“Yeah. And different… doesn’t always feel lucky,” I say.
“It’s hard when you’re superstitious. I get it,” Tenley replies.
She turns to face me and she’s got the salad spinner out. I don’t know how she knows where it is, under the counter by the sink, because she didn’t ask. I guess maybe she poked around the kitchen… like she did my dresser. I blink and mentally shake the embarrassing memory from my brain before it sinks me and I look awkward again.
I stand up and round the island, scooping the cucumber, cherry tomatoes, and block of feta off the counter and moving it to the island. I pull a cutting board out from its spot in the open shelving under the island. Tenley comes towards me with the knife and I almost jump out of the way. My enemy holding a razor-sharp cleaver, and not trying to stab me with it, is not something I thought I'd see in my own kitchen, but here we are. I take the cukes, grab my own knife, and start cutting.
She hip-checks me. “Hey. I said I was making you lunch.”
"You're my wife, not my servant," I remind her and continue cutting.
We’re silent for a few seconds as I cut the cucumber and half the cherry tomatoes and she grabs a bag of sweet potato fries out of the freezer and drops some in the air fryer basket. Once she turns it on she turns to me. “Different doesn’t mean bad. You can win more than one way. Before the Cup last year, what was the last big medal or trophy you won?”
“A gold, for Canada, at the Four Nations tournament.”
She puts a hand to her chest and winces because she was there, cheering on Tate who was playing for Team USA and lost that gold to us. I give her a ‘sorry-not-sorry’ smile and wink. “Okay, well, that win was totally different than your Cup win. You won that gold medal in OT. You won the Cup in regulation. You also lost a game in the Four Nations series and didn’t lose a game in your final Cup series. You swept them four games in a row.”
She is making good—no, great—points. I actually start to feel better. The niggling uneasy feeling that’s plagued me since we lost that last game in Seattle starts to fade. I toss the veggies into a big salad bowl as soon as she pulls it out of my cabinet and places it on the island. She gently shoves me out of the way and places the sliced chicken on top and begins to sprinkle crumbled feta on top of that.
“Thanks,” I say and shockingly mean it.
She looks up at me, hesitates, but them she rocks up on her tip toes and kisses my cheek. I wasn’t expecting it and between the feel of her lips and the scent of her—which is orange blossom and a spicy vanilla—I get a ripple of heat in my gut.
Desire. Again. For Tenley. Jesus. If this keeps up, I’m fucked.
We stare at each other.
“Cut!” she yells, breaking the moment in half.
“That was awesome,” Lizzie announces “You guys have chemistry.”
Tenley nods but turns away from her. Facing the counter and the air fryer she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
And… that desire shrivels up and dies. Phew. Crisis averted.
Chapter 11
Tenley
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I don’t know what to do now. I gave him that pep talk during filming and it really did seem to work, but… they lost. Now Seattle is up 2-1 in the series. I don’t necessarily believe in the superstitious stuff Nash and other hockey players do before games, but I do believe in momentum. And the Quake have lost it. Shit. Fuck. Shit.
“You look genuinely stressed,” Mom notes, and I look at her and frown.
“I have no idea how Nash handles losses,” I admit. “And I kind of gave him this speech about how everything will work out and it just… didn’t.”
"Overtime is a crap shoot," Mom replies and pulls me to her in a side hug. "Especially in playoffs when they play full periods instead of a shorter format with fewer players. It comes down to endurance and luck. They are the stronger team and they want it so badly I can see it. We're only three games into the series, Ten. This isn't even do or die time yet."
I look at my mom and suddenly, I get hit with how lucky I am. She isn't guilting me about this fake marriage thing I got myself into. She isn't angry anymore. She's giving me a pep talk. I throw myself at her and hug her as hard as I can. "Whoa, baby girl! Whoa."
“Sorry,” I mutter and bury my face in her neck. She hugs me back, rubbing my back like she used to when I was little and had a bad dream or was upset about being teased by my boy cousins. “You’re just, like, the best mom ever and I don’t know how I got so lucky.”
“I got lucky,” she whispers back and her hand runs over my hair. “You and Tate are the best kids in the world.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say, pulling back. “I mean, maybe I am, but him… Meh.”
She laughs. "Tell your husband what I told you. It isn't do-or-die time. Relax."
I nod. “Please don’t call him that.”
