Page 104 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
"I think you're overthinking this like you overthink everything else, you beautiful, philosophical disaster." Her mouth curves into that smile that makes my chest feel too small for my heart. "This game isn't about validating our choices. It's about proving what we've built together."
"What have we built?"
"A team that went to war for us when Harrison tried to destroy our careers. A family that celebrates each other's success instead of tearing each other down. A culture where being excellent at your job and being loved don't have to be mutually exclusive." She reaches across the table and takes my hands. "Tonight, you get to show the world that philosophy under pressure."
Fuck me, this woman. "Have I mentioned lately that I'm stupidly in love with you?"
"Not in the last hour. I was starting to worry."
"Dr. Bennett," I say, adopting that formal tone that always makes her pupils dilate slightly, "you're about to watch your husband captain his team to a playoff victory on national television. How does that make you feel?"
"Professionally? Confident in the mental preparation protocols we've implemented." Her voice drops to that husky register that goes straight to my cock. "Personally? Wet."
"Jesus Christ, Tessa."
"What? You asked how it makes me feel. That's how it makes me feel. Watching you lead, watching you excel at what you love while knowing you chose me over everything else?" She licks herbottom lip, and I swear she does it on purpose. "It's incredibly fucking arousing."
A knock on the door interrupts whatever I was about to say in response, which is probably for the best since we're in a professional setting and I was about to suggest some highly unprofessional activities.
"Five minutes to ice!" someone shouts through the door.
Tessa stands, smoothing down her skirt, instantly back in professional mode. "Remember what we practiced. Breathe through the pressure. Trust your instincts. Trust your team."
"What about after the game?" I ask, standing and moving closer. "When we're alone and this is all over?"
"After the game," she says, pressing a quick kiss to my lips, "you can do whatever you want to me."
"That's a dangerous promise, Dr. Bennett."
"That's the point, Captain Kingston."
The puck drops at center ice, and Game 7 explodes into life with the kind of pace that separates playoff hockey from everything else. Boston wins the opening draw clean, their center immediately chipping it deep into our zone with the kind of dump-and-chase strategy designed to establish forechecking dominance early.
Their first line comes in hard—Marchand, Bergeron, and Pastrnak flying down the ice like guided missiles. Marchand gets to the puck first, cycling it low while Bergeron crashes the net.I step up to cut off the passing lane, but Pastrnak finds a seam along the far boards.
"Rotate!" I bark to Kevin, who's already sliding over to cover the weak side.
The shot comes hard and low—Pastrnak's signature wrister from the hash marks. Torres drops into his butterfly, but the puck deflects off Kevin's skate and caroms toward the corner where Bergeron is waiting. Pure instinct has me diving stick-first, sweeping the puck out of danger just as sixty-three goes for the wrap-around.
"Fuck me, that was close," Kevin pants as we regroup behind our net.
"Stay tight," I tell him. "They're hunting early."
Martinez sends out our second line for the next shift, but Boston's not letting up. They're running a 1-2-2 forecheck that's designed to trap us in our own zone, forcing turnovers with aggressive stick work and body positioning. It's textbook playoff hockey—sacrifice individual creativity for systematic pressure.
Three minutes in, their power forward Thomas catches Kevin with a perfectly timed open-ice hit as he's carrying the puck up the wall. It's clean but devastating—the kind of check that echoes through the building and sends a message about pain tolerance.
"That's playoff hockey!" someone shouts from their bench.
Kevin gets up slowly, testing his shoulder, and I'm already moving toward Thomas for the inevitable conversation that happens after hits like that.
"Good hit," I tell him, meaning it. "But remember—I see everything."
Thomas just grins. "Looking forward to it, Captain."
The psychological warfare is as much part of Game 7 as anything that shows up on the score sheet. Both teams know that breaking will beats breaking bones, so every hit, every cross-check, every little tap after the whistle is designed to test mental toughness.
Boston's system is becoming clear—they're running a tight neutral zone trap, clogging the middle ice with bodies and forcing us to make plays along the boards where their forecheckers can pin us. Smart hockey. Frustrating hockey.
