Page 16 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband

"Yeah," Dax says, his voice rough. "See you tomorrow."

I escape into my room and immediately lean against the door, heart pounding. This is fine. I'm a professional. I can handle sleeping next to—adjacent to—not next to, adjacent to my secret husband for one night.

One night in Detroit. How hard can it be?

That's when I hear it: the sound of a shower running. From the room next door. Where Dax is presumably getting naked and wet and soapy.

I am so incredibly fucked.

CHAPTER 6

DAX

Iwake up at exactly 6 a.m. to the sound of running water through the paper-thin hotel wall, and my first coherent thought is that Tessa Bennett is naked and wet approximately three feet away from me.

This is not how I planned to start game day.

The shower runs for exactly twelve minutes, not that I'm counting or anything, followed by the whir of a hair dryer and the soft sounds of someone moving around a hotel room. Probably in those conservative blazers and pencil skirts that somehow make her even more fucking gorgeous.

I lie there like a complete masochist, listening to her morning routine and torturing myself with fantasies of what normal could look like. Rolling over to watch her get ready, messy hair and sleepy eyes. Her stealing my Renegades hoodies and wearing them with nothing underneath while she makes us coffee. Lazy Sunday mornings where she'd curl up against me and tell me about her dreams while I traced patterns on her bare shoulder.

Christ. I've officially lost my mind.

Here I am, a grown-ass man fantasizing about domestic bliss with a woman who left me a goodbye note and ran.

But it’s not like she was a stranger.

From the second I saw her, something shifted—like a thread pulled tight between us. Instant. Electric. That deep-in-your-gut kind of knowing.

And even if she ran, Idoknow her.

I know she takes her coffee black with exactly one sugar. I know she hums old jazz standards when she thinks no one's listening. I know she gets this little wrinkle between her eyebrows when she's concentrating, and that she laughs at her own jokes before she tells them.

And I know what she sounds like when she comes.

A knock on my door interrupts my spiral into dangerous territory. "Maintenance," a gruff voice calls out.

I throw on jeans and open the door to find a guy in coveralls holding a toolbox. "Here about the connecting door," he says, already moving past me into the room.

"The what now?"

"Connecting door between 413 and 414. Front desk said it's not locking properly." He walks over to examine the door.

"Is it..." I clear my throat. "Is it open?"

"Closed but not secured," he confirms, jiggling the handle. "Need a replacement part. Won't be in until tomorrow, but I can leave it like this if you want privacy."

"Yes," I say quickly. "Privacy would be good."

He shoots me a look like he's questioning my intelligence. "Right. Well, it's closed tight, so unless someone actively tries to open it, you should be fine."

After he leaves, I stare at that door like it's a bomb.

The Detroit Red Wings' arena is exactly the kind of hostile environment that usually gets my blood pumping in the best way. Twenty thousand fans screaming for our destruction, their team desperate for a win after three straight losses, and enough tension in the air to power the city for a week.

But tonight feels different. Tonight, I can feel Tessa watching from the press box, and instead of making me nervous, it makes me feel invincible.

"You seem focused tonight," Torres says as we wait for puck drop, bouncing on his skates like an over-caffeinated golden retriever.