Page 107 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
"We fucking did it!" Jamie screams, crashing into me with enough force to knock me over. "Game 7, baby!"
The celebration is everything—teammates dogpiling, coaches hugging, fans weeping with joy. But all I can think about is getting to Tessa, holding her, sharing this moment with the woman who made it all possible.
The post-game interviews are a blur of questions about vindication and validation, about choosing love over ambition, about proving the doubters wrong. But the question that gets me is from a young female reporter who asks: "What do you want people to remember about this story?"
I think about Tessa, probably watching from somewhere in the building, waiting for me to finish so we can celebrate properly.
"I want them to remember that excellence and love aren't mutually exclusive," I say. "That having someone who believes in you doesn't make you weaker—it makes you capable of things you never imagined. And I want every young athlete watching to know that choosing happiness over expectation isn't giving up. It's growing up."
The locker room celebration is exactly what you'd expect—champagne, music, grown men acting like teenagers who just got their first kiss. Jamie corners me near my stall, already three beers deep and grinning like an idiot.
"You know what gave you away?" he shouts over the music. "You started caring about your appearance! The extra-long showers, the cologne, the fact that you stopped leaving dirty dishes everywhere!"
"Fuck off, Torres," I laugh, but Cole joins in.
"And the way you'd check your phone every five minutes during practice! We all knew something was up when Dax Kingston became a romantic."
The entire team erupts in laughter, and I realize this—this moment, this joy, this family—is what we were really fighting for all along.
Two hours later, I'm finally alone with Tessa in our hotel room—we'd booked it to escape the post-game chaos and celebrate privately—still riding the high of victory and vindication.
She's changed out of her professional attire into the dress she wore to our victory celebration—a simple black number that hugs her curves and makes me want to worship every inch of her body.
But before I touch her, I grab the battered binder sitting on the desk. She tilts her head when I hand it over, brows knitting.
“What’s this?”
“My playbook,” I say, voice rough. “The real one.”
She opens it, expecting diagrams. Instead, she finds my handwriting spilling across the pages. The night in Vegas when she rolled her eyes at me in the chapel, but still slipped the ring on my finger. The way she calmed me down before that brutal press conference by just brushing her hand against mine. The way her laugh carried across the kitchen the night we burned the pasta and ended up eating cereal instead.
Her fingers trace the words like she’s afraid they’ll disappear. Every page is another play, another memory I never want to lose. On the last page I’ve written:
Today we showed them what love looks like. Tomorrow, and every day after, I’ll keep proving it.
Her breath hitches, eyes shimmering. “Dax…”
I cup her face in my hands, leaning close. “I don’t need another contract or another Cup. You’re it, Tessa. You’re the win I’ll spend my life defending.”
Her eyes glisten as she blinks down at the binder, then back up at me. For a second, the noise of the city, the echoes of the win, even the champagne waiting on ice—all of it disappears. It’s just us. Her hand trembles when she closes the cover, clutching it to her chest like it’s worth more than the Cup itself.
She exhales shakily, then laughs—a soft, stunned sound. “God, Dax… what am I supposed to do with you?”
I grin, brushing my thumb across her cheekbone. “Anything you want. I’m yours.”
That breaks the heaviness, loosens the knot in her chest. She sets the binder gently on the nightstand, picks up her champagne, and sinks onto the edge of the bed with a wry smile.
"So," she says, lifting the glass, "how does it feel to be vindicated on national television?"
"Like I want to fuck my wife until she screams my name loud enough for the entire hotel to hear."
"Jesus, Dax." Her cheeks flush pink, but she's smiling. "Is that what victory does to you? Makes you absolutely filthy?"
"Victory makes me grateful. You make me filthy." I move closer, backing her toward the center of the bed. "Do you have any ideahow incredible you looked up there tonight? Taking notes, being brilliant, watching me prove that choosing you was the best decision of my life?"
"Tell me," she breathes, setting down her champagne with trembling fingers.
"You looked like a woman who knows exactly how good she is at her job. Like a woman who's about to get thoroughly fucked by her husband because he's so goddamn proud of everything we've accomplished together." I lean down, my mouth inches from her ear. "Strip for me, Tessa. Show me what's under that victory dress."
