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Chapter 1

Tenley

“H ow can you be so stupid?”

I drop my head back against the headrest and close my eyes, blocking out the hilly scenery as we drive through Laurel Canyon toward West Hollywood. “I don’t know.”

“Mom and Dad are going to be devastated,” Tate says.

"No, they won't because we're not telling them. Ever. This will get dealt with by a lawyer," I promise my brother. "Nash already has one. She looked into this back in the fall. We'll just get them on board again and get this sorted."

“Who marries a guy they hate?” Mallory questions from the back seat, where she’s sitting next to my nephew Dylan. “I mean, you two have never said a nice word to each other. Ever.”

“I was too drunk to remember why I did it,” I confess.

“Yeah Mom and Dad will be thrilled,” Tate mutters as he pauses at a red light. “They already got denied the birth of their first grandchild because I fucked up and now they won’t get to be at your wedding.”

“My first wedding. Starter marriage. Doesn’t count. And like I said, they will not find out about this." I say that last sentence very slowly, enunciating every word like it's a threat because it is. "Don't tell them Tate or I swear to God you will knock Nash off the top of my most hated list."

“I’m not telling them anything,” Tate promises and continues to drive. “I have playoffs to focus on. I do not need to drop this bomb on the family.”

We’re silent the rest of the way to the apartment that I share with my cousin Liv. I share the apartment in theory now more than in actuality because Liv spends most of her days and nights at Crew’s house in Laurel Canyon. It was there, tonight, as a bunch of us gathered to watch hockey to see which other teams would make it into the playoffs, that we found my marriage certificate.

It fell out of a sweater I haven’t worn since my trip to Vegas with the L.A. Quake hockey team six months ago. Tate, my one and only sibling, plays for the Quake, with the idiot I married, Nash Westwood. Nash and his twin brother Crew are the only children of one of the most famous, now-retired hockey players on the planet, Avery Westwood. He broke just about every record there was in the league. Avery also played with my dad, Jordan Garrison, who left a hell of a legacy for Tate to follow too. In reality, being the second generation of hockey greats, Nash and I should have a lot in common, but we don’t. He’s nothing like me. The only thing we have in common is that we dislike each other.

And we’re married. To each other. Allegedly. According to the crumpled paper from a Vegas chapel.

Tate pulls to a stop in front of my building and I swivel toward the back as I unclip my seatbelt. I reach back and hold Dylan’s chin between my thumb and forefinger. “You be a good little bear. I will see you next week when Daddy starts playoffs.”

“Daddy and Nash.”

I glare at Mallory who starts to giggle. Tate groans. “This is not funny.”

“I agree. It’s not.” I glare at Mallory again. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not.”

I get out of the car and shut the door without another word. I walk slowly through my building’s courtyard and toward the stairs that lead up to my two-bedroom unit. As I pass the pool I see a man lying on one of the loungers. In the dark. Fully clothed in jeans, a leather jacket, and motorcycle boots. I freeze, my steps stuttering for just a second, and then my hand finds the keychain in my pocket. I have a mini mace on there so my fingers carefully find the trigger. I can’t make out the guy’s face so it might just be Ron. He and Nancy live in the unit below us and sometimes when they fight, she kicks him out and he sleeps by the pool.

“Garrison?”

I jump, not expecting the figure to say my name, but I recognize the voice instantly and relax. “Fisher? What are you doing here besides trying to get yourself maced?”

He lifts his tall frame off the lounger and walks over to the iron fence that circles the pool. I let go of my key chain, pull my hand from my pocket, and unhook the gate for him. He holds the door open and leans down to give me a friendly kiss on the cheek. Fisher Adamson and I were in the same program at UCLA. We have spent countless hours together over the last four and a half years. He’s also been helping me film and pitch my sports documentary idea, which was sold to a major online network recently.

“Mace is illegal, isn’t it?” Fisher says, and I can smell the beer on him.

“Bear spray isn’t, and same difference,” I explain as I continue to the stairs that lead up to my door. “And anyway, my aunt Callie would rather we all get charged with owning mace than get attacked and hurt like my cousin Liv was.”

“Right. Attempted mugging.” Fisher nods and we climb the stairs.

“Let me guess. You’ve been partying at Marmont and need a place to crash because you can’t drive back to your place in the Valley?” I guess as I pull my keys out and open the metal storm door.

“Yes but I could have gone home with the girl I was picking up,” he explains and runs a hand through his thick hair as he leans on my door frame and waits for me to unlock the new deadbolts, yes two, that my dad installed last time he was in town. “But then I thought you’d need to be talked off a ledge.”

“Why?” I push open the door and invite him in, flipping on the overhead light.

The blanket and pillow are still on the corner of the couch from the last time he crashed here. Fisher walks in, takes off his shoes, and flops down on the couch. “The email from Bobby Ryan.”

“I haven’t been checking email. Was at a family thing.” I pull my phone out of my purse and immediately go to my Gmail. It’s the first email I see.

I have to read it three times for it to sink in. Each time my body fills with dread and anger. And, honestly, exhaustion. “I don’t understand. Everything is signed. How can they pull out?”

“They aren’t pulling out,” Fisher corrects as he stretches and reaches for the blanket. “They’re saying they’ll likely push back the filming dates, which pushes back the air date.”

“Indefinitely!” I bark. “It says indefinitely! That means we’re shelved.”

My heart breaks. Truly. I’ve worked on this idea for four years. I’ve invested all my time and money, and I got my friends and family involved. People agreed to be featured in this because I asked them. Fisher looks less bothered. It’s not his baby, but still. His level of calm annoys me.

