Page 12

Chapter 11

Tenley

F uck. Fuck. Fuck. I don’t know what to do now. I gave him that pep talk during filming and it really did seem to work, but… they lost. Now Seattle is up 2-1 in the series. I don’t necessarily believe in the superstitious stuff Nash and other hockey players do before games, but I do believe in momentum. And the Quake have lost it. Shit. Fuck. Shit.

“You look genuinely stressed,” Mom notes, and I look at her and frown.

“I have no idea how Nash handles losses,” I admit. “And I kind of gave him this speech about how everything will work out and it just… didn’t.”

"Overtime is a crap shoot," Mom replies and pulls me to her in a side hug. "Especially in playoffs when they play full periods instead of a shorter format with fewer players. It comes down to endurance and luck. They are the stronger team and they want it so badly I can see it. We're only three games into the series, Ten. This isn't even do or die time yet."

I look at my mom and suddenly, I get hit with how lucky I am. She isn't guilting me about this fake marriage thing I got myself into. She isn't angry anymore. She's giving me a pep talk. I throw myself at her and hug her as hard as I can. "Whoa, baby girl! Whoa."

“Sorry,” I mutter and bury my face in her neck. She hugs me back, rubbing my back like she used to when I was little and had a bad dream or was upset about being teased by my boy cousins. “You’re just, like, the best mom ever and I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

“I got lucky,” she whispers back and her hand runs over my hair. “You and Tate are the best kids in the world.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say, pulling back. “I mean, maybe I am, but him… Meh.”

She laughs. "Tell your husband what I told you. It isn't do-or-die time. Relax."

I nod. “Please don’t call him that.”

Now her smile turns acerbic. “You don’t want me to call him that, you probably shouldn’t have married him.”

I roll my eyes. Dad walks over with Dylan on his hip. I try to picture him young and buff in a post-game suit with me or Tate on his hip instead. I have vague memories of it. Once, he brought me into a presser after a first-round series win and I sang "I Just Can't Wait to Be King" into the microphone. I was five. Mom, Tate, and I were going through Disney movie classics. Some reporters thought it was hysterical, but some looked unamused. I remember I looked up at my dad and his smile was full of pride and he started clapping when I was done and told the reporters to give me a standing ovation.

I walk over and kiss his cheek. He blinks. “What’s that for?”

“For putting up with my bullshit.”

“What did you do now?” he asks. His eyes, the same shade as mine, are glaring suspiciously.

“Nothing more. This is enough bullshit, don’t you think?” I do a small twirl, pointing to my back where Nash’s name and number are on my jersey.

“More than enough,” Dad agrees. “At least he’s a good man. I don’t have to worry about your safety while you cohabitate.”

“You don’t,” I agree. “So tell me, what could Mom do that would help you after a loss?”

Dylan settles his little head onto Dad's shoulder, his eyes droopy with sleep. Night games are a lot for toddlers and this one went nearly a full twenty minutes of overtime too. Dad rubs his dimpled chin with his free hand. He hasn't shaved recently and he's got mostly gray whiskers peppering his face. "Well…"

His eyes lock with Mom’s and she giggles and looks away. Oh. Oh. “I mean other than that .”

He clears his throat and moves his eyes from Mom to me. "Don't harp on it. In fact, don't talk about it unless he does. And I love you Ten, but don't tease him too much. Not right now."

“That’s going to be hard,” I admit and he ruffles my hair like he used to do when I was little. “Trust me. I know. You have an advanced degree in sarcasm and snark.”

“I believe she got that from you.”

Dad shrugs.

I drove here with Nash so I have to wait for him. I did think about maybe asking Liv and Crew for a lift back to the apartment in West Hollywood. Maybe Nash needed his space. But the documentary team was filming the game and leaving without him would look bad. So I wait in the hallway, next to Liv, as Crew and Nash emerge from the locker room. They both go straight to their dad. Avery is standing just outside the locker room door, chatting with Coach Braddock, who excuses himself as the twins approach, leaving them to talk with their dad.

Crew walks right over but Nash does a stutter-step when he sees the camera pointed at them a few feet away. His thick, straight eyebrows knit. But then his dad grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him into a quick hug. He whispers something in Nash’s ear that I hope the cameras don’t pick up. He deserves to have that private moment. Nash nods when they pull apart. Their mom steps into the mix and talks to them both. After two more hugs, Crew turns and holds out a hand, his eyes on Liv. My cousin walks over and places her hand in his and he pulls her into his side.

