Page 49 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
"—telling you, something's different about Kingston this season," the morning host is saying. "The guy's been playing like he's got something to prove, but in the best way possible.More focused, better leadership, and that grin after he scored Tuesday? When's the last time we saw Dax Kingston actually smile on camera?"
"I'm thinking mystery girlfriend," the co-host chimes in. "Classic signs—sudden mood improvement, playing better than ever, actually answering interview questions with full sentences instead of grunting."
"Could be. Though Kingston's always been private about his personal life. Remember when that reporter asked about his dating status last year? I thought he was going to throw his stick at her."
Dax laughs against my neck, pressing a kiss to my collarbone that makes me shiver. "Mystery girlfriend. If only they knew."
"If only they knew I'm hiding in my own apartment like a criminal," I mutter, but I'm smiling. "Speaking of which, you should probably leave before Mrs. Buckley starts her morning power walk. She has the observation skills of a detective and the gossip network of a small-town newspaper."
"Five more minutes," he says, his hands sliding down to grip my hips. "I'm not ready to go back to pretending I don't know what you look like naked."
"Dax—"
"Or how you taste." His mouth finds that spot behind my ear that makes my brain short-circuit. "Or the sounds you make when I do this?—"
His hand slides between my legs, and I nearly arch off the bed. "Oh God, we don't have time for this."
"We have exactly enough time for this," he murmurs, his fingers moving. "Trust me, I'm very good with timing."
He's not wrong. Twenty minutes later, I'm boneless and thoroughly satisfied, watching him get dressed with the kind of appreciation usually reserved for fine art.
"This is going to be the longest day of my life," I tell him as he pulls on his shirt.
"Why?"
"Because I have to sit in that observation box and pretend I don't know exactly what you look like under all that hockey gear. Pretend I don't know how your hands feel on my skin or how you sound when you?—"
"Tessa." His voice is rough. "You're making it very hard to leave."
"Good. Suffer with me."
Practice is absolute torture. I'm sitting in my usual spot with my clipboard and professional expression, taking notes about team dynamics while trying not to stare at number 47 like a lovesick teenager. Which is harder than it sounds because Dax moves across the ice like he's performing some kind of athletic poetry, and I'm apparently a very dedicated poetry enthusiast.
"You're being very thorough with your observations today," Ethan Chen comments from beside me.
My pen freezes mid-note. "What do you mean?"
"Just that you've written 'excellent positioning' about Kingston twelve times in the last five minutes."
I look down at my notepad in horror. He's right. I've been unconsciously documenting Dax's every move like some kind of hockey stalker.
"I'm, um, tracking specific defensive patterns," I lie, flipping to a fresh page. "For my individual assessment reports."
"Right." Ethan's tone suggests he's not buying it, but he's too polite to call me out. "Well, whatever you're tracking, it seems to be working. The team chemistry has improved significantly since you started."
Ethan then glances at his watch. "I should check on the equipment situation before they finish up."
He heads down toward the tunnel, leaving me alone with my increasingly compromising thoughts about number 47.
"That's the goal," I say, forcing myself to look at literally any player except the one whose ass I was admiring in my bedroom three hours ago.
But apparently my brain has decided to sabotage me, because every time Dax makes a particularly good play, I feel this stupid surge of pride like I had something to do with it. Which I absolutely did not, except for the fact that he played like a man possessed after we slept together, which is correlation not causation, except?—
"Dr. Bennett?" Jamie Torres's voice interrupts my spiral. "You okay? You look like you're having some kind of internal crisis."
I realize practice has ended and I've been sitting here staring into space while players filed past me. "I'm fine. Just thinking about session scheduling."
"Cool. Speaking of which, we're still on for this afternoon, right? I've got some stuff I want to talk through."
