Page 41 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
"Hiding in pantries or seeing each other?"
"Both. Neither. I don't know." I run my hands through my hair. "This is getting too complicated."
"Maybe complicated isn't the worst thing."
"Easy for you to say. You didn't just spend ten minutes crouched behind kitchen furniture like some kind of deranged cat burglar."
"True. But you looked really cute doing it."
"I did not look cute. I looked terrified."
Despite everything, I'm smiling. Because somehow, even in the middle of the most ridiculous situation imaginable, he makes me feel like the most fascinating woman in the world.
"I should go," I whisper.
"Probably."
"Walk me to the door?"
"Obviously."
Walking into the training facility Monday morning feels like stepping into an alternate universe where the air itself is charged with electricity. I've been away from Dax for exactly thirty-six hours, and apparently my body has decided that's approximately thirty-five hours too long.
"Morning, Dr. Bennett," Martinez greets me with his usual warm smile as I settle into the observation box. "Good weekend?"
"Productive," I reply, which is technically true if you count spending two days replaying every moment of Friday night and wondering if it's possible to die from sexual frustration.
"Excellent. I've got some good news for you this morning."
"Oh?"
"We've got a home stand coming up—five games in the next two weeks. Gives you more time to work with the guys, really dive into individual sessions."
Five games. Two weeks. Which means Dax and I will be in the same city, sleeping in our own beds, with actual opportunities for privacy that don't involve hiding in pantries or equipment rooms.
"That sounds wonderful," I manage, proud of how professional I sound despite the fact that my brain immediately starts calculating logistics.
"The guys are excited too," Martinez continues. "Home crowds, familiar routines, their own beds. Always puts them in a better mood."
Their own beds. Yes, I'm definitely thinking about beds now. Specifically, Dax's bed, and whether it's as perfectly organized as the rest of his life, and whether he sleeps in boxers or nothing at all, and?—
"Dr. Bennett?"
"Sorry, just thinking about session scheduling," I lie quickly.
The players file onto the ice for practice, and I force myself to look anywhere except directly at number 47. Which lasts approximately twelve seconds, because apparently my self-control has the lifespan of a fruit fly.
He's doing warm-up stretches, and Jesus Christ, the man makes athletic wear look like it should be featured in museums dedicated to the art of masculine perfection. His practice jersey clings to every muscle of his chest and shoulders, and when he bends forward to stretch his hamstrings, I have to grip my pen so hard I'm surprised it doesn't snap.
When he straightens up and his eyes find mine through the observation window, the smile that spreads across his face is pure sin wrapped in hockey gear.
"You're documenting a lot of detail on Kingston today," Ethan Chen observes from beside me.
My heart stops. "What do you mean?"
"Your notes. You've got three pages just on his defensive positioning and leadership cues. Very thorough analysis."
"I'm preparing individual assessment reports," I say, trying to sound casual while my pulse performs acrobatics. "Some players require more detailed observation."
