you arrived."
Different how? I want to ask, but that would definitely raise suspicions.
Practice begins, and I force myself to focus on the job I'm actually being paid to do. I take notes on team dynamics, individual performance markers, and communication patterns, trying to ignore the way Dax moves across the ice like he's dancing.
Twenty minutes in, Jamie Torres takes a particularly aggressive shot during a drill and his stick explodes on impact, sending splinters across the ice.
"Fucking hell!" he shouts, "did you see that? Thing just exploded!"
"Bad batch of sticks," Dax calls out, skating over with a replacement. "Equipment manager's been complaining about the new supplier all week."
"This is my backup," Jamie grins. "The one I borrowed from you last night when mine snapped."
My pen stops moving across my notepad. Last night. When he came pounding on Dax's door while I was naked and thoroughly debauched in the next room.
"Good thing you're prepared," Coach Martinez observes. "Kingston always has extra gear."
"Always," Dax agrees, and when he glances up at me again, there's something wicked in his smile that makes my thighs clench involuntarily.
The rest of practice passes in a blur of professional note-taking punctuated by moments of completely unprofessional awareness every time Dax so much as breathes in my direction. By the time it's over, I have three pages of psychological observations and approximately seventeen fantasies about what we could do with that equipment room.
As the players file off the ice, my phone buzzes with a text.
Dax
Lunch? We need to talk.
Too risky. People will notice.
Dax
Not if we're smart about it.
I'm not feeling particularly smart lately.
Dax
Good thing you're with someone who knows strategy.
Despite my better judgment, I find myself smiling at my phone like a lovesick teenager.
Where?
