Dax

by Sawyer Bennett

  Dax blinks at me over the vehemence in my voice, but he mildly says, “I want to spend time with you, Regan. I talked to Coach, and he gave me a pass.”

  “I don’t fucking understand any of this,” I cry out in frustration as I wheel away from him. I take two steps toward the living room, thinking flight is the best thing to do, but then no… I just spent all morning going over the possibilities in my head, so maybe we just need to hash this out right now. I wheel back around to face him. “I heard you and Willow talking this morning right before I left.”

  Complete understanding flows over Dax’s face. “I thought something was going on when you walked out the wrong door.”

  “Yeah,” I say with challenge. “I was a little upset to learn how horrific things are for you with me around.”

  That sounded totally childish and petulant, but now I’m being driven by pure emotion. My future happily ever after is getting ready to be put to rest right now.

  Dax’s expression softens with sympathy, and I hate that look. When he steps toward me, I backpedal.

  He stops, giving me some space, but says, “That’s not what I said, and you know it.”

  I shake my head, not wanting to hear the reason in his voice. “You said this was too hard.”

  “Not too hard,” he corrects me. “Just hard.”

  “Well, I don’t want things to be hard on you.”

  “That’s my problem, not yours.” Ugh, he sounds so fucking in tune with his feelings, like he has this all figured out. Calm, rational, and not easily susceptible to my arguments.

  “It makes me feel bad you feel bad about me,” I say truthfully. It’s the closest I can get to boiling this down to simple words. “And I can’t have that on me. You’ve done so much for me, and I cannot have this disrupting your life. It’s more than I can bear.”

  “I’m sorry,” he tells me, taking a tentative step toward me. “I never want to make you feel bad. It’s why I talked to Willow and not you. Yes, it’s hard. It’s terrifying watching the woman I love face the things you’re facing. I want to make everything right for you, and I can’t. It makes me feel weak and powerless and a failure to you.”

  “But you’re not,” I rush to assure him. “You’ve done more than—”

  “Did you even hear what I just said, Regan?” he cuts in over me. “You’re the woman I love.”

  I blink a moment, then hesitantly drawl, “Yes. I heard that. You’ve known me forever. Of course you love me.”

  “Jesus,” he mutters in frustration. Then, somehow, he’s right in front of me. His hands go to my shoulders and he gives me the tiniest of shakes as if it’s needed to clear the cobwebs from my head. “I don’t love you as a fucking friend. Well, wait… I do. But I love you as more. I am in love with you. Like my heart is fucking gone. It belongs just to you, and it will never belong anywhere else again. So that’s why things are scary and terrifying. I don’t want to lose you. I’ve just now entered into a life that has become the happiest I’ve ever been. It adds so much promise to my future because I have you, and I don’t want to lose it. I want to be a husband to you for real. For the long haul. I want to have children—assuming you can with your condition—and if not, we’ll adopt. I just know I want my life to be with you forever. So yes, I’m scared. Yes, I’m frustrated. Yes, I’ll probably always be that way, but I’ll learn to be strong and supportive about it. I’m sorry you overheard that, but if this is what’s come out of it… a talk about our feelings, then I’m glad you eavesdropped.”

  I just stare at him.

  “Which is never really cool to do by the way,” he adds.

  My brain swims as I replay the words he just spoke. I get a little dizzy, pulling away from him to sink down onto the edge of the couch.

  Dax stands there, hands loose at his side, and watches me warily. “Are you okay?”

  I nod dumbly. He loves me? Like really loves me? Wants to be married for real? Kids?

  Holy shit. I don’t know if I’ve ever been more stunned in my life. Not even when I got my PNH diagnosis.

  “Regan,” he asks again, taking a step toward me. “Are you okay?”

  I nod slowly, my voice thick. “Just a little overwhelmed.”

  Dax’s lips curve upward, his eyes twinkling.

  He reaches into his front pocket, pulls something out, then drops to one knee before me. My vision actually blurs, my head spinning.

