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Chapter 7

Nash

O ur first series of the playoffs is against the Seattle Winterhawks and it's in Seattle because they inched us out for first in the division. It's my fault. We went into overtime in a game back in February and during the shootout, I didn't score. Crew scored. They scored. Tate scored. They scored. I didn't score. They did score. That's the point we needed to win the division. Yeah, I hold onto that shit. Crew says it's masochism. I say it's personal accountability. My dad has said there is a fine line between both and I have to be careful.

Anyway, I follow my game day routine to the letter. Up at seven. Yoga. Breakfast of protein pancakes, egg white omelets, matcha. Morning skate. Watch game footage alone in my room. Lunch of grilled chicken breast over Greek salad, side of sweet potato fries, water, green tea. Nap. Pre-game snack of a peanut butter sandwich and a strawberry protein shake. I wear my lucky suit, my lucky tie, my lucky underwear. I shove a toque on my head. My lucky toque. I got a lot of grief last year because I wore it to every game, and we were playing in June in Los Angeles. No one needs a winter hat on their head then, but I've been wearing it since I was thirteen and won my first championship.

I board the bus that takes us from the hotel to the arena, ignoring the autograph seekers that Tate and Crew stop for on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. I have my ear pods blaring The Weeknd and Tragically Hip, so I don’t get distracted by the chatter on the bus. And when we get to the arena I march straight to my cubicle.

As I lace up my skates Noah Pattison calls out from his space, “Hey, Westwood! The wife here?”

I don’t register that he’s talking to me. Why would I? But Crew nudges me. I look up. “What?”

The first thing I notice is they've let the cameras in. Not just the network that will be airing the game but another cameraman and a tall, young guy wearing a headset whispering directions to the cameraman, who is very obviously focusing his lens directly on me. I get a queasy feeling in my belly. Tenley's documentary crew.

“Dude, I know you get into a zone, but did you forget your wife?” Pattison laughs.

“She’s here. Easy choice for her, being that her brother is right there.” I tip my chin toward Tate who is two seats over. “She rarely misses out on a chance to hang with her nephew too.”

It’s the nicest thing I can think of to say about Tenley. Tate is always bragging about what a great aunt she is, and how she is always up for babysitting. Pattison chuckles. “Careful, Nash. Babies are contagious.”

"Shut up," I snap without even thinking about it because a baby, with Tenley, is a horrific thought. But it shouldn't be to a loving husband. Oops. Just about every set of eyes in the locker room is on me.

Crew laughs. “Guys, he’s still in the honeymoon phase and that doesn’t involve diaper changes. Cut the dude some slack.”

Everyone laughs. I plaster on a smile and then shoot my brother a grateful glance when everyone moves on to another topic. He leans in as we both stand to pull our jerseys over our equipment, our backs to the cameras. “Chill, bro. Just concentrate on the game.”

“Yeah. I will.”

And it’s a miracle but I do. We hit the ice to a sea of enthusiastic Winterhawks fans. When the Winterhawks score first the roar almost pops my eardrums. But I don’t let it steal my confidence. We're the defending champions for a reason. I steal a glance at the stands on a TV time-out. There's a very specific section of each stadium reserved for friends and family of visiting teams and I have memorized where it is in every arena. My dad, especially when we first started in the league, would often show up at games unannounced. He didn't want to put pressure on us by letting us know he was there, but inevitably at some point during each game the camera would pan to him and the jig was up.

Tonight is no different and as I spot him and my mom in the stands, the camera also finds him and there's a mix of cheers and boos. Dad started his career with the Winterhawks and led them to a Cup, but he also allowed himself to be traded to San Diego and won them two Cups, so some fans hold a grudge about that. Also, the fact that Crew and I had an offer from Seattle when we were in our recent contract negotiations and opted to stay with the Quake annoys them too. Dad smiles confidently and waves, ignoring the fans who choose to boo.

I block them out as well as we head back onto the ice. Tate manages a turnover and shoots the puck to Crew. He's on my left and we both haul ass up the ice. But then I ease up, cut across the ice, and am in just the right spot as Crew lifts his stick like he's going to haul off and lay a killer slap shot on the goalie, but instead, he moves forward without the puck. Before the defensemen covering him can realize Crew has left the puck behind I skate right up to it and take a shot. The goalie is also following Crew, confused, and turns his head just as my shot sails over his left shoulder and hits the twine behind him. Goal!

Crew and Tate, and Noah and Norris pile on me in a group hug. I skate by the bench tapping gloves with everyone and then skate back to center to take the face-off. “Back to bagel boys. Time to grab the lead,” Crew announces as we all take our positions.