Nash starts walking toward the exit that will take them to player parking. He never looks over. He never motions to me. He doesn’t even look for me. I feel… something between embarrassment and anger, but it’s stupid because I’m not his actual wife. His dad calls, “Nash!”

Nash turns. His dad jerks his head. Nash’s eyes move down the hallway and land on me. I can literally feel the camera pan with them. My face flushes. I wave at him. “Hey hubster! Remember me?”

Nash smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry wifey-poo. This is my first playoff loss with you. I kind of… spaced.”

“Fair,” I reply simply. “This is why men should wear rings. So they have a reminder.”

“I wouldn’t wear a ring to the rink anyway. Can’t wear it on the ice.”

“Okay well we should go with your first idea then,” I say with a grin, knowing full well there is no first idea. “A tattoo on your ring finger.”

Nash looks like he might drop dead, which makes me smile harder. Then I remember my dad warned me not to tease him. So I laugh and walk toward him. “Kidding, babes!”

When I reach him, I realize we need to look like a couple. I want to take his hand, but both are in his pockets, so I put a hand on his back and rub it, like my mom did to me. He stiffens like I’m rubbing dog poop on his back.

“Come on. I don’t have cooties,” I mutter and he shakes his head, relaxing again.

“Sorry. Rough night.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Finally. We agree on something,” he replies and we start down the hall side-by-side but not touching.

The ride to his loft is silent. The radio isn’t even on. I watch the bohemian but bougie beach community of Santa Monica and then Venice pass by. “What do you usually do now? After a game?”

“Hot tub,” Nash grumbles. “And a post-game snack.”

“You have a hot tub?” I ask.

“On the roof,” Nash says as we pull to a stop in front of Washington Street and I get an idea. “It’s private. There’s a pull-down staircase to the left of my bed. You didn’t see the cut-out when you were in my room the other night? Or showering today?”

“The other night I wasn’t looking at your ceiling. I was looking at your naked body.” I probably shouldn’t have said that, but it’s the truth.

His head whips around and he stares at me, shock all over his face. I shrug. “Look, I may think you’re as bland as unflavored tofu, but that body of yours is a fucking wonderland. Even I can’t deny that.”

Someone honks. The light has turned green but neither of us noticed. Nash jerks his head back to the road and hits the gas. I dig my phone out of my purse and pull up DoorDash. My order is quick and cheap but I hope it does the trick. I know it solves most of my problems.

“If we’re being honest, your body is a wet dream,” he says a couple minutes later.

Whoa. I wasn’t expecting that.

“Shame your personality is attached to it,” he adds, and I smile. Because I’ll always appreciate a good chirp, even at my expense. “You’re smiling? At that?”

“Yeah because I can’t believe you came up with that yourself. It’s a great chirp,” I reply, still smiling. “Did you spend the whole game thinking of that? Is that why you played so badly? Because your brain was trying to figure out a way to insult me?”

“Shut up,” he barks but a smile is tugging the corner of his lips too. “It was a great zinger. So was the goat comment earlier today.”

"No way!' I argue hotly as he turns into the parking lot for our… his building. "For an insult to be truly great, you have to mean it. And we both know you don't think I sounded like a goat."

He slides into his stall and turns off the engine. I get out of the car and start toward the building. He follows. And as he’s walking behind me he has the audacity to make a goat sound. I gasp. He laughs and opens the front door. In the lobby he hits the elevator button and I hit him on the arm but it doesn’t knock the smug smile off his face.

When we step into the elevator two thirty-something dudes walk in the front door and rush to join us before the doors close. We step aside to give them room as one says to Nash, “Tough loss, Westwood. But you’ll get ’em in the end.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Both guys turn to look at me. I give them a wave. “Hi. I’m Mrs. Westwood. Do you guys live in the building?”

“Umm… yeah,” the taller one stutters. “In 2B. You… you’re married?”

He looks at Nash who nods, barely, and then he looks back at me. I smile brightly. “It was a whirlwind romance. Happened so quick I almost missed it.”

I laugh. They do too but awkwardly.

"Hey, do you guys know if anyone in the building has gotten a new pet lately?" Nash asks them suddenly. They both shake their head, confused. "I know it's weird but I swear to God I heard a goat the other night. Did you guys hear it? Like just after midnight?"

I’m going to murder him. The guys look at him like he’s insane, but Nash keeps an honest, inquisitive look on his stupidly handsome face. Then the guys look at me and I’m sure I’m the color of a tomato. I sigh. “Sorry guys. He’s been hearing things since he took one too many pucks to the head.”

The doors open on the second floor and both guys step out. Before the doors close again the tall guy says, "So good luck next game!"