  “You’re about to be a little more overwhelmed,” he says as he opens up a royal-blue velvet ring box.

  My head stops spinning, and my eyes focus with utter clarity on the contents inside.

  Three rings.

  An engagement ring. A huge, emerald-cut diamond that’s bigger than any I’ve ever seen before in my life.

  But that’s not what has my heart squeezing and my eyes misting.

  It’s the two wedding rings beside it. A woman’s ring crusted with diamonds, along with a man’s ring—platinum, thick, and masculine.

  A complete set of wedding rings for us.

  Tears start slipping down my cheeks, and I don’t even bother to try to blink them back. Something tells me they’ll just keep coming.

  My gaze lifts. Dax is staring at me, and I finally see it.

  The truth of all those words he just said.

  He loves me.

  Like really, truly loves me.

  I launch myself off the couch, slamming right into his chest I propel us backward onto the carpet. He lands flat on his back with me on top of him, then I’m kissing him. Dax is laughing into my mouth, his arms banding around me tightly.

  When I lift my head to stare down at him, I finally take stock of the incredibly overwhelming flash of pure joy that fills me. It’s without a doubt the best feeling I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing in my life.

  “I love you,” I say simply. It’s all I have to offer at this moment. He skipped a mandatory practice and set up a romantic meal to propose to me. Yes, to propose we spend our lives together. I had come home with the thought I was going to end things.

  Nothing is what I expected, and I feel almost small in my appreciation of the wonders of this universe and what it can bestow upon me.

  “So you ready to do this marriage thing for real?” he asks with a grin, holding up the box which has somehow shut when I knocked him backward.

  My head jackhammers into a furious nod, and I push up to straddle him. Dax smiles from his position flat on his back, then holds the box up to reopen it. He pulls out the wedding band first. “I believe tradition is that this goes on first as it should be held closest to your heart.”

  I didn’t know that, but it’s so sweet. He sets the box on his chest, then takes my left hand and slides the band onto my ring finger.

  So weird, but I feel an instantaneous bonding with Dax that was not there before.

  I feel… complete.

  He then plucks the engagement ring from the box. I’m totally dazzled by its brilliance as he slides it on, then presses his mouth to my palm before releasing me. I hold my hand out to admire the set. It’s more than I would have ever thought possible.

  My gaze drops to the box still clutched in his hand. I take it from him, plucking his wedding ring out. It’s heavy and masculine.

  I take his hand, so large and strong in my own, and I put the circle of commitment onto his finger. When I dare to glance at his face, I see his own eyes shining a little with emotion as he stares at the platinum band.

  “Dax,” I whisper softly, and his attention comes to me. “I love you so much. These past few years, I’ve never dared to hope for a happily ever after. This is more than I could have ever wished for. I promise I will make you the happiest man in the world.”

  “And I promise to give you your best life, Regan,” he says in return. “I’ll never let you down. I’ll always be there for you. You’ll never walk a single step alone.”

  And those words we just spoke…

  They’re our wedding vows.

  Complet
ely spontaneous and utterly perfect.

  I lean forward, stretching out on top of my husband—for real now—and I seal our vows with a kiss.

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  Read on for an excerpt from

  Tacker

  Arizona Vengeance

  by Sawyer Bennett

  CHAPTER 1

  Tacker

  “Three Three December,” I say into the headset. “I’m having some issues with the primary attitude indicator. I’d like to climb a bit.”

  I glance over at MJ. She always used to snicker when I’d say “attitude” indicator. Most people think it should be “altitude” but no… it’s called an attitude indicator. She thought that was hilarious.

  How many times has she sat in the copilot seat of my Cessna 335, glancing out at the world with pure joy on her face? She loves to fly as much as I do, but she is always content to let me have the controls. Though she loves being up in the air, she’s never had a desire to pilot.