Because we're tied now it's essentially the same as having no score, which is what Crew is reminding them. The goal was an equalizer, we still need to take the lead. They announce my goal over the loudspeaker as I bend forward and wait for the ref to drop the puck. I catch a glimpse of one of the giant monitors and notice they're showing a close-up of Tenley jumping up and down as I score. She's smiling, and there's no denying she's gorgeous. As she turns to high-five Tate's girlfriend I catch the number on her jersey. She always wears a Quake jersey with Tate's number and the name Tater Tot, which is her nickname for her brother. But not today. Today she's in one of our away jerseys, which is black with gold letters and silver stitching, as she celebrates with Mallory. I see a 7 and the last four letters of the name on her jersey—wood.

Crew is number 67 and I’m number 77 and so I can’t be sure but if I had to bet money, I would say Tenley Garrison is wearing my jersey. The world is upside down. And for a very fleeting millisecond, so are my emotions. I like the idea of her in my jersey.

No. No way. I do not. That's just some hormonal caveman thing I can't help. But I definitely do not have to give in to it. Fuck that. Nope. Not happening. The ref drops the puck and I refocus with a snap, but it's too late. The Winterhawks get control and now we're chasing them down the ice. Damn her.

It’s a battle but we win the game 3-1 thanks to my goal, a shorty from Tate, and an empty net from Pattison. The mood in the locker room after the game is upbeat but cautious. There’s a reason they call the Cup the hardest trophy in sports to win—because we have to win three more times before we advance to the next round. Each series is a best of seven. This win is crucial but it’s just one of many we need. If we get cocky now, we’re fucked and everyone knows it. So Tate plays some tunes and we make some jokes and then they give out the locker room player of the game. It’s a symbolic thing that we do with each win. Lots of teams have different items they pass around for the same ritual. Ours, being a Los Angeles team, is one of those cheesy fake Oscar statues from a tourist shop on Hollywood Boulevard. Someone Krazy-Glued a plastic hockey stick and a helmet to it.

Usually, the player who won it last decides who gets the honor with the current win, but because it's playoffs and we're 're-setting' so to speak like it's a new season, Coach Braddock picks the winner. Only he looks at both me and Crew and smiles and winks before he holds it up in the center of the room. "We got someone else to announce the winner tonight, guys. Someone who observed the whole game with a keen, skilled eye. Someone who…" He pauses and smiles. "Someone who will not be observing the next game but will be playing along with you. Landon Casco."

Landon walks into the room in a suit. He’s grinning. He looks fucking great. A little pale but great. The guys all blink and then, as the words sink in, they start to jump up and cheer and holler like we did just win the Cup. Players start rushing in to hug him. Landon groans and detangles himself from them. “You stinkers need showers. This is an expensive suit. Back up.”

We all laugh. He looks like he might get choked up, which has me fighting a lump in my throat. I can't imagine being as sick as he was and being on the brink of losing my career and my life. I'm so relieved he's back. "This one goes to one of our very reliable captains who started us on this win. Nash!"

I stand up and take the trophy from him, then hug him, ignoring his protests. “Couldn’t have done it without each and every one of you. Now let’s do it again. With Casco!”

They roar.

In this moment, and the post-game interviews, and the shower, and the moments where we’re getting dressed again, life is perfect. I feel great. Exhausted but great. Gabby pops her head into the locker room as I’m shrugging into my suit jacket. Crew is already in the friends and family room. Pattison is the only player not fully clothed at this point but he’s got pants on. I don’t think Gabby gives a rat’s ass though. She’s very professional and our dicks do not scare her. Or impress her. Although I think mine did for a minute.

“Hey!” She walks over. “I’ve been waiting on that x-ray.”

“Shit. Right.” I sigh. “I haven’t had the chance to get it done. But the leg feels good. No aching or pain tonight.”

“Nash, you know one night without pain is more likely adrenaline than problem solved,” she says. She’s right but I just don’t want to ruin this perfect night by finding out I have a muscle tear or bone chip or whatever.

“Okay. I’ll go. As soon as we get back to L.A.”

She smiles, satisfied, and pats the top of my head like I’m a golden retriever puppy who did something right. “Good boy.”

She turns and heads toward the door but stops. “If it gets worse, let me know asap.”

When she’s gone I shove my feet into my shoes and start for the door myself. Pattison calls out, “Westwood! You injured already?”

“Nah. Nothing to worry about. Gabby is just being extra diligent.”

Pattison snorts at that. “She’s also being extra cool. You up and get married and don’t even tell her, and she still wants to keep you healthy and not push you under the team bus. Girl is a bigger person than me.”

“You want to push me under the team bus?” I kid and he laughs. “Gabs and I were always casual.”

Gabrielle hasn't even mentioned my marriage, come to think of it. Should I have brought it up to her? As Pattison says, she doesn't seem irked. Oh well. I'll mention it after I get the x-ray. I leave the locker room and head down the hall to the small, cramped friends and family room. It's the visiting team's space so it’s not nearly as spacious and nicely furnished as our home rink’s area, but no one cares. Everyone in there is just happy to see us, and happy we won.