And the other one says, earnestly. “I’ll keep an eye out for any new pets.”

Nash bursts into laughter as the elevator doors close. I whack him again on the shoulder and he laughs harder. “I swear to God I don’t know why I even try to be nice to you!”

“Because you want your documentary to succeed,” Nash says as the doors open and I march my way down the hall to his loft. He follows me, chuckling. “Maybe you’ll think twice before you dare a guy to marry you next time.”

“I didn’t dare you. You dared me,” I argue even though I honestly have no memory of how it happened.

“Well, wifey-poo, maybe don’t take bets you can’t make good on,” he replies and opens the door.

“I’m making good,” I mutter.

We walk into the loft and I immediately head for his office-slash-my-bedroom. I pull open the small closet. All my stuff, except for the decoy clothing I put in his room, is still in my suitcase because there’s nowhere else for them to go. He pauses at the door. “Where’d you get my jersey anyway?”

“I bought it at the team store,” I reply. “Like a fan girl, which by the way you don’t have very many of. There were tons of your jerseys available. Crew was almost sold out.”

“Bite me.”

“You might like it, so no,” I call out as he wanders down the hall.

There's no door in this room. I make a mental note to go out and buy a curtain rod and curtain so I can have a little bit of privacy. Something really bright and definitely not gray. I want to make his head explode. I dig through my suitcase until I find what I'm looking for and then I carry it into the powder room across the hall and shut the door.

It's hard to change in here, because it's such a tight space, but I manage better than last night when I clocked my elbow on the vanity so hard I almost passed out. By the time the buzzer sounds for the front door I'm changed so I throw the jersey over my outfit but leave the rest of my clothes on the bathroom floor and race to the door. I don't want Nash to answer and send the guy away thinking it's a mistake. Luckily, Nash is nowhere in sight so I manage to get the DoorDash delivery without issue.

I thank the driver and carry the takeout bag into the living room. Nash isn’t there. I head up the stairs to his room and that’s when I see the staircase he mentioned earlier. It’s kind of like attic stairs you pull down only much more elaborate. I stand at the bottom of them and look up. The hatch to the roof is wide open and the inky sky is staring back at me. I start my climb.

Nash is in the hot tub, his head tipped up and eyes closed. I stand there looking at him for a hot second. He is, physically, a very attractive man. He’s started his playoff beard so his sharp, strong jaw has thick fuzz all over it. It’s mostly golden in color, but slightly darker than his hair. He has sharp cheekbones and really long eyelashes for a guy…

He sniffs and his eyes open. He sees me and something passes over his face. Something dark, and something that makes my insides ripple with delight. He blinks. “What are you doing here and what is that smell?”

“I wanted to see the hot tub and also, I ordered a post-game snack.”

I walk around the large cedar plank tub and hold the greasy paper bag out to him. He just stares at it like I’m trying to hand him road kill. I sigh and pivot, he’s hardly got anything up here. Just a couple of lounge chairs and a small table. I walk over, put the bag on the table, and drag it over until it’s against the side of the tub. He watches wordlessly as I tear open the bag and the garlic knots and small container of vodka sauce are revealed.

“That’s all carbs.”

“Yep,” I reply. “Glorious, garlicky, salty, buttery carbs. The vodka sauce can be classified as a vegetable since it’s mostly tomatoes.”

I pluck one knot from the pile, pull the lid off the vodka sauce, dip it in, and take a giant bite. He watches me, his face a mix of awe and horror. “These are what get me through my worst periods and my shittiest days.”

“Are they from C&O Trattoria?”

“Yep,” I say and smile as he groans.

“Those are the best. I don’t let myself eat them often but when I do… dear god they’re the best.”

There are two small cedar steps on the side of the hot tub, so I climb them with a new knot in my hand and dangle it over Nash. “Come on hubster. You know you want to. And you’ve earned it. I lied earlier. You didn’t play like shit. You were one of the only reasons you didn’t lose that game 5-nothing. You scored twice, hot shot. Have a knot.”

“I shouldn’t.”

I inch the knot closer and he slowly opens his mouth. I’m like a mama bird feeding its baby as I let him take a big bite as I hold it over him. He moans as he chews and I swear it makes me wet, which is so wrong. So ridiculously, heinously wrong.

“Enough with the sound effects,” I whisper, trying to sound unaffected. “If you keep it up, I’ll have to make goat noises again tonight.”

He chokes on the last swallow of the knot. I smile. When he’s stopped coughing he looks at me with a feral look again, a look I had no idea Nash had the ability to possess. “Why are you only in my jersey? What happened to your pants? Are you going to force me to implement a pants rule?”

