Before I can worry too much, the crew and Tenley are in the living room and kitchen setting up. I watch them work as I sip a Body Armor. Tenley is in charge and shooting out directions with the confidence of a seasoned pro. Everyone is happily following her orders. They like working for her. "So this is going to be tricky for me," she admits, her eyes on the team. "I've never directed myself. But with your help, I know we can get this done and done well."
“We’ve got you, boss,” Rhett says with a smile.
Tenley says we’ll start with kitchen footage. She tells me to sit at the island while she makes my lunch and I immediately open my mouth to object. “I got this.”
Her blue eyes are narrowed on me and so I just nod and try not to look as frustrated as I am. I have to make my own lunch. I know what I want and how I want it. Tenley, as far as I know, doesn't cook. Whenever we do events or team get-togethers that she's tagged along on with Tate she's brought something prepared and store-bought. She looks at her cameraman. "Okay. Quiet on set… and rolling!"
She turns with a smile on her pretty lips I’ve never seen before, at least not directed at me. It’s warm, kind, inviting. “The usual babe?”
“Uh… yeah. Please.”
She pauses a second but then turns to stick her head in the fridge. “You nervous about the game?”
“No. Not really.”
“Why not? I mean it’s the first one at home since you won the Cup. You’re going into it with only one win, not two,” Tenley says as she steps away from the fridge, pushing it closed with her butt cheek because her arms are full of ingredients.
I peer at everything in her arms. Is it right? Is she going to make the right thing? I notice the cucumber and the slices of grilled chicken in her hands and get cautiously hopeful. “Nash?”
“What?”
She sighs. “Cut!”
She drops all the ingredients on the counter near my espresso machine and the next thing I know she’s got my arm and she’s dragging me down the hall. “Be back in a minute,” Tenley calls to the crew. “Hubster needs a pep talk. Cameras aren’t his friend.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen his post-game interviews,” Lizzie replies.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask Tenley.
She pulls me into the office and reaches for the door but there is none. She pokes her head down the hall and turns back to me. In a whisper, she says, "Seriously? You do commercials for crap. How are you this bad at acting?"
“I only endorse things and work with brands I actually like, which isn’t acting,” I reply and self-consciously shove my hands in my pockets. “And Crew does them with me and does most of the talking.”
She runs her hands through her hair and it immediately falls right back in place. But for that second she raked it, the light from the one window hits it and the strands shimmer with a golden glow. She could be a movie star, I think absurdly. But then again, everything right now is absurd. “I need you to pretend I’m someone you like. At the very least someone you want to like. We are not believable right now. You’re awkward as fuck.”
“Sorry.” I feel like shit.
She steps right up in front of me and looks up at me with earnest eyes. “Just talk like you would to Crew or whoever your last bed buddy was. It’s a normal game day.”
"There's a bunch of people and a heap of audio-visual equipment in my loft. It's not normal."
“Jesus. Yeah. Okay. But try to pretend they aren’t there,” Tenley pleads and then she pauses, puts a hand on my forearm, and squeezes. “I dare you.”
"You're a fucking menace," I mutter but I'm almost smiling because, at this point, this whole thing feels like a game. The marriage, the film crew, the mutual masturbation that happened last night. All of it is some big game of Truth and Dare. Or No Truth and All Dares. Whatever. Point is, I'm good at games.
So when she lets go of my arm and trots out of the office and down the hall I follow, catch up to her, and drape an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s do this lil wifey-poo.”
She sucks in her breath but doesn’t balk at the new nickname. She walks back into the kitchen and I take my seat at the island and pick up my drink from earlier. She looks at the crew.
“You all ready? Okay, so let’s get back to it.” She turns to the counter and my lunch. “Rolling!”
I pick at the label on the bottle. “I have to stop comparing this run to the last one.”
She glances over her shoulder at me as she grabs a knife from the butcher block. “You mean the playoff run?”
I nod. “Last year had a different energy. A different…”
“Flow?” she suggests.