“See? This is why I gave up guaranteed pussy for you, killer.” He uses a nickname he started calling me a couple of years ago. He thinks I’m a man killer and that’s why he calls me that. Hardly, but whatever. I’ve had worse nicknames. “You’re spiraling and you don’t have to. I’ve been talking to Bobby and we’ve got another meeting with the network.”

“When? Why are you and Bobby figuring this out without me?” I have so many questions. “And what the hell else can we do to convince them this is a good show? Pull a unicorn out of our ass? What?”

I feel like all my negative emotions are just getting bigger instead of smaller. I take off my jacket and toss it toward the coat hooks on the wall by the door. Then I throw myself down in the oversized armchair and tuck my knees into myself. Fisher still looks so calm I could punch him. “Killer, I was waiting for you to respond but you didn’t, so I did. I thought time was of the essence. You know I wouldn’t overstep.”

I sigh. “So what the hell are we going to say?”

"We'll start figuring it out in the morning," Fisher says as he peels himself off the couch with great effort like he's suddenly in a vat of glue or something. He groans. "I need water."

“Gatorade is better. In the fridge,” I mutter and close my eyes, leaning my head back. Why is this happening? Why is all of this happening? First I’m married to my enemy and now my life’s dream is circling the drain.

It means a lot to me to get this series off the ground. Not just because it would start my career but also because the world should see the other side of hockey. The family sacrifice, the injuries, the blood, sweat, and tears. People don’t know. They don’t get it. I want them to get it.

I hear Fisher moving past me, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. I hear the fridge open and close. I concentrate on all of the small sounds instead of the big worries filling my head. Fisher's big hand squeezes my shoulder as he walks past me, back into the living room. "You knew hockey would be a hard sell, Tenley. Despite American teams winning the Cup for the last twenty years we still give the sport a back seat to basketball, baseball, and football."

“Idiots,” I mutter.

He laughs. There’s a pause and I assume he’s getting settled on my couch but then he says, “What’s this?”

I open my eyes and adrenaline shoots through me like a bolt of lightning when I see him start to unfold my marriage certificate. I leap to my feet and try and grab it from him, but Fisher is tall—like over six feet—and I’m not short at five-nine but he holds the damn thing above his head. When his eyes flare I know he’s read it. “Holy shit.”

“It’s a joke.”

His eyes narrow. “It’s got a seal of the state of Nevada on it.”

“It’s a mistake. It was a joke. We dared each other to get married when we were drunk. It’s not legal.”

“So you’ve annulled it?”

I snatch it from Fisher now that he’s lowered his absurdly long arms. “We are about to.”

He laughs as I stomp into my bedroom and shove the stupid paper into the top drawer of my dresser. When I emerge he’s drank half his Gatorade and is under the blanket on the couch punching the pillow to fluff it up. “I had no idea you and Nash were a thing. I thought you hated hockey players, I mean other than the ones you’re related to.”

“I don’t hate them. I just don’t get involved with them, like on a romantic level,” I explain and grab the scrunchie off my wrist and start pulling my hair back. I wander to the kitchen and grab a bottle of water to keep by my bed. “I love my dad to bits and he’s been an incredible father, but when I was younger and he was still playing, he mostly parented through phone calls and text. It’s the way it had to be, and he did the best he could but that is not what I want. Plus the sport leaves a lot of players with lifelong injuries and traumatic brain injuries, which you know from all the footage we’ve put together. And there’s a dark side to the sport. A side I won’t even begin to talk about.”

“Every sport has a dark side. A couple of bad people who are too talented to cancel. It’s not right but it’s real.” Fisher studies me. “But it’s also a free ride, right? The money, your mom stayed home with you, right? Do you know how many families can’t do that? My parents both worked forty to sixty hours a week. We were basically raised by our grandmother and then on our own when she passed when I was thirteen. And that was just to maintain our lower-middle-class life in a little townhouse in Encino.”

“Money isn’t everything,” I reply but I do feel a little ping of guilt because yeah, my mom did quit her job when we were born—although she did volunteer at the Veterans Hospital in Portland to give free physiotherapy to vets. “Besides I’ll make my own money if someone would just commit to this damn documentary. I mean hell, if they can make Americans pay attention to race car driving with Drive to Survive they can make them notice hockey with this. That’s the goal.”

“We’ll make it happen, Killer. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

I sigh. I am so not convinced. “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning. Bring bright ideas.”

“Will do.”

I go to the bathroom to wipe off my makeup and brush my teeth. When I emerge the living room is dark, but I don’t hear Fisher’s normal snoring.

"Hey, Ten?"

“Yeah,” I reply as I make my way down the hall to my bedroom.

“I can always jump into bed with you. Save my back from this lumpy couch and get your mind off your troubles.”

Fisher has made that suggestion in the past. I have not taken him up on it, although I have been tempted more than a few times. Until he hit on Mallory before she was my brother's girlfriend. I don’t want a man who thinks I’m filler or just one of many choices. I want a man who can’t think of being with anyone but me. That’s how my dad was with my mom. It’s a lot to ask but I’m worth it. Also, as long as we work together it would be too complicated. “I’m a married woman, remember? Talk to me after the annulment.”

I don't give a rat's ass about that piece of paper. My heart, soul, and brain aren't married to that robotic shell of a human in hockey skates, even if the paperwork says otherwise. But it's a convenient excuse for tonight. "Night Fisher."

“Night Killer.”