Page 25 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
"Serious professionals can be adorable."
"Serious professionals don't marry strangers in Vegas."
"Fair point. Should I come back over there?"
"Absolutely not. Jamie might come back."
"He's passed out by now."
"He could still hear us through the walls."
"Then we'll be very quiet."
"That sounds like a terrible idea."
"But tempting?"
"Very tempting. Which is why I'm closing this door."
"Good night, Tessa."
"Good night, Dax. No more midnight push-ups."
"No promises."
I close the door and lean against it, still smiling. My phone buzzes.
Dax
You definitely have a dimple.
It's not a dimple.
Dax
Sweet dreams, Mrs. Kingston.
I stare at the text, my heart doing something complicated. Then I turn off my phone and try not to think about how much I like the sound of that.
I look... happy. Thoroughly satisfied and genuinely happy in a way I haven't seen in months. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes are bright, and despite everything that just happened, I look like a woman who's been well and truly cared for.
And that terrifies me more than Harrison's fraternization policy ever could.
Morning practice arrives with all the subtlety of a hockey puck to the face. I'm running on about three hours of sleep, two cups of hotel coffee that taste like they were brewed in someone's gym sock, and the kind of emotional whiplash you only get fromalmost hooking up with your secret husband after a late night heart-to-heart.
I've chosen my most conservative blazer—the one that screams "I definitely don't know what a penis looks like"—and pulled my hair back in a bun so tight it's practically giving me a facelift, but I still feel like I'm wearing a neon sign that says "I’VE SLEPT WITH THE STAR DEFENSEMAN AND IT WAS AMAZING."
"Morning, Dr. Bennett," Coach Martinez greets me as I settle into the observation box. "You're here early."
"Couldn't sleep," I reply, which is technically true. Hard to sleep when your body’s buzzing from unresolved sexual tension and your heart’s doing gymnastics over a guy you’re not supposed to want.
"Game excitement," he nods knowingly. "Gets to all of us."
If only he knew what kind of excitement kept me awake.
The players file onto the ice for warm-ups, and I make a concentrated effort not to look for Dax. Which lasts approximately fifteen seconds, because apparently my self-control is about as reliable as hotel WiFi.
I know it's a stretch. I know that. But when Dax drops to all fours, knees out wide, and starts rocking his hips back and forth in a move that’sallegedlya groin stretch, I find it very hard to think professional thoughts about athletic mobility instead of thinking about how he moves like that in other contexts.
