“Daddy and Nash.”
I glare at Mallory who starts to giggle. Tate groans. “This is not funny.”
“I agree. It’s not.” I glare at Mallory again. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Of course not.”
I get out of the car and shut the door without another word. I walk slowly through my building’s courtyard and toward the stairs that lead up to my two-bedroom unit. As I pass the pool I see a man lying on one of the loungers. In the dark. Fully clothed in jeans, a leather jacket, and motorcycle boots. I freeze, my steps stuttering for just a second, and then my hand finds the keychain in my pocket. I have a mini mace on there so my fingers carefully find the trigger. I can’t make out the guy’s face so it might just be Ron. He and Nancy live in the unit below us and sometimes when they fight, she kicks him out and he sleeps by the pool.
“Garrison?”
I jump, not expecting the figure to say my name, but I recognize the voice instantly and relax. “Fisher? What are you doing here besides trying to get yourself maced?”
He lifts his tall frame off the lounger and walks over to the iron fence that circles the pool. I let go of my key chain, pull my hand from my pocket, and unhook the gate for him. He holds the door open and leans down to give me a friendly kiss on the cheek. Fisher Adamson and I were in the same program at UCLA. We have spent countless hours together over the last four and a half years. He’s also been helping me film and pitch my sports documentary idea, which was sold to a major online network recently.
“Mace is illegal, isn’t it?” Fisher says, and I can smell the beer on him.
“Bear spray isn’t, and same difference,” I explain as I continue to the stairs that lead up to my door. “And anyway, my aunt Callie would rather we all get charged with owning mace than get attacked and hurt like my cousin Liv was.”
“Right. Attempted mugging.” Fisher nods and we climb the stairs.
“Let me guess. You’ve been partying at Marmont and need a place to crash because you can’t drive back to your place in the Valley?” I guess as I pull my keys out and open the metal storm door.
“Yes but I could have gone home with the girl I was picking up,” he explains and runs a hand through his thick hair as he leans on my door frame and waits for me to unlock the new deadbolts, yes two, that my dad installed last time he was in town. “But then I thought you’d need to be talked off a ledge.”
“Why?” I push open the door and invite him in, flipping on the overhead light.
The blanket and pillow are still on the corner of the couch from the last time he crashed here. Fisher walks in, takes off his shoes, and flops down on the couch. “The email from Bobby Ryan.”
“I haven’t been checking email. Was at a family thing.” I pull my phone out of my purse and immediately go to my Gmail. It’s the first email I see.
I have to read it three times for it to sink in. Each time my body fills with dread and anger. And, honestly, exhaustion. “I don’t understand. Everything is signed. How can they pull out?”
“They aren’t pulling out,” Fisher corrects as he stretches and reaches for the blanket. “They’re saying they’ll likely push back the filming dates, which pushes back the air date.”
“Indefinitely!” I bark. “It says indefinitely! That means we’re shelved.”
My heart breaks. Truly. I’ve worked on this idea for four years. I’ve invested all my time and money, and I got my friends and family involved. People agreed to be featured in this because I asked them. Fisher looks less bothered. It’s not his baby, but still. His level of calm annoys me.
“See? This is why I gave up guaranteed pussy for you, killer.” He uses a nickname he started calling me a couple of years ago. He thinks I’m a man killer and that’s why he calls me that. Hardly, but whatever. I’ve had worse nicknames. “You’re spiraling and you don’t have to. I’ve been talking to Bobby and we’ve got another meeting with the network.”
“When? Why are you and Bobby figuring this out without me?” I have so many questions. “And what the hell else can we do to convince them this is a good show? Pull a unicorn out of our ass? What?”
I feel like all my negative emotions are just getting bigger instead of smaller. I take off my jacket and toss it toward the coat hooks on the wall by the door. Then I throw myself down in the oversized armchair and tuck my knees into myself. Fisher still looks so calm I could punch him. “Killer, I was waiting for you to respond but you didn’t, so I did. I thought time was of the essence. You know I wouldn’t overstep.”
I sigh. “So what the hell are we going to say?”
"We'll start figuring it out in the morning," Fisher says as he peels himself off the couch with great effort like he's suddenly in a vat of glue or something. He groans. "I need water."
“Gatorade is better. In the fridge,” I mutter and close my eyes, leaning my head back. Why is this happening? Why is all of this happening? First I’m married to my enemy and now my life’s dream is circling the drain.
It means a lot to me to get this series off the ground. Not just because it would start my career but also because the world should see the other side of hockey. The family sacrifice, the injuries, the blood, sweat, and tears. People don’t know. They don’t get it. I want them to get it.
I hear Fisher moving past me, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. I hear the fridge open and close. I concentrate on all of the small sounds instead of the big worries filling my head. Fisher's big hand squeezes my shoulder as he walks past me, back into the living room. "You knew hockey would be a hard sell, Tenley. Despite American teams winning the Cup for the last twenty years we still give the sport a back seat to basketball, baseball, and football."
“Idiots,” I mutter.
He laughs. There’s a pause and I assume he’s getting settled on my couch but then he says, “What’s this?”
