Page 9

Chapter 8

Tenley

I look through the peephole on my apartment’s front door, see Fisher’s face, and walk away. He knocks again and then his face appears in the plate glass window directly next to my front door.

“Tenley you can’t give me the cold shoulder forever!”

“Fuck you!”

“Ten! I didn’t steal your job and I didn’t rat you out,” Fisher pleads for the millionth time. “I saved our show.”

“Fuck you!” I yell through the window.

“Okay fine. Fuck me, but this show is filming, whether you like it or not. You’re involved on camera and off, and I have to talk to you about the fucking show so open up,” Fisher barks. “Or resign as producer and I won’t consult you on anything going forward.”

It's still my baby. I still invented the concept and I can still have a say in how it goes. I take a deep breath, turn, and open the door. I've been spiraling a little if I'm honest. Since we got back from Seattle, I've been laying low. A lot of my family is in town but I haven't been meeting up with them, or going to family dinners. I've stayed tucked away in this apartment Door Dashing Chipotle and playing my Angst Playlist like a grieving dumped girlfriend. Because I'm just as heartbroken as one losing control of this documentary.

“Why aren’t you living with your husband?” I glare at him as soon as he asks it. “I know, but, like no one else knows and they’re going to figure out something is off if you’re in this shithole and not his fancy house.”

I make my way back to the couch, where I’ve been rotting under a black and red plaid fleece NHLPA throw blanket, a pile of empty candy wrappers and chip bags, and a crusty avocado dip container. I crawl back under the blanket and curl up. “Nash-Hole doesn’t have a home.”

“He’s… homeless? What? Does he live in a hotel or something, like Howard Hughes?” Fisher asks.

“He has a big concrete box he calls an apartment,” I mutter, snuggling deeper under the covers. “He hosted a Christmas party once, for the team. I think because he lost a bet. It was like trying to be festive in an abandoned garage. I had to keep my coat on the entire party, it was so cold, both emotionally and physically.”

Fisher laughs. Jerk. He drops down on the chair beside me. “You like to act like you’re this strong independent woman, but one thing doesn’t go your way and you’re a pouty little princess.”

“Oh go fuck yourself,” I snarl and sit up. My hair is half in and half out of a top knot. The same top knot I shoved it into two days ago when I got home from Seattle. It’s a mess and needs a good wash. “I’ve disappointed my parents for the first time in my life and it’s a lot, okay? You never seemed very close to your parents but I’m very close to mine, and this sucks. On top of which I lost the director title on my first documentary so I’m pissed. And if you aren’t lying and you didn’t sell me out, I’m walking around with an enemy, a traitor, in my inner circle. That’s upsetting. I’m not a princess.”

Fisher sighs like he's over my distress. "Ten. Babe. If I turned into a Chipotle Couch Rat every time life kicked me in the nuts, I would have never met you. Did you know I got rejected from UCLA the first time I applied? And that I had to drop out the second time when they finally let me in? I ran out of money for the second year so I took a semester off until I could save up half the money and get my long-lost rich aunt to pay the other half. Then I had to spend the summer as her own personal gardener to pay it back. And she has a big-ass lawn in the valley. It was, like, a hundred degrees every day that summer."

I ignore him and curl up on the couch again. He always makes this about me being a “have” and him being a “have not”. He’s not wrong, but he’s also not right. I worked my ass off. My name did not get me into the film program at UCLA, but I haven’t had a financial struggle. He always makes me feel like I don’t deserve anything.

“You need to move in with your husband because we’re filming his daily routine all day tomorrow,” Fisher announces, shocking me.

“What? Since when? You’re supposed to be in Nova Scotia filming his mom at her work,” I say and sit up.

“We got a bigger budget. We’re doing both. A crew is on their way to Nova Scotia right now,” Fisher explains. “I fly out to join them tonight. I’m directing that segment.”

“Who’s directing the one at Nash’s?” I ask.

He smiles. "I was hoping you. If you could wash the stench of depression off you and get your ass over there."

"I don't have to move in," I argue and start cleaning the table, shoving wrappers into take-out bags. "I'll just get there extra early and bring a couple things to make it look like I live there."

“Ten, someone’s gonna talk if you don’t live with him.”

I narrow my eyes on him. “Is that a threat?”

