Page 6 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
CHAPTER 3
TESSA
The walk to equipment room B feels like a death march to my own professional execution. My hands are shaking, and not from the cold. I keep telling myself this is just a conversation between colleagues, but my body knows better. My pulse is racing, my palms are sweaty, and there's a fluttering in my stomach that has nothing to do with nerves.
This is exactly how it started in Seattle. The blurred lines. The moments when professional boundaries started to feel negotiable instead of absolute. The slow slide from respected colleague to potential problem.
I can't let that happen again. I won't.
Equipment room B smells like hockey tape, industrial deodorizer, and the faint scent of whatever masculine cologne Dax wore in Vegas. It's a small space lined with metal shelving units holding extra gear, and he's somehow managed to arrange two equipment trunks as makeshift seats facing each other.
He's already there when I arrive, looking less intimidating in dark jeans and a team hoodie but somehow more dangerous.Maybe it's the way he's sitting—relaxed but coiled, like he could spring into action at any moment. Or maybe it's the way those storm-gray eyes track my every movement as I close the door behind me.
"You came," he says, and there's something almost vulnerable in his voice that makes my chest tight.
"Yeah." I smooth my skirt and perch on the edge of the trunk across from him, maintaining as much distance as the small space allows. "Though I'm not sure what there is to discuss."
"Really?" He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Because I can think of about thirty things, starting with how the fuck you ended up here."
The profanity shouldn't affect me—I work with professional athletes, I've heard worse—but the way he says it, low and rough, sends heat straight through me.
"I needed a job," I say carefully. "The Renegades offered me one."
"Cut the shit, Tessa." His eyes narrow. "You don't just randomly end up as the mental performance coach for the same team where your..." He pauses, jaw working. "What are we calling this? One-night stand? Hookup? Marriage?"
I can't bring myself to look at him. Instead, I focus on my hands, twisting my ring finger the way I always do when I'm stressed.
"I prefer 'mistake,'" I say quietly.
The silence stretches long enough that I finally risk a glance at him. His expression is unreadable, but there's something sharp in his eyes that makes me want to take the words back.
"How did you find out about the job?" he asks finally.
"I applied for the position six weeks ago.." I pause, then add, "If I had to make the decision again now, knowing what I know, I probably would have turned it down."
"Because it would be awkward?"
"Because it would be impossible." I stand up, suddenly needing to move. "Do you have any idea what happened to me in Seattle?"
"No," he says carefully. "But I'd like to."
I stop pacing and turn to face him, wrapping my arms around myself. "I had a job with the Titans. Good position, working with elite athletes. Everything I'd worked for."
"And?"
"Marcus Williams." The name tastes bitter on my tongue. "Star quarterback. He decided he wanted to add me to his collection of conquests."
Dax's jaw tightens. "What happened?"
"At first, it was just comments. Compliments about my appearance, suggestions that we grab dinner. I kept it professional, redirected conversations back to work. But he kept pushing."
I can feel the familiar knot forming in my stomach. "It escalated. He started showing up at my office unannounced, sending flowers, making increasingly inappropriate comments. I told him repeatedly that I wasn't interested, that our relationship was strictly professional."
"Jesus." Dax's hands are clenched into fists. "What did you do?"
"I reported it to my supervisor. Followed proper channels, documented everything." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You know what they said? They questionedmyprofessionalism. Suggested I'd been too friendly. That maybe I'd given him the wrong impression."
"That's fucking bullshit."
