Page 4 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
When Coach Martinez finally leaves us alone, the silence stretches between us like a live wire. She's standing there in her perfect outfit with her perfect posture, but I can see the woman underneath. The one who bit my shoulder when she came and whispered my name like a prayer.
"Well, Dr. Bennett," I say, standing slowly and making sure she gets a good look at what she walked away from. "I guess I'll see you around."
I let all the heat and frustration I've been feeling for three days bleed into those words, watching as her cheeks flush and her breathing quickens. The way she's looking at me—like she wants to run toward me and away from me at the same time—tells me everything I need to know.
She remembers. She remembers everything.
And she's just as fucked up about this as I am.
Morning practice is usually my sanctuary. The one place where everything makes sense, where I can channel all my frustration and anger and need for control into something productive. But today, I might as well be skating in quicksand.
I've missed three passes, blown a coverage drill, and Torres is giving me looks like I've lost my damn mind. Which, to be fair, I probably have.
Because sitting in the observation window above the rink, taking notes on a fucking clipboard like she belongs here, is my wife. My wife who ran away. My wife who's now my colleague. My wife who's pretending she doesn't know me.
The irony would be hilarious if it weren't so goddamn terrifying.
I try to focus on the drill—simple passing exercise that I could do in my sleep—but my eyes keep drifting up to that window. She's got her hair pulled back again, and she's wearing glasses I don't remember from Vegas. They make her look serious and professional and absolutely fucking gorgeous.
She's scribbling something in her notebook, probably documenting how the team's star defenseman has suddenly developed the hockey IQ of a concussed penguin.
"Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?" Torres skates up beside me during a water break, following my gaze up to the observation window. "You're playing like you've never seen a puck before."
"Nothing's wrong," I lie, taking a long drink.
"Right," Jamie says, his voice dripping with skepticism. "And I'm the fucking Easter Bunny. You've been staring at the new shrink like she's the answer to all your problems."
If only he knew.
"She's not a shrink," I correct automatically. "She's a mental performance coach."
"Oh, excuse me," he grins, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. "You already got it bad for Dr. Bennett, don't you? Shit, Kingston, you work fast. She's been here for what, a few hours?"
"Drop it, Torres."
"No way, man. This is too good. Big bad Dax Kingston, slayed by the pretty psychologist on her first day. I'm definitely telling Chen about this."
I grab the front of his jersey and pull him close enough that he can see I'm not fucking around. "I said drop it."
His eyes widen slightly, but he's grinning like Christmas morning. "Holy shit, you're serious about this. What happened? Something wrong?"
Wrong isn’t the word I’d use… More like we met, got drunk, talked for hours like we’d been waiting our whole lives to meet, got married, had the best sex of my life, and then she ghosted me like Cinderella at midnight. But I can't exactly tell him that.
"It's complicated," I say instead, releasing his jersey.
"Everything's complicated with you, man. But this is different. You never look at women like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're drowning and she's the only one who knows CPR."
Coach Martinez blows his whistle, calling us back to the drill, and I've never been so grateful for the distraction. But even as I try to focus on the play, I can feel her watching me.
The thought should piss me off. Instead, it just makes me want to give her something worth analyzing.
I throw myself into the next drill with more intensity than necessary, making hits that are perfectly legal but probably excessive for a practice. I can practically feel her pen moving across that clipboard, documenting my aggression levels or whatever the hell she's supposed to be measuring.
When practice finally ends, I storm off the ice. I need to get out of here before I do something stupid. Like march up to that observation window and demand to know why she ghosted me like it meant nothing.