He lifts both hands up and stands like I’m a cop with a gun pointed at him. “Killer, I’ve told you a hundred times, I am not your enemy. But TMZ and all the other nosy sports fans and WAG stalkers might be.”

"Oh shit. I'm a WAG," I gasp because I never thought about that before. Yeah, the marriage is fake but no one knows that which makes me a WAG, the nickname for wives and girlfriends of professional athletes. He's right. There are whole blogs dedicated to WAGs and so many people who sell info or secrets on them.

“So, you finally getting it, Killer? You have to shack up with him.”

“How is this getting worse instead of better?” I moan and run a hand through my tangled hair. I sigh and pull out the scrunchie, tossing it on the table before putting my head in my hands.

“On that note…” I can literally hear him swallow. “They want to include Anne-Marie DuBois.”

“Oh fuck no.” Now I’m off the couch. On my feet. My blood is boiling. “How do they even know about her? I didn’t include her footage in the sizzle reel. Everyone on set signed an NDA.”

“That means you can’t talk about the footage to the public. It doesn’t mean you can’t talk about the footage to the network that bought the show,” Fisher explains calmly. Too calmly.

I stare at his face. The one I used to find handsome. The one I was charmed by. The one I considered a friend and creative ally. I point to the door, my arm shaking with the anger I can barely contain. “Get out of my house. Don’t even come back here. When we’re on set together, don’t act like we’re friends. We aren’t.”

“Come on, Killer.”

“I won’t say it again. Out.”

Fisher slinks to the door. “She’ll make the documentary better. Chick is messy as fuck and the rest of you seem to have your shit together. This is what we need. Unless you want to confess, on-camera, to a fake marriage?”

I pick up a half-empty bottle of Snapple and hold it close to my ear, ready to hurl it like an MLB pitcher. Fisher takes his last few steps to the door really quickly once he sees the bottle and my stance. “I’ll email you notes on the types of clips I want out of you and Nash tomorrow.”

He shuts the door and I throw the bottle of Snapple at the back of it anyway.

Two hours later, after I’ve cleaned up the Snapple, cried my way through a shower, and packed a couple bags I find myself buzzing Nash’s loft. He isn’t answering so I text him.

TENLEY: Hey. I’m at your place. Where are you?

It took almost five minutes but he responded.

NASH-HOLE: Why?

TENLEY: Because I’m your wife. Remember? WHERE R U?

NASH-HOLE: I’m not home.

TENLEY: Well I need you to be home.

NASH-HOLE: And I need you to not be my wife.

TENLEY: I WISH. Can you buzz me in remotely? I promise not to steal your underwear and sell it on eBay. Crew’s is worth more money anyway.

NASH-HOLE: Fine. I’ll be home soon.

I hear the door buzz and I grab it and haul it open, pulling my bags in behind me. If I recall, he’s in the penthouse. I look around the stark lobby… Does anything in this place have personality? Would a vase of flowers or a bit of color on a wall kill anyone? I get in the elevator and hit the top floor. I remember his door is the one directly across from the elevator. But… now what? I need a key to get in the apartment and I don’t have one. Then I hear a voice. Nash’s distinctive, emotionless voice.

"I'll unlock the door remotely. Head on in. Don't touch a thing."

It's his doorbell camera he's talking through and as soon as he stops talking I hear the soft click of the deadbolt unlocking. I reach for the handle and open the door. The first thing that hits me is that this loft is stunning. Huge windows cover one entire wall, from the floor to the top of the double-height ceilings. They're set into the concrete walls with thick reclaimed wood frames, which are so deep it's like every window has a built-in seat. The floors gleam they're such polished gray concrete, but the walls are also gray. So much gray, and Venice Beach has something called a marine layer almost every morning which means it looks gray and gloomy outside every day until about noon. Why on earth wouldn’t you want your inside to be brighter? Yeah, I’m judgey.

If this were my million dollar apartment I would paint the long wall that goes from the windows through the living room and dining room to the front hall a bright, bold color.

Nash's choice of furniture is slightly less expected. I think he's changed things from the last time I was here or there were just too many people at the party that I didn't notice the furnishings. There isn't an ounce of leather, which I hadn't expected, because men love their leather furniture. Instead, there's the longest sectional I've ever seen in a lush, expensive velvet. Charcoal gray velvet. And there's a corduroy reading chair in the corner with a matching ottoman with some silver fringe. But both are gray. The thick automated window coverings that are half up, half down at the moment on all the windows are also a grayish color.

