Page 75 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
Twenty minutes later, he's holding me while I ugly-cry into his chest about how this is exactly what happened in Seattle, how I'm cursed, how I should have known better than to think I could have something good without it exploding in my face.
"Hey," he says, tilting my chin up. "Look at me. We're going to figure this out."
"How? Harrison gave us forty-eight hours. The media threat is now twenty-four hours. Your trade decision is forty-eight hours. The team leaves for the road trip in three days." I'm counting on my fingers like a deranged mathematician. "Everything is happening at once and I can't—I can't think straight."
"Then we go somewhere we can think straight. Neutral territory. Away from here, away from the facility."
An hour later, we're sitting in a corner booth at a diner forty minutes outside the city, surrounded by truckers and early-shift workers who couldn't give less of a shit about hockey drama.
"Okay," Dax says, spreading sugar packets across the table like we're planning a military operation. "Our options. One: we hide. Deny everything, hope it blows over."
"That worked so well in Seattle," I mutter.
"Two: we fight. Go public ourselves, control the narrative, tell Harrison to fuck off."
"And risk both our careers."
"Three: we run. I take the Boston trade, you resign, we disappear and try to make it work long-distance."
The thought of him leaving makes my chest feel like it's caving in. "That's not running. That's surrendering."
"What do you want to do, Tessa? Really want to do, not what you think you should do."
Before I can answer, my phone rings. Coach Martinez.
"Dr. Bennett? I need you at the facility. Emergency team meeting."
"Is everything okay?"
"Just... get here. Soon as you can."
The practice facility feels different when we arrive. There's an energy in the air, a tension that has nothing to do with upcoming games and everything to do with the fact that apparently half the team is clustered around Jamie Torres in the hallway, having what looks like a very intense conversation.
"Shit," Dax mutters. "They know."
"How could they possibly know?"
"Because I've been playing like garbage and walking around looking like someone killed my dog. These guys aren't stupid."
Jamie spots us first. "There they are. Both of you, conference room. Now."
"Torres—" Dax starts.
"No, man. No more bullshit. We're having this conversation."
The conference room fills up with players, and I'm sitting there feeling like I'm about to be voted off the island when Jamie stands up.
"Okay, so here's the thing," he announces. "We all know you two are together."
My heart stops. "Jamie?—"
"And we also all know Harrison's being a dick about it."
Several players nod, murmuring agreement.
"So we voted," Jamie continues. "Unanimous decision. We think you're both incredible at your jobs, you make each other happy, and anyone who has a problem with that can kiss our collective asses."
"That's very sweet," I manage, "but it's not that simple?—"
