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Chapter 14

Nash

I ’m gonna ignore how annoyed it makes me to have the first thing in my face as we clammer off the ice in excitement be that stupid docu-series crew. They will not steal the wind in my sails. We just beat the Comets for the first game of the second round of the Cup playoffs. On home ice. 5-0. It wasn’t a battle. It was a proper spanking.

I was on the bench when the buzzer sounded and, like Crew and Tate, I hurdled over the board to congratulate Grady Garrison, our goalie. Landon was the first to reach Grady and slam into him for a hug. This was Grady’s first career playoff shutout. We all pile on him and Landon as the crowd roars. And now we’re heading back to the locker room in relief and excitement but also, trepidation. We know the Comets had an off night. They’ll come back with a vengeance. They swept San Diego, winning four straight games, so they’ve had a little bit of a breather compared to us. We went six games with the Winterhawks so we only had three days off between rounds. Those longer breaks sometimes kill momentum and I’m thinking that’s what happened with the Comets. So we’re happy, but not cocky. That’s the speech I give the guys in the locker room as we unlace our skates and get ready to talk to the press.

The cameraman is allowed to be in the room for this so he films the whole damn thing. It's weird. I'm not comfortable in front of the cameras. Never have been. Being in front of cameras makes my skin itch from the inside. I was hoping, for a hot second, that maybe Tenley would feel the same way. After all with the way she looks she could easily make a living in front of a camera as an actress, model, news, or sportscaster, but she chose to be behind one. That hope, that I would have anything in common with her, faded as soon as they started filming this thing. She was a natural in the segments at our… my loft. And thank God she was because I’ve seen the rough footage, and she made me look normal.

"Casco, both Westwoods, and both Garrisons, you're up for the press tonight," Coach says, poking his head in the locker room. He tosses Grady the game-winning puck. "Congrats, Garrison."

“On that note.” Landon stands up and pulls our Quake Oscar out of his cubicle since he won it last time. “The Oscar goes to the ginger beast who stood on his head.”

Everyone cheers as Grady waddles toward Landon, still in his pads, and takes the trophy. "A shutout means nothing unless a goalie's team scores and you guys did your job tenfold tonight. Thanks all."

He turns to Tenley’s cameraman, holds up the Oscar, and winks into the camera.

Everyone laughs and claps and continues to get undressed, so thankfully, the camera has to leave. I wipe my face, pull off my gear, and pull on a baseball cap. Shoving my feet into slides, in just my Under Armor gray shirt and some shorts, I make my way with Grady, Crew, and Tate to the press room. Because playoffs are an emotionally precarious time, the Quake always have the press stay out of the locker room. There’s a press room with a table, mics, and a fancy logo’d backdrop.

The questions are typical, after-game stuff and most can and are answered by Tate and Crew. There’s a lot directed right at Grady, because of the shutout, but none specifically for me, until…

"Nash, you really seemed to find your footing in this game," a reporter toward the back says. "You've stepped it up each game, tonight with a goal and three assists and a plus-five rating so can you tell us what you do to keep getting better?"

Tenley’s naked body flashes in my brain. I swallow.

“Nah. I mean… I just… I do what every guy does, practice, watch game videos, and stuff.” Stuff would be mutual masturbation sessions with my fake wife.

“You’re superstitious, right? So is it that?”

“Obviously, I think my routine and rituals help my mindset,” I pause to swig the Body Armor in front of me. My brain won’t stop replaying the moment this afternoon when Tenley walked into my room after my pregame nap completely naked, holding her towel, claiming she needed a shower. “But like I know it’s not witchcraft or anything. My lucky toque isn’t magic, I just… like I said… ritual and routines get me in the right mindset.”

And so does watching Tenley finger herself on the marble bench in my shower while I lean on the wall above her and jerk off above her tits. When we were done she kicked me out of the shower with a satisfied smile and said, “Just doing my wifely duty to help you win.”

I take another swig of my drink. Crew clears his throat. "Both my dad and Nash are superstitious but I'm not. Maybe I should be. I'd like a plus-five rating on some game soon."

A plus or minus rating for a hockey player depends on whether they were on the ice for goals against their team or goals scored by their team. I was on the ice for every goal we scored this game. Crew was on the ice for four of the goals, so he’s being modest, but I’m grateful it shifts the media’s attention.

