Nash
I’m gonna ignore how annoyed it makes me to have the first thing in my face as we clammer off the ice in excitement be that stupid docu-series crew. They will not steal the wind in my sails. We just beat the Comets for the first game of the second round of the Cup playoffs. On home ice. 5-0. It wasn’t a battle. It was a proper spanking.
I was on the bench when the buzzer sounded and, like Crew and Tate, I hurdled over the board to congratulate Grady Garrison, our goalie. Landon was the first to reach Grady and slam into him for a hug. This was Grady’s first career playoff shutout. We all pile on him and Landon as the crowd roars. And now we’re heading back to the locker room in relief and excitement but also, trepidation. We know the Comets had an off night. They’ll come back with a vengeance. They swept San Diego, winning four straight games, so they’ve had a little bit of a breather compared to us. We went six games with the Winterhawks so we only had three days off between rounds. Those longer breaks sometimes kill momentum and I’m thinking that’s what happened with the Comets. So we’re happy, but not cocky. That’s the speech I give the guys in the locker room as we unlace our skates and get ready to talk to the press.
The cameraman is allowed to be in the room for this so he films the whole damn thing. It's weird. I'm not comfortable in front of the cameras. Never have been. Being in front of cameras makes my skin itch from the inside. I was hoping, for a hot second, that maybe Tenley would feel the same way. After all with the way she looks she could easily make a living in front of a camera as an actress, model, news, or sportscaster, but she chose to be behind one. That hope, that I would have anything in common with her, faded as soon as they started filming this thing. She was a natural in the segments at our… my loft. And thank God she was because I’ve seen the rough footage, and she made me look normal.
"Casco, both Westwoods, and both Garrisons, you're up for the press tonight," Coach says, poking his head in the locker room. He tosses Grady the game-winning puck. "Congrats, Garrison."
“On that note.” Landon stands up and pulls our Quake Oscar out of his cubicle since he won it last time. “The Oscar goes to the ginger beast who stood on his head.”
Everyone cheers as Grady waddles toward Landon, still in his pads, and takes the trophy. "A shutout means nothing unless a goalie's team scores and you guys did your job tenfold tonight. Thanks all."
He turns to Tenley’s cameraman, holds up the Oscar, and winks into the camera.
Everyone laughs and claps and continues to get undressed, so thankfully, the camera has to leave. I wipe my face, pull off my gear, and pull on a baseball cap. Shoving my feet into slides, in just my Under Armor gray shirt and some shorts, I make my way with Grady, Crew, and Tate to the press room. Because playoffs are an emotionally precarious time, the Quake always have the press stay out of the locker room. There’s a press room with a table, mics, and a fancy logo’d backdrop.
The questions are typical, after-game stuff and most can and are answered by Tate and Crew. There’s a lot directed right at Grady, because of the shutout, but none specifically for me, until…
"Nash, you really seemed to find your footing in this game," a reporter toward the back says. "You've stepped it up each game, tonight with a goal and three assists and a plus-five rating so can you tell us what you do to keep getting better?"
Tenley’s naked body flashes in my brain. I swallow.
“Nah. I mean… I just… I do what every guy does, practice, watch game videos, and stuff.” Stuff would be mutual masturbation sessions with my fake wife.
“You’re superstitious, right? So is it that?”
“Obviously, I think my routine and rituals help my mindset,” I pause to swig the Body Armor in front of me. My brain won’t stop replaying the moment this afternoon when Tenley walked into my room after my pregame nap completely naked, holding her towel, claiming she needed a shower. “But like I know it’s not witchcraft or anything. My lucky toque isn’t magic, I just… like I said… ritual and routines get me in the right mindset.”
And so does watching Tenley finger herself on the marble bench in my shower while I lean on the wall above her and jerk off above her tits. When we were done she kicked me out of the shower with a satisfied smile and said, “Just doing my wifely duty to help you win.”
I take another swig of my drink. Crew clears his throat. "Both my dad and Nash are superstitious but I'm not. Maybe I should be. I'd like a plus-five rating on some game soon."
A plus or minus rating for a hockey player depends on whether they were on the ice for goals against their team or goals scored by their team. I was on the ice for every goal we scored this game. Crew was on the ice for four of the goals, so he’s being modest, but I’m grateful it shifts the media’s attention.
The reporters laugh and someone turns the questioning to him. After ten minutes Christine calls it and we file out. Crew leans in and says, “You were turning red like you’d pulled a double shift on the ice when they were asking you questions. What’s up with that?”
I just shrug. Crew’s not finding out about my new arrangement with Tenley either.
The coaches for the Comets are waiting in the hall because they'll be interviewed next. One of them is Bryce Achilles, who was friends with my dad when I was growing up. When Bryce's career ended after only two years in the league, and he didn’t want to go back to playing the lower leagues, Dad recommended him to the Nova Scotia Bluenosers, which is a junior team in Canada. Crew and I both played under Bryce growing up. But right now, we’re enemies so he simply nods at Crew as he passes and Crew nods back. I do the same but Bryce touches my shoulder.
“Hey,” he says in a low voice. “You really married Tenley Garrison?”
“Uh… yeah.”
I don’t know why he’s asking me this, or why he’s got a crooked quirk of a smile on his face. Or why he chuckles at my answer as if there’s a joke I’m missing. And I don’t get to ask the question because Christine calls the coaches into the press room. All I can do is stare after him, confused. Crew nudges me. “What was that about?”
“He asked if I was really married to Tenley.”
Crew makes a face. “Weird.”
“Yeah.”
“I guess he probably thought, like the rest of the free world, that you were married to hockey until your career ended,” Crew says as we walk down the curving hallway side-by-side.
"Yeah. I am. Tenley is my temporary mistress," I joke, and Tate's eyes grow bigger. He's walking in front of us, backward, so he can face us. I know instantly I fucked up. That the cameraman from that infernal documentary has left the press room and is following us. My heart gallops as I panic.
“I know what you mean,” Tate says. “I feel like I’ve given full custody of Dylan to Mallory and I’m just the part-time fun uncle with my own kid. Playoffs take so much focus, our lives get put on hold.”