  I’ve never seen her look scared before, and it causes my anxiety to skyrocket. She doesn’t even look back to me, her eyes squinted and peering through the windshield, trying desperately to locate the horizon.

  The radio crackles, and then the controller replies, “I’ll be able to issue a higher attitude in two miles. Copy?”

  “Roger that,” I reply, resolving to hold steady for that long. I’m at twenty-six-hundred feet, flying through fog as thick as pea soup. My attitude indicator—perhaps the most important instrument on my dash that shows my plane’s orientation relative to the horizon—is fritzing out. Without clear skies, I can’t find the fucking horizon and I’m at risk for spatial disorientation. My request to climb higher is to get us above this mess.

  Get us to safety.

  I don’t risk taking my hands off the yoke to grab MJ’s for assurance. So instead, I say, “Hey… think you’ll let me take a little peek at the dress?”

  It’s the reason for our trip. We’re flying from Dallas to Houston for the last fitting of her wedding dress. Then in two short weeks, we’ll be married.

  MJ—short for Melody Jane—and what I’ve called her since I first met her in Dallas, tears her gaze away from the foggy air surrounding us and gives me a quick glance. “Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  I don’t dare look at her, only able to see the sharp twist of her head from my peripheral vision. But I grin, loving her sass even in the face of true danger.

  “Cessna 121 Papa Papa,” the controller says over the radio. “I’m going to have you make a slow left turn heading southeast, then climb to seven thousand feet. You should have seven miles visibility but some light rain.”

  “Roger,” I reply, glancing down at the attitude indicator. The horizon line sits flat, telling me I’m flying straight as an arrow. I hope to fuck it’s working correctly now because I’m going to have to rely on it heavily in just a moment.

  This time, I do take a moment to look at MJ, and she swivels slowly to meet my gaze. This left turn is all going to be dependent on that indicator leading me through the fog.

  “I love you,” I say solemnly. Not a goodbye. Just a reaffirmation.

  “I love you, too,” she replies, and I start to turn the plane.

  Terror clutches me so hard I can’t breathe. I come flying out of my nightmare, soaked with sweat. My mouth is wide open, but no scream comes out. I never screamed as we were going down, but MJ had. It had been loud, piercing, and filled with terror. I can hear it vividly ringing in my ears right now, even though my nightmare didn’t progress very far tonight.

  Sometimes, I relive the entire crash.

  Sometimes, it will only be a loop of MJ’s last moments alive. She hadn’t been killed instantly. We’d both been trapped in the wreckage, and I had to watch her die a long, torturous death. That’s the worst nightmare I repeatedly suffer.

  Scrubbing a hand over my face, I wonder what time it is. I don’t have a clock, and I don’t wear a watch. My phone is plugged into a charger on my bathroom vanity. The only thing I have in my bedroom is an inflatable air mattress covered with a fitted sheet, a fleece blanket, and two pillows.

  Judging by the dark gloom with a bluish cast coming through the blinds, I’d guess it was on the verge of dawn. I’m exhausted. If I laid back down, I might be able to drift off to sleep. However, the thought of falling into a vortex of plane crash terrors doesn’t appeal to me so I roll off the mattress, careful of the cast on my left wrist. I have a slight fracture to the scaphoid bone, compliments of my idiotic choices of drinking and driving two weeks ago. I’ve got another two weeks in the cast, although maybe I can talk the doctor into taking it off sooner.

  Pushing up to my knees, then my feet, I make my way into the small bathroom across the hall. This apartment complex is a dump, and I’d rented a small one-bedroom when I moved to Phoenix in September after having been picked up by the Vengeance in the expansion draft.

  I was a pretty unmarketable player, having sat out most of the second half of last season due to the plane crash. Not because of my injuries, though. I came out relatively unscathed except for some deep lacerations. Rather, I didn’t have much spirit of competition left within me and stayed on “injured reserve” with the Dallas Mustangs.