I look at my shirt as I eat another knot. When I swallow I tell him, “I changed. Couldn’t let you hot tub alone. What kind of wife would I be if I did that?”

I quickly wipe my hands on a napkin and pull the jersey up and over my head. I’m wearing a very small tie-dyed bikini. To be fair, I didn’t bring it to sit in a hot tub with him. I figured I would sneak in some beach days since I had to live this close to the ocean. His jaw drops.

For some inexplicable reason, I feel self-conscious. "Can I join? I promise to keep my personality to a minimum."

“Ah… I… I…” He looks at the bubbling water around him. “I mean, I guess. Yeah. You can join but sit on the other side of the tub. And please, let that personality shine through. It will help me rein it in.”

Rein it in? I tilt my head and then, it hits me. He’s attracted to my body. I give him a little smirk and walk slowly up the stairs of the hot tub, making sure to swing my hips and tilt my ass and push my shoulders back so my boobs are on display. They may be little but they are perky. He drinks me in. I can feel his gaze all over my body and it’s hotter than the water I’m slowly sinking into.

I don't sit on the other side of the tub. I sit a couple of tiny feet away from him, so close our knees tap each other. After a minute of the two of us just staring at each other over the bubbling, steaming water, I turn and stand up, leaning over the tub, my ass in the air. I pluck another knot from the pile, skim it through the sauce, and turn so I'm leaning over Nash. "One more. Come on… I dare you."

He swears but then he opens his mouth. His eyes stay locked on mine as he bites the knot in half and chews. I pop the remaining half into my own mouth and that’s when his hands hit my thighs. He grips them like he owns them, just under the water, and my knees go fucking weak from how much it turns me on. “Not fair. You ate half. You dared me to eat another whole one.”

“Okay.” Why is my voice so uneven?

His hands still clasping my thighs, I twist my upper body and reach for another knot. After dipping it in the sauce, I feed it to him again. And this time he takes the whole thing in his mouth and his lips graze my fingers and I have to bite my lip to keep from reacting. Holy shit, I’m turned on. By Nash. What fresh hell is this?

He swallows but doesn't let go of my thighs. I shiver and he thinks it's from the air. "Sorry. Sit. Get warm."

He lets go of my legs and I drop onto the bench right beside him. Now our thighs our brushing. He shifts so he’s a foot away. I try not to take it personally. I shouldn’t want to feel his skin against mine. It’s like the worst possible thing that could happen. I reach over the side of the tub and bring up the remaining knots. We share them and Nash opens up. He rambles on about the game and all the things he thinks the Quake fucked up. All the ways they could have done better.

I know this kind of verbal diarrhea. My dad and uncles all have it too and I know enough to keep quiet, not correct them, and just let them vent. They don’t want solutions. They just want to get it all off their chests. When the knots are gone, Nash takes the greasy bag, balls it up, and tosses it, and it lands right beside the stairs to the bedroom.

“When you lose, do you question your rituals?” I ask because I’m genuinely curious. “Like do you ever think of changing them?”

“No. Never,” he replies without hesitation. The salty air from the ocean a few blocks away lifts my hair so I tuck it behind my ear. “Truthfully I haven’t been able to do all of my usual… routine. And I worry that’s part of my issue.”

“You scored two goals.”

"Yeah, but I wasn't on . I didn't feel like I was in the zone like I do when I can… I was stiff out there. Intense in a bad way," he mutters and sighs. He scrubs a hand over his face and I watch a water droplet leave his pinky and slide down his strong neck, stopping in the well of his collarbone.

"Am I fucking up your routine?" I ask softly. "By being here? Is there music you like to blast in the loft before a game? Blast what you want. I promise no teasing or complaining. Do you like to walk around naked or something before you put on your suit? Because I can leave and give you alone time?"

He laughs but it’s short and strained. “It won’t matter where you live because I still won’t be able to keep doing this thing. Because I can’t risk someone finding out this marriage is a fraud.”

“What is it that a fake marriage stops you from…” I don’t finish the sentence because my brain starts to conjure up all the things that he couldn’t do and the first one stops me cold.

Sex.

I lift my eyes from the water to his. He stares back at me with an embarrassed glint in his eye that says it all. But he confirms it anyway. “I’m the odd, small percent that doesn’t abstain before a game.”

I gulp in some air. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So you like to fuck someone before every game?”

“When I can, but in playoffs… well it was a must last year. And we won.”

“And you think you can’t win this year without it?”

“I’m superstitious,” he replies. “And horny as all hell.”