"Jesus," I mutter as I pile my purse and carry-on bag on one of the stools—which are also gray— beside the kitchen island. "Robo-dude wants his apartment to look like the inside of a robot. Fitting."

I wander down the hall, back toward the front door. There's a powder room, with monochromatic wallpaper in white, and—you guessed it—gray. A black marble sink with brass fixtures and sconces on either side of the mirror. And there's a wood-framed opening to an office-type space that's lined with matte black bookshelves that contain award after award and medals in shadow boxes. The one wall without shelves has eight different jerseys in frames, all with Nash's name and number. All his Junior teams, and a couple Team Canada jerseys from when he played for them in the World Juniors. The room itself contains a small desk, a closed laptop on it, and a couch which I can only pray is a pull-out so that I have somewhere to sleep almost comfortably. Because I don't want to sleep in the living room and I sure as hell am not sharing his bed on the upstairs level. It's bad enough I'll have to go through it to get to the one full bathroom.

As I stand there bent over the couch trying to figure out if it's a pull-out, the front door opens. As I right myself Nash comes to a stop in the doorway. It's a double-wide doorway but doesn't look that way with his hulking frame in it. Nash is leaner than Crew but his shoulders are still as broad as a football field, and he's tall. Not my cousin Grady's freakish height but probably about six-two or three. His dirty blond hair is shorter than Crew's, and lighter, but he takes time to style it. He doesn't just shove on a baseball cap like most of the guys unless it's game day. Then he's always in that decrepit-looking beanie.

“I told you not to touch anything,” he growls.

A ripple of desire shimmies down my spine because I like growly men. And it’s rare for Nash to be anything but monotone. “I’m just trying to figure out if this is a pull-out, not trying to steal any memorabilia from your shrine to yourself.”

He jerks his head back and frowns. “It’s not a shrine to… all players have a room with their awards. Somewhere.”

I know he's right. We have a lot of space in our family home in Silver Bay, Maine, which is a showcase of everything my dad and Tate ever did. Our grandparents have a basement full of awards, photos, game-winning pucks, medals, and trophies from everything my dad and uncles ever did before they were drafted. But am I going to admit that to Nash? Nope.

I stick my hands on my hips. “Is it a pull-out or not?”

“Yeah, it folds down into a bed,” Nash replies. “But I’ve never used it as I don’t have guests.”

"Well, you do now," I reply. His eyes snap up to mine, wide with horror. "I need to stay here. To sell the marriage."

“To who?”

“To everyone.” I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose because I feel a stress headache creeping in. “Look, I hate the idea more than you. Trust me. But TMZ is still interested in this story. And whoever the rat is is still watching. And Fisher told me they’re coming here tomorrow to film your whole day. How weird would it be if your wife wasn’t part of that?”

“I was gonna say you were back in Maine… or something,” he grumbles.

“FYI you should have told me they were filming. I shouldn’t have to find out from that asshole pretending to be the director.” I turn my back to him and go back to trying to figure out how the couch turns into a bed. I’m bent over, hair hanging, blood rushing to my head, when I feel his hand grip my shoulder and pull me upright.

I glare at him over my shoulder and his face is red and he’s almost sweating. “You’re wearing a loose crop top.”

“So?”

“So when you bend over you’re showing everyone… and by everyone I mean me… your bare stomach and that hot pink lace bra you’re wearing. Plus your ass is… on display.”

“Oh.” I let him move me out of the way. “Well, you’re welcome. Probably the most female anatomy you’ve seen in a long time.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat which I recognize as "yeah, right". He lifts a velcro piece of fabric on the side of the couch and pulls a lever hidden underneath. He pushes on the back of the couch and the whole thing flattens out. But I'm still concentrating on that sound he made. "What? You're fucking someone?"

“Crass.”

“Right. You’re the delicate flower here. I forgot.” I roll my eyes. “Are you having intimate relations with someone Nash-Hole? Because umm… you’re married and also, I thought players abstained during playoffs.”

“The marriage isn’t real,” he replies and motions towards the couch, like ‘ta-da!’. “And everyone has their way of handling extracurricular activity during playoffs. Most abstain on game days and the night before.”