  I wasn’t surprised they put me on the auction block for the expansion draft. I was too much of a risk, but apparently not to Vengeance. They wanted me on their team, and so I thought…. what the fuck? Why not? At least it provided me some respite from my demons.

  What I found when I came back to playing professional hockey was that as long as I was out on the ice, I was able to keep MJ and her death out of my head.

  Step foot off the ice and she occupied everything.

  I do my business in the bathroom, wash my hands, and then nab my phone from the charger. After I shuffle into the kitchen, I start a pot of coffee. While it brews, I reach into the cabinet and pull out the only coffee mug I have. An Arizona Vengeance one I picked up in the arena fan store when I first moved here. It’s the only drinking container I have in my apartment unless the empty water bottles in my recycle bin count.

  My phone lets me know it’s six forty-five, and I wonder if I’ll actually make my nine AM meeting. I have plenty of time. A ten-minute shower and change. A twenty-five-minute Uber ride to the arena—thanks to my license being suspended due to my DUI charge—and probably a five-minute mandatory wait in the front office until I can be granted an audience with Christian Rutherford.

  He’s the general manager of the Arizona Vengeance and he’s expecting me to give him an answer today.

  The question?

  Will I choose to continue playing with the team?

  His offer for my continued employment as a player on the team wasn’t made without a lot of thought and care. He met with Coach Perron and the team’s owner, Dominik Carlson. They discussed the benefit I could provide, and they weighed it against the terrible shadow I’d thrown over their entire program with my antics.

  They are not without compassion, although it’s probably misplaced in a man like me.

  Regardless, they made me an offer, and I’ve been considering it. Last week, I got called in to talk to Christian. His terms were simple and nonnegotiable.

  First, I was going to be fined one-hundred-thousand dollars for driving drunk. He wanted to send a message to the Phoenix community as well as to the hockey world at large that my type of behavior would not be tolerated and would never be condoned.

  Really, it was a punishment designed to make me think twice if I were to ever do something so stupid again.

  The second requirement was no big deal. I was not allowed to drink alcohol anymore. Not a single drop. If evidence was presented that I had partaken, I would be released from the team with a forfeiture of my contract. This didn’t bother me. I didn’t intend to drink again as it was never really my thing to begin wi
th. MJ didn’t drink at all, so neither did I.

  It wasn’t for any religious, spiritual, or health reasons. Neither of us just liked the way it made us feel. Besides, the morning after my run-in with the concrete barricade, along with the three quarters of a fifth of Jack I had drank, left me vowing never to touch another drop of alcohol again.

  The third requirement to my continued employment with the team was I had to attend some sort of grief counseling. The terms were specific. I had to go at least twice a week for the remainder of the entire season, and I was even provided a list of suitable places I could go to. I had to sign a full release so the counselor could communicate my progress back to Christian. If at any time I was not fully participating, he could release me from the team with forfeiture of contract. If I skipped one session, I’d be released. If I didn’t make progress in emotional healing, I would be released.

  It was all very rigid, narrowly defined, and almost designed to set me up for failure if I didn’t know any better.

  There’s a big part of me that just wants to hand the team a big ‘fuck you’. The terms aren’t going to be easy. It means I’m going to have to confront my demons.

  It means I’m probably going to have to let MJ go, and no matter how fucking painful it is to remember her dying beside me in that plane, they’re the freshest memories I have of her. I don’t know if I can do it.

  I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve prayed to the only God I know and one who I never called on much until now. I’ve searched my soul for the right answer, but there’s no clarity.

  There seems to be no right answer for me, except…

  Except if I hand a ‘fuck you’ to the team, my hockey career is over. And for better or for worse, it’s the only thing in the world that gives me some small measure of happiness.

  Maybe happiness isn’t the right word, but it sure as hell gives me respite from the pain.

  And that has value to me.

  I glance at my phone again, noting it’s now six fifty-one. Still time to think on this some more, but I know the clock is ticking ever closer to the decision I’ll have to make—one that will have a profound impact on my future.