“Hey look, right now I’d take a boring child over the headache she’s causing me,” Dad jokes. I glare at him. He winks even though I know he’s still mad at me.
"I told my parents when my mom agreed to film footage for you that I didn't want to ever be on camera," Nash grumbles and his eyes seem to darken with his mood. "I'm a hockey player. I'm not a reality TV star."
“Sadly, Nash, the league needs the exposure and I’m betting the Quake would love something that brings them attention,” Dad says. “I mean they’re about to win back-to-back Cups and all the local news still talks about is baseball and basketball.”
"And I promise this documentary series isn't salacious. It's authentic, and it's going to show the actual blood, sweat, and tears that go into this career, for the players and their loved ones," I pitch, just like I've pitched the documentary series to multiple networks already.
Nash sighs. "It's so authentic that it's showcasing this fake marriage. Makes sense."
His sarcasm makes me want to slap him. It’s just as overdeveloped as his ass muscles. But I swallow the urge to say something nasty and give him the saddest look I can conjure up. “I’ve worked really hard on this documentary and we might not be real but everyone else featured is. Like your parents and your mom’s business.”
He stares at me. I stare at him. Internally, emotionally, we’re facing off the same way we always do. The same way that got us into this ridiculous mess in the first place. “Fine. Whatever.”
I won. Which means my documentary is getting green-lit. Which means I have to stay married to this robotic asshole until the end of the playoffs. It's a mixed bag, but I choose to focus on the good parts. The non-Nash-Hole part.
“Thanks,” I say. “I have to call the director of programming.”
I walk into my bedroom and shut the door. Patrice’s assistant patches me through to her immediately. “I was expecting your call.”
“I’m in,” I say. “Nash and I are in but only if you guarantee an air date. In writing.”
“Not a problem,” Patrice says. “I’ll have legal write it up and we’ll start filming at the Quake’s first playoff game.”
“They haven’t agreed.”
“They have,” Patrice replies. “I had our team reach out this morning, just in case you came to your senses and agreed.”
“Oh. Great.” I feel like I’ve lost control over this and we haven’t even really started.
“Someone will call you tomorrow with more details. The AD or the director.”
My heart stops. “I… I thought I was the director. I’ve been the director on all the sizzle reels. And I was supposed to be the director if we started filming on summer break like we were going to.”
“Yes. But now you’re in it,” Patrice says. “You’re talent now. Fisher will take over as director. You’re still an executive producer. Anyway, I have to run. Legal will send the paperwork shortly and Fisher will be in touch.”
She ends the call without so much as a goodbye.
Now I’ve lost control of my documentary and my life.
Chapter 7
Nash
Our 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.”