The reporters laugh and someone turns the questioning to him. After ten minutes Christine calls it and we file out. Crew leans in and says, “You were turning red like you’d pulled a double shift on the ice when they were asking you questions. What’s up with that?”

I just shrug. Crew’s not finding out about my new arrangement with Tenley either.

The coaches for the Comets are waiting in the hall because they'll be interviewed next. One of them is Bryce Achilles, who was friends with my dad when I was growing up. When Bryce's career ended after only two years in the league, and he didn’t want to go back to playing the lower leagues, Dad recommended him to the Nova Scotia Bluenosers, which is a junior team in Canada. Crew and I both played under Bryce growing up. But right now, we’re enemies so he simply nods at Crew as he passes and Crew nods back. I do the same but Bryce touches my shoulder.

“Hey,” he says in a low voice. “You really married Tenley Garrison?”

“Uh… yeah.”

I don’t know why he’s asking me this, or why he’s got a crooked quirk of a smile on his face. Or why he chuckles at my answer as if there’s a joke I’m missing. And I don’t get to ask the question because Christine calls the coaches into the press room. All I can do is stare after him, confused. Crew nudges me. “What was that about?”

“He asked if I was really married to Tenley.”

Crew makes a face. “Weird.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess he probably thought, like the rest of the free world, that you were married to hockey until your career ended,” Crew says as we walk down the curving hallway side-by-side.

"Yeah. I am. Tenley is my temporary mistress," I joke, and Tate's eyes grow bigger. He's walking in front of us, backward, so he can face us. I know instantly I fucked up. That the cameraman from that infernal documentary has left the press room and is following us. My heart gallops as I panic.

“I know what you mean,” Tate says. “I feel like I’ve given full custody of Dylan to Mallory and I’m just the part-time fun uncle with my own kid. Playoffs take so much focus, our lives get put on hold.”

“Right.” I swallow and try to sound casual, which makes me sound awkward. “Yeah. So she’ll go back to being a wife once we win this thing.”

The camera stops following us when we pass the VIP room with our friends and family. I hear the director guy, I think his name is Fisher, say, “I’ve asked the coach’s wife for a quick interview. In here.”

I sigh in relief and mentally kick myself my whole damn shower. They can’t air a clip where I call my wife a mistress. It will look even worse once we’re divorced. I’m such a fucking idiot. By the time I’m dressed my leg is throbbing worse than ever, my head is pounding now too and my victorious mood from the win has evaporated quicker than water on the parched California ground.

Tenley is waiting for me outside the VIP room. She’s wearing a short jean skirt and a white ribbed tank. On her shoulders is the wives’ playoff jacket. The wives and girlfriends all get together and design a playoff jacket if we make it past round one. This year’s is black leather, with the Quake logo on the back and the initials of each husband or boyfriend on one arm and their number on the other. In rhinestones.

Once again, seeing Tenley with my number on her makes my dick do a caveman dance in my suit pants. Dear God, I really should see a doctor for that. Her pale eyebrows furrow as she sees me. "You're limping."

“Just a little.” I shove my lucky toque into the pocket of my suit jacket.

“Why?”

“Because it’s playoff hockey.” She frowns. I am being a flippant bitch. I’m mad at myself, not her. She didn’t fuck up in front of the cameras. “Sorry. My leg’s been bugging me. I have to get an x-ray.”

“Okay so… can we go now?”

“Ten, it’s almost eleven at night.” I shake my head. “I’ll try and get it in between practice tomorrow and more filming.”

“I can push back the filming,” Tenley replies as she falls in step beside me and we make our way to the parking garage.

“Do you want me to go get the car?” Tenley asks. “So you don’t have to walk to hell and back to get it?”

“It’s not hell and back,” I grumble. “It’s just on the other side of the lot.”

“I still don’t know why you don’t park with the other players.”

“Because.”

She gets quiet, which is something. Tenley can always find something to say. We walk silently between the expensive cars owned by players and coaches. The smell of oil is thick in the dry, stale air.

Finally as the cars grow less expensive and we move farther away from the private entrance to the arena she says, “Is this still about the wall?”

