Page 102 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband

Riley

BITCH YOU'RE MARRIED TO DAX KINGSTON AND I HAD TO FIND OUT FROM ESPN???

Mom

Honey, why are there news trucks in our neighborhood asking about your "whirlwind romance"?

Unknown Number

Will pay $50K for exclusive interview about marriage. Call me.

I delete the last one without reading the rest, pour myself a massive mug of coffee, and mentally prepare for what promises to be the longest day of my professional life.

The United Center is absolutely electric when I arrive three hours before puck drop. The media presence is unprecedented for a first-round game—I count at least eight different news trucks, photographers with lenses that could spot satellites, and enough reporters to staff a small newspaper.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, making my way through the crowd toward the staff entrance.

"Dr. Bennett! Dr. Bennett!" Several voices call out, microphones thrust in my direction like weapons.

"Can you comment on your husband's mental preparation for facing Boston?"

"Are you concerned about divided loyalties affecting his performance?"

"Do you regret the timing of your relationship becoming public?"

I keep walking, not breaking stride, using every ounce of professional composure I've ever developed. Inside the building, Martinez appears at my elbow like a guardian angel.

"Circus out there," he observes.

"I've seen smaller productions of Hamilton," I reply. "How's the team?"

"Focused. Pissed off. Ready to prove a point." His grin is sharp. "Kingston's been in the zone since he walked in this morning. I've seen that look before—usually right before he does something spectacular and slightly terrifying."

In the observation box an hour before game time, I'm reviewing my notes when movement on the ice catches my attention. The players are finishing warm-ups, but Dax has stayed behind, skating slow circles at center ice. Even from this distance, I can see the intensity radiating from him.

My phone buzzes with a text from him:

Look at Section 117.

I follow his directions and spot a small group wearing custom jerseys that make my heart clench. "KINGSTON 47" on the back, but below the number, in smaller print: "CHOSE LOVE OVER MONEY."

Fan-made jerseys. Supporting our story. Supporting us.

"Holy shit," I whisper.

Another text:

They get it. Chicago gets it. Ready to show Boston what they missed?

The arena fills to capacity, the crowd noise reaching levels that vibrate through the observation windows. National television cameras capture every angle, and I spot familiar faces in the broadcast booths—former players turned analysts, all here to dissect Dax's choice and our relationship.

When the players take the ice for player introductions, the roar is deafening. But when they announce "Number 47, Dax Kingston!" the building practically explodes. The entire crowd rises to their feet, and I can see signs scattered throughout: "LOVE WINS," "CHICAGO OVER BOSTON," and my personal favorite: "BOOK BOYFRIENDS ARE REAL."

Dax finds me in the observation box during the anthem, and when our eyes meet, he taps his chest twice—over his heart—then points directly at me.

Twenty thousand people witness that gesture. The cameras catch it. The moment will be replayed on highlight reels for years.

But in that instant, it's just him and me, and the promise that everything we've fought for has led to this moment.