Page 2 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
Riley
First day! You're going to kill it. Also, send pics of hot hockey players. For science.
I snort out a laugh. Riley's been my rock through everything—the only person who knew the real story about Seattle. She's also convinced that the cure for career trauma is "getting back on the horse, preferably a really tall one with good hands."
A knock on my door frame interrupts my spiraling thoughts. "Dr. Bennett?"
I turn to find a man in his fifties with kind eyes and graying hair. Everything about him says "coach"—the way he carries himself, the slight Boston accent, the genuine warmth in his smile.
"Coach Martinez," I say, extending my hand. "Please, call me Tessa."
"Tom," he replies, shaking my hand firmly. "Ready for the circus?"
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"Honey, you're about to meet thirty professional athletes who think psychology is just something their ex-girlfriends majored in. Half of them will test you, the other half will ignore you, and a few might actually listen." His grin takes the sting out of his words. "But they're good kids. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"Well, there's always one asshole in every group. Usually the pretty ones." He winks. "Come on, let's get you introduced before they start practice."
We walk through corridors lined with photos of past teams, and I catch glimpses of the current roster in action shots as Tom explains the team dynamics.
"The important thing is to establish boundaries early," he's saying. "These guys will charm the pants off you if you let them, but respect is earned through consistency, not friendship."
We reach the locker room, and Tom pauses outside the door. "They're mostly dressed, but fair warning—modesty isn't really their strong suit. Try not to let them see you blush."
"I'm a professional," I say, lifting my chin. "I don't blush."
Famous last words.
The locker room is exactly what you'd expect—the scent of sweat, equipment and testosterone, the sounds of laughing and trash talk, and holy hell, so much exposed skin. But I've worked with professional athletes before. I can handle this.
"Gentlemen!" Tom's voice cuts through the chatter. "Meet your new mental performance coach, Dr. Tessa Bennett. She's here to help you get your heads out of your asses, so be nice."
A chorus of "Hey, Doc" and "Welcome to the zoo" greets me, and I smile, scanning the room to put faces to the files I've been studying. There's Jamie Torres, the second-line center with the infectious grin and the sleeve tattoo. Ethan Chen, the assistant coach who's younger than most of the players. A handful of others whose names I'm mentally cataloging.
"Thank you all for the warm welcome," I begin, falling into my professional voice. "I know having a new staff member can be an adjustment, but I'm here to support you however I can. My door is always open, and everything we discuss is confidential. I'm looking forward to working with each of?—"
That's when I see him.
Storm-gray eyes. Dark hair that's somehow perfectly disheveled. Those cheekbones that could cut glass and the small scar through his left eyebrow that I remember tracing with my finger.
My mouth falls open. Actually falls open like I'm some kind of cartoon character.
Dax Kingston. Number 47. The Dax Kingston. Star defenseman for the Chicago Renegades, two-time All-Star, the man ESPN called "the most dangerous player in the league." The man whose jersey hangs in sports bars across the city. The man I married in Vegas three days ago and abandoned like a coward the next morning.
Holy shit. This can’t be happening.
He's sitting on the bench in full gear except for his helmet, and those eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak. Three seconds. That's how long we stare at each other, but it feels like three hours. Three lifetimes. Three different realities where I didn't run away like a scared little girl.
The room has gone quiet. I realize I've stopped talking mid-sentence and everyone is looking between us like they're watching a tennis match.
"I, um..." I clear my throat, tearing my gaze away from his. "I'm looking forward to working with all of you. Any questions?"
"Yeah," comes a voice from the back. "Are you single?"
The room erupts in laughter and catcalls, but I barely hear it over the pounding of my heart. I risk another glance at Dax, and his jaw is clenched tight, his hands gripping his helmet like he's imagining it's someone's throat.