I shake my head and fish my keys out of my suit pocket. “No. I can paint the wall back whenever I want.”

We take a couple more steps in silence. I look over at her. She's really pretty tonight. Her lips are glossy, like her hair. Her eyes are impossibly blue. Her expression gentle, which isn't normal. At least not around me. And then my eyes really absorb our surroundings. Gray metal, concrete walls, pillars, and ceiling. Most of the cars are in muted tones too. It's… well, it's fucking depressing. But Tenley pops. Everything about her stands out and gives this grungy parking garage a bit of a glow. She gives me a bit of a glow too. I hate it, but it's true. We've messed around twice now and I’ve felt more alive than I’ve felt with a woman in a long time. Maybe ever. It was just so… real .

“You don’t have to paint it back. I’ll do it on your set road trip. Not a big deal,” she says quietly.

“We can keep it. I admit, it stands out.” Like you do . “Gives my place a pop of life.” Like you do.

She smiles like she just won some giant battle. She fist pumps the air. “Yes! I told you I knew what I was doing.”

I fight my own smile. “Not saying it will last forever.”

“There you go, backtracking because God forbid anyone but Nash Westwood win.” She laughs and breaks out ahead of me, dance-walking like a lunatic. “But I won! I was right! Woot! Woot!”

I walk quicker and reach out and grab her arm, tugging her to a stop directly in front of me. We’re chest to chest. She’s staring up at me as cocky as cocky can be, and I’m hard for it. For her. She bites the corner of her bottom lip. “I think I’m right about something else.”

“What’s that?”

“That you’re winning games because you substituted sex before games with jerking off with me,” Tenley says in a husky whisper.

I’ve still got my hand wrapped around her forearm. Her skin is supple and warm. The WAG jacket has slipped off her shoulders and hit the ground behind us. She never takes her eyes from mine and I don’t dare blink. “You know what else I think?”

“No, but I’m certain you’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not.”

She smirks and leans closer. Her breath tickles the column of my neck, even with the straggly playoff beard. “I think that that won’t be enough soon. That you’re going to need actual sex.”

“But I can’t have sex.”

“Says who?” she counters, placing the palm of her free hand on the breast of my jacket. “I really want my brother to win another Cup. So…”

“Don’t say it, Tenley.”

“So if?—”

“Don’t say it,” I warn again, my voice firm and foreboding.

“So if…” she starts again, like the daredevil nightmare she is, unfazed by common sense. “If I have to let you fuck your wife for a W, I’ll damn well let you do it.”

“You know I can’t.”

“I da—” I give her a little jerk toward me to stop her mid-sentence. Our bodies are pressed together now.

“I’ve taken every dare you’ve ever made and I’m not about to stop.”

“I. Dare. You,” Tenley whispers. “I dare you to fuck your wife.”

“Nash!” Gabby’s voice is like ice water pouring down from the ceiling above us.

We both jump apart and Tenley quickly picks up her jacket and continues toward my car as I subtly adjust the front of my pants and turn to Gabby. She is walking our way from the arena door. She's in her work wear, a Quake tracksuit and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail under a Quake hat. "X-Ray, Westwood?"

“I was just telling Tenley I have to get it tomorrow.”

She folds her arms over her chest. “I saw you limping as you left.”

“I promise tomorrow. It’s only gotten bad again now,” I say, kind of lying just a little bit. It hurt pretty bad that last game in Seattle.

“If you don’t get it done tomorrow, I’m telling Coach he should bench you.”

Shit. “I will get it done.”

She nods. “Have a good night.”

I get to the car and Tenley is leaning against the passenger side. “You hurt?”

“I tweaked something in my leg. Not serious but she doesn’t want it to get serious,” I explain, hitting the fob to unlock the car. “And I’ve been neglecting it.”

“She’s a tough one. I like her.”

“She is.” I nod.

Once we’re both inside the car Tenley says, “I’m surprised you aren’t snarky with her like you are with me. Since she’s a strong, independent woman and all.”

“Nagging me and threatening me is her job.”

“It’s mine too, Hubster,” Tenley remarks as she clips her seatbelt. “I’m your wife.”

“You are going to be the death of me.”

"Also my job," Tenley replies snarkily, and even I can't help but smile at that.