I spot my dad and mom right away. They’re in the left corner by the door with Crew. And Tenley. Why is she with my parents? Mom waves and smiles at me. Dad nods and tries to smile but it looks more like a grimace. He is still not over this accidental marriage thing. We’ve talked once, briefly, since it was leaked. He just kept saying, “I don’t understand. Make it make sense, Nash.” And, well, I couldn’t. He did agree with the team’s request to not divorce until later so at least I felt good about abiding by that request. I just hate that it also accommodated Tenley’s stupid documentary.

I walk over to them and immediately hug my mom. She squeezes me tightly. “Great job baby!”

Dad pulls me into a dad-hug which is one arm around my shoulders and a hearty pat on the back with the other. He pulls back. “You and Crew on that first goal was a thing of beauty.”

“Thanks.”

Everything gets silent. Everyone is staring at me. Tenley clears her throat. I glance at her like I’m seeing a pesky mosquito buzzing by my head. Crew whispers, “Umm… hug your wife dipshit. Eyes are everywhere.”

“Do I have to?”

“Shut up,” Tenley says with a broad smile on her face so no one knows she’s actually being a bitch. “Hug me. Pretend I’m a hockey stick or that stupid beanie you love so much.”

She wraps her arms around my neck. I fight off a shudder and wrap one around her waist. It’s tiny and tight. “It’s called a toque and it’s lucky.”

“I’m not Canadian. It’s a beanie.”

She lets go of me but I keep her snug to my middle with my arm tight around her waist. “You married a Canadian. Adapt.”

I let her go and she smiles brighter. “Dick.”

“Brat.”

“Oh how I love young love,” Mom announces with a sarcastic sigh.

Tenley smirks at my mom. “Oh yeah. We’re end game goals for sure. If you’ll excuse me I think we’ve made enough of an effort. I’m going to go congratulate my brother.”

I watch her turn and walk across the room. Yep. My jersey. My name across her narrow shoulders. My dick starts getting restless in my pants. “No, you caveman.”

“Who’s a caveman?” Crew asks and I feel like an idiot for chirping my dick out loud.

“Never mind,” I mutter. “Are you guys staying long?”

Dad nods. "We'll be here for the next game too. And then we'll see you back in L.A."

Normally this would be great news. I love having family around for playoffs. But I can literally feel the tension between Dad and I and I’m not looking forward to more of that. I can only hope time will make it go away because I don’t know what else will. Dad spots Jordan talking to Coach Braddock and he heads that way.

Crew runs over to the door as soon as Liv walks in with Grady.

Now it’s just me and Mom in the corner and she’s staring at me like I’m a puzzle she is trying to figure out. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Good. We won.”

“I don’t mean Nash the player. I mean Nash my son,” she clarifies. “I have a weird feeling about you.”

I look down into her eyes. Mom is smart and stubborn and also a total softy on the inside. She is hyper-aware of just about everything. Her life wasn’t easy growing up in my uncle’s hockey shadow, and she had a rocky relationship with drugs that landed her in a rehab. She was a strict parent but not a tough one. That’s the only way I know how to explain it. “This whole thing is annoying. With Tenley. I’m mad at myself.”

“I get that. You are too hard on yourself on a good day,” Mom replies and reaches out, squeezing my arm. “If you ever need to talk… I’m here. Day or night. Don’t worry about your dad. Just call me, okay? I know that living a lie can be really hard on your mental health. I didn’t tell your dad about my past when we first met and it kind of wrecked me. I don’t want this situation to do that to you.”

“Thanks. I’ll be okay. I promise.”

“It’s okay if you aren’t though,” she reminds me and I nod even though I don’t believe her. I need to be perfect. I need to handle everything. There’s a championship on the line. I can’t fuck up. “You know what would probably help?”

“What?”

She smiles gently, like she used to do when we were kids and she’d start to count to three but rip off our band-aids on two. It’s a this-is-going-to-hurt-but-it’s-for-your-own-good smile. “Try actually being friends with her.”

“With who? Tenley? No,” I say, lowering my voice so no one overhears.

“Nashy, come on. Think about this. If you two can find common ground, this will go faster and be less of a pain in the ass for you,” Mom explains.

“Finding common ground with Tenley is like finding a needle in a haystack. And if I do find it, the needle will likely stab me and I’ll bleed to death.” Yes. I’m being dramatic and my mother’s expression says it. I sigh. “Fine. I’ll try.”

I won’t. Not hard anyway. Because it’s a colossal waste of time. Tenley is the oil to my water. The cloud to my blue sky. The piss in my cereal. Nothing can change that.