She walks over to her desk and sits down. I turn to the door and march myself out. I can hear Fisher striding along behind me. I pick up the pace so he doesn’t catch up. The doors are closing on the elevator before he reaches it but he manages to slip inside. We’re the only two in it so as soon as the doors close and it starts to chug downward, I turn to face him, step into his broad chest, and demand, “Why the fuck would you do that?”
“It got us picked up, didn’t it?” Fisher says. “Isn’t that your ultimate goal? Don’t you want this that badly?”
“Badly enough to stay married to Nash Westwood? No!” I bark and run my hands through my hair. I lean against the back wall of the elevator and close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose because I might cry. From stress. That hasn’t happened since… high school. I hate that it’s happening again. “Fisher, do you understand that what we did was a joke? A colossally bad, immature, and purely stupid joke. My mom and dad are going to be fucking furious and Nash’s dad… oh fuck, he might actually have a stroke. For real. We can’t tell them about this, let alone the whole fucking world.”
Fisher lets me stew in my feelings the rest of the ride down. When the elevator doors open and we’re back in the lobby, so gleaming white and stark, I immediately put my sunglasses on. We walk side-by-side to the two sets of front doors. He tries to open one for me so I walk directly over to the other one and open it myself.
“Look, you aren’t the only one that has invested time and energy into this project, even though you clearly think you are,” Fisher says once we’re on the path that skirts the building.
I'm walking toward the car—his because we stupidly carpooled—when I come to a screeching halt at his words. "Excuse me? This is my idea. My baby. Yes, you worked on it, as part of your school project, and I worked on your short film too. That's how things work. I appreciate you staying involved but I'm the one who fronted all the cash to get this far, not you."
“You have rich parents.”
“Fuck you.” I stomp toward the exit gate of the compound that makes up the studio ‘lot’. Really it’s just three skyscrapers in Burbank that take up a city block.
“Oh come on. This is the result we both wanted.”
“If I agree to stay married to Nash, which I haven’t. Because that would be pure insanity,” I tell him, still marching toward the gate.
"You don't do this, and the project is dead. Done," Fisher states the obvious, but I still curl my fists at it. I want to punch him more than I've wanted to punch someone in a very long time. "And you know she won't look at a single other project you pitch. She'll blackball you."
"Fuck you!" I call out and the security guard at the front gate glances over. I don't care. I march right past him as I pull out my phone and call for an Uber.
How is this happening? How did I get so close to my dream coming true and now it’s about to get squashed like an ant on a picnic blanket? And worse still, how does the whole damn thing—all my blood, sweat, and tears—now hinge on whether I stay in this unholy union with Nash Westwood?
Chapter 5
Nash
I have a quiet night at home, just how I like it. It’s not as easy to sleep as I would have hoped, because I’m still thinking about this stupid marriage. Charlie called me back late last night. The bad news is that the chapel did file the certificate. She couldn’t find it months ago when she did a records search because the Vegas registry is backlogged and it was essentially in limbo. But it’s filed now. Charlie did assure me an annulment would be quick and easy, though, so I get enough sleep that I feel okay in the morning, which is good because we have an on-ice practice at ten. I get up at seven like always, even on weekends, and send Tenley a text telling her it’s a valid marriage but I’m ending it asap. Then I head to the yoga studio across the street from my building.
I don’t tell any of the other guys I willingly do yoga—that I look forward to it—because they’d tease me, but it’s been great for my flexibility on the ice and it helps with my sore achy muscles that last the entire season. It doesn’t help with this stupid ache, but I took some of the leftover prescription pain meds I was given after my surgery last summer and that’s been helping.
The yoga class is hot yoga so I come out an hour later sweaty and head to the juice bar next to the yoga studio. I grab a coconut, blueberry smoothie with protein powder and then go home to shower. I’m fully intending to swing by the clinic and get that x-ray Gabrielle requested before practice but when I get out of the shower I find four missed calls on my phone.
One from Coach.
One from my mom.
One from Christine who manages the Quake’s PR.
One from Dad.
They all leave voicemails. But before I listen to them I notice there’s a text from Crew so I open it.
CREW: SOMEONE RATTED. I need you to know it wasn’t me. Call me. Do NOT freak out. Too much.
What the hell is he talking about? I wonder as I stand with a towel loosely tied around my waist while I drip water all over the floor. I retrieve my voicemails.
Coach’s voicemail is, “Nash. Call me. TMZ is reporting some really ridiculous stuff.”
Mom’s voice is high-pitched and panicked. “Nash. Honey? Why are those trashy sports sites saying you’re… I mean, why are they reporting about you at all? But saying you’re… married is insanity. Call me. I mean I know it’s bullshit. But call me.”
What. No. This can’t be happening. No.
Christine's message is angry, which tracks for her. She's sick of all the team's shit at this point. "First a surprise baby from Garrison and now you up and marry his sister. I mean fine. It's your business but we shouldn't have been blindsided. Also, why the hell have I never seen you with her? Or a ring on her finger? We'll talk after practice."
And then my dad. “Hey. I don’t know what’s going on but I would like to so you should call me. Now.”
