I guess I nodded off because Nash’s voice startles me and I fall off the couch, hitting my butt on the concrete floor with a painful thud. I swear and search for him, blurry-eyed. I don’t see him anywhere. “Nash?”
“You painted?! My home?!”
It sounds like he’s in the kitchen part of the loft but I can see it clearly and he isn’t there. I stand slowly. “What the hell is happening?”
“I have a security camera, with voice features,” he explains. “You painted!”
“It’s not done, but yeah. I did.” I don’t see the camera but I motion to the wall with a giant flourish. “I live here too now and I can’t function in a place that looks like the inside of a coffin.”
“You’ll be lucky if you don’t end up in a coffin when I get back if that wall is still yellow.”
I glare toward the kitchen, my eyes scanning everything. Nash is a minimalist so there isn’t much clutter on the countertops, or anywhere. Then I see it. A little black cylinder looking thing on the top of his stainless steel fridge. A little fisheye lens and a blue flashing dot tell me I’m right. I walk toward it.
“You should have told me that you could spy on me. What if I was walking around naked or something?” I say and put my hands on my hips. “Also, don’t threaten me, Nash-Hole. It fools me into thinking you have emotions and it turns me on.”
“First, we’re well past having modesty around each other, don’t you think? And secondly, if I tell people I have a security camera, it defeats the purpose.” He sounds growly.
“I’m not anyone. I’m your wifey-poo,” I remind him with a sarcastic smile. “You won, you shouldn’t be so grumpy.”
“You painted my house.”
“It’s an apartment and it looks fabulous,” I huff. “You’ll like it.”
“It’s a loft and I can already see it. I don’t like it.”
“It’s only one coat. It needs two to be the right shade. I’m doing the second one later,” I reply.
“I hate it.”
“I bet that camera lens isn’t showing it accurately,” I argue. “Let’s test it…”
I reach for the hem of my sweatshirt and pull it over my head, dropping it on the floor by the coffee table. “What color is my bra?”
There isn’t an answer for a long second. And then, in a thick tone that gives me a shiver of pleasure, “Tenley. You aren’t wearing a bra.”
“Oops! Right. My bad.” I pick up my shirt and walk slowly toward the camera, smiling. “Good game, Nash-Hole. Great pass to Landon. You’re a good captain. Night-night!”
I toss the sweatshirt at the camera and it covers the whole thing, leaving Nash with nothing to see. “TENLEY!”
I ignore him and go back to painting the second coat. I tell Alexa to play Taylor Swift, loudly, and Nash eventually stops yelling at me through the camera. By two in the morning, the painting is done and, despite what Nash thinks, it looks amazing. I take a quick shower and crawl into bed. I scroll through social media. I notice that, without even telling me, the network has released a trailer for my docu-series. My heart races. It's already got a hundred thousand views and it's been up five hours!
It’s a series of clips from already shot footage, set to a trendy song, with just a few sentences from the clips being heard over the music. The Quake at a practice chirping at each other and having fun. My parents, at their newly purchased Los Angeles condo, Mom proudly bouncing Dylan on her knee and Dad sharing hockey advice with Tate. That clip makes me smile. My aunt Callie and Uncle Devin walking into the hospital in Silver Bay, Maine, with bags full of gifts for the sick kids, talking about the Garrison Charity. A clip of Emmett Echolls on the phone arguing with his girlfriend, which I guess is the ‘controversy’ they wanted to add. I roll my eyes, the last clip is Nash and me making his lunch in the loft kitchen. I’m taken aback by how cute we look together. Weird.
I repost the video to my feed, which not a lot of people will see because my account is private, but at least all my friends and family will know it’s being promoted now. It’s real. My dream is real. I smile. But then the next video on my feed steals my smile. It's a Sports News clip about how the Vancouver Comets have swept the San Diego Saints. They'll play whoever wins the Winterhawks-Quake series. And of course, they interview Vancouver's assistant coach. Bryce Achilles. The sight of him makes my stomach turn and my heart stammer. He hasn't aged well. He's only in his fifties like my dad but he's got deep creases on his forehead and more salt than pepper in his short, badly styled hair.
“These boys have what it takes to win and now that they know it, there’s no stopping us,” he says.
“Fuck you,” I hiss and blink back tears, which shocks me.
I have tried very hard not to think about Bryce Achilles. It’s been fairly easy since he was only in the league, as a player, for two years, and up until last year he’d been coaching in the minors. Other than one casino night a few years ago, I haven’t seen him. Last year I heard he was promoted to assistant coach for the Comets. I worried, briefly, about having to see him in the playoffs if they played the Quake but Vancouver didn’t make playoffs. But now they have. And the Quake will win this match-up with the Winterhawks, which means we will be playing them.
Ever since Bryce became a coach in this league I’ve just avoided going to Tate’s games when they played the Comets. But now, I won’t be able to. I won’t be able to avoid every game in the series. Not when I’ve got a film crew expecting to shoot me and my husband during the playoffs. I shut Instagram and put my phone face down on the night table.
I push the heels of my hands into my eyes. I will not cry over this asshole. Not again. I will not feel shame or anger or anything. I will not suffer a second longer because of him. Fuck Bryce Achilles. Monster.
I close my eyes and force myself into sleep. It’s fitful with vague dreams of cold hands and a gym mat splattered with drops of blood and the vile smell of sour alcohol breath hissing out threats.
Chapter 14
