Page 34 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband

Tessa

That sounds dangerous.

The most dangerous thing will be my cooking. I promise to order pizza if I burn dinner.

Tessa

In that case, yes. Send me your address.

As I type out my address, I can't shake the feeling that inviting Tessa to my place is crossing some kind of line we haven't crossed yet.

My apartment suddenly feels like it's being judged when I unlock the door for Tessa at exactly 6 p.m. I spent the better part of an hour making sure everything was perfect—which for me means hiding the pile of sports magazines, actually making my bed, and confirming that my bathroom doesn't look like a biohazard zone.

"Wow," she says, stepping inside and looking around with genuine interest. "This is not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. More... hockey cave? Beer cans and pizza boxes? Maybe a hot tub shaped like a Stanley Cup?"

I laugh, closing the door behind her and trying not to notice how perfect she looks in my space. She's traded her usual professional armor for dark jeans and a soft gray sweater that hugs her curves, and her hair is down in loose waves.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm actually house-trained." I gesture toward the living room. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Wine would be good. If you have it."

"I have a bottle of something that Torres assures me is 'classy as fuck.'" I head toward the kitchen. "So either it's really good wine or Jamie has terrible taste."

"Knowing Jamie, it could go either way."

She wanders around the living room while I pour wine, and I find myself watching her take in my space. The minimalist furniture that actually cost more than my first car. The family photos on the mantle—Mom and Emma at my first NHL game, the three of us at Emma's high school graduation. The bookshelf that's half hockey biographies and half philosophy texts.

"Heidegger," she observes, running her finger along the spine of one of the books. "Really?"

"What can I say? I like to think about existence while getting checked into the boards."

"That explains so much about you." She accepts the wine glass I offer, our fingers brushing in the exchange. "Most hockey players I know think Descartes is a type of pasta."

"To be fair, Jamie probably does think that."

She laughs, settling onto my couch. I sit beside her, maintaining what I hope is a professional distance.

"So," she says, pulling out a small notebook. "Martinez mentioned the captaincy might be official by next month. How are you feeling about that?"

I was expecting small talk, maybe some flirting disguised as work discussion. But she's looking at me with those sharp hazel eyes, and I realize she's genuinely here to help me work through this.

"Terrified," I admit. "Being responsible for thirty guys, their careers, their confidence... What if I make the wrong call? What if I let them down?"

"What makes you think you would?"

"Because I'm better at reading plays than reading people. Hockey makes sense—you see the patterns, you anticipate the moves, you react. But leadership? That's all about understanding what makes someone tick, how to motivate them, when to push and when to back off."

She makes a note, then looks up at me. "Tell me about a time when you had to lead someone through a difficult situation."

"What do you mean?"

"Outside of hockey. A moment when someone needed you to step up and guide them."

I think for a moment, then feel my chest tighten. "Emma. My sister. When our dad left."