“Right.” I swallow and try to sound casual, which makes me sound awkward. “Yeah. So she’ll go back to being a wife once we win this thing.”
The camera stops following us when we pass the VIP room with our friends and family. I hear the director guy, I think his name is Fisher, say, “I’ve asked the coach’s wife for a quick interview. In here.”
I sigh in relief and mentally kick myself my whole damn shower. They can’t air a clip where I call my wife a mistress. It will look even worse once we’re divorced. I’m such a fucking idiot. By the time I’m dressed my leg is throbbing worse than ever, my head is pounding now too and my victorious mood from the win has evaporated quicker than water on the parched California ground.
Tenley is waiting for me outside the VIP room. She’s wearing a short jean skirt and a white ribbed tank. On her shoulders is the wives’ playoff jacket. The wives and girlfriends all get together and design a playoff jacket if we make it past round one. This year’s is black leather, with the Quake logo on the back and the initials of each husband or boyfriend on one arm and their number on the other. In rhinestones.
Once again, seeing Tenley with my number on her makes my dick do a caveman dance in my suit pants. Dear God, I really should see a doctor for that. Her pale eyebrows furrow as she sees me. "You're limping."
“Just a little.” I shove my lucky toque into the pocket of my suit jacket.
“Why?”
“Because it’s playoff hockey.” She frowns. I am being a flippant bitch. I’m mad at myself, not her. She didn’t fuck up in front of the cameras. “Sorry. My leg’s been bugging me. I have to get an x-ray.”
“Okay so… can we go now?”
“Ten, it’s almost eleven at night.” I shake my head. “I’ll try and get it in between practice tomorrow and more filming.”
“I can push back the filming,” Tenley replies as she falls in step beside me and we make our way to the parking garage.
“Do you want me to go get the car?” Tenley asks. “So you don’t have to walk to hell and back to get it?”
“It’s not hell and back,” I grumble. “It’s just on the other side of the lot.”
“I still don’t know why you don’t park with the other players.”
“Because.”
She gets quiet, which