“Are you involved with someone?” I ask again as he starts out of the office, and I find myself following behind. “I mean, I don’t care but I think I should know. And you would have to be extra careful.”

“I’m not,” he says and for some reason I feel relief at that. Probably because it would just be another thing that could sink this lie we’re floating. “I had a bed buddy but we haven’t been together in a few months and obviously I’m not going to do it now and complicate this.”

“Cool.”

He looks at my bags in the kitchen. “You’re serious about staying here?”

“Like I said, it’s a necessary hardship.”

We stare at each other. I can see him trying to wrap his head around this development. He wants to argue. I can see it all over his face, but I can also see the resignation in his eyes. He knows I’m right. He scrubs his face with his hands and I pretend not to notice how big they are. Yeah, Nash has big hands. I actually believe that garbage about hands and feet size indicating the size of something else. I haven’t had a ton of experience in the bedroom but what I have had doesn’t disprove it.

“Fuck. Fine,” he growls again. He takes my bags and carries them back into his office.

I bite my tongue to keep myself from making a snarky comment about the nightmares I’ll have sleeping in his shrine. “I’ll get the extra sheets.”

I unzip my suitcase and pull out the photos and knick knacks I brought with me. When he stomps his way down the floating stairs that lead to his bedroom, he stops dead as I place one of the photos on his stainless steel fridge with two lobster shaped fridge magnets I also brought.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“It needs to look like I actually live here Nash-Hole,” I reply. “My stuff melded with your stuff. That’s how couples live.”

“Who is even going to notice that shit?” he asks. “No. I can’t do clutter.”

“This isn’t clutter,” I reply. “It’s a picture of my entire family at our annual Christmas Day hockey match on the frozen lake in Silver Bay.”

He leans on the counter and stares at the photo. "Shit. There are so many of you. It's like your extended family makes up half the NHL."

I smirk. “Not half. A quarter maybe.”

“Do you have a lot of stuff you want to destroy my aesthetic with?”

I laugh and spin, arm out, gesturing at the rest of the loft. “You call this an aesthetic?”

“I hired a designer.” He’s so indignant it’s almost adorable. If anything about him could ever be considered adorable, which it can’t.

“Did you tell the designer I want Wednesday Addams vibes? Give me the cave Eeyore would go to die in?” I’m on the verge of giggling at my own jokes and it makes Nash frown even harder.

“I’m sorry I didn’t go with Garage Sale Chic like you.”

Zing! I’m impressed with how quick he came up with that insult. He turns and walks into his living room. He hits a button on the wall and the shades start to raise all the way up. “I have an email with instructions for everything from the window shades to the heating system to the sound system to the TV. I sent it to Crew when he was watching the place for me. I’ll forward it to you.”

“Cool. Thanks,” I say and place a small ceramic inch worm on his brass and glass 1920s bar cart in the corner the room.

“What the ever-loving hell is that?”

"Stanley the inchworm. I made him in Girl Scouts when I was nine," I explain. "He's my good luck charm."

Nash walks slowly towards it like he’s worried it’s an explosive device or something. “You mean Girl Guides?”

“No. I mean Girl Scouts. I’m American, remember?”

“Yes. I remember.” He rolls his eyes before focusing them back on Stanley. “It’s hideous.”

He’s right. “Ceramics isn’t my strong suit. Just like color isn’t yours.”

He glances over his shoulder at me and I wave my hand around the room again. He flips me the middle finger and I laugh. “Gray is a color and it’s my favorite.”

"Jesus. That officially makes you the most boring man on earth," I reply and turn to trot back down the hall. I have the weird sensation of being watched as I go. Like, watched in the same way a hot guy at a bar would watch me, not in a way Nash would—or should—watch me. I shake it off and grab my keys out of my bag, calling back to him, "Do you have two parking stalls? I can't be paying meters all the time."

“Yeah. Code for the garage door is 3141 and it’s spot number nine. Next to my car. Do not scratch my car,” he warns.

“Whatever,” I reply. “I’ll be back in ten. With Palm-ela.”

“What is a Palm-ela?” he asks as his eyes grow wide. “Oh my God please do not say you have a cat.”

“Palm-ela Anderson is my potted palm tree. I named her after a Canadian. You should like that.”

“At least it’s not a cat. I’m allergic.”

I leave without another word and make a mental note to get myself a cat if Nash pisses me off too much in this arrangement of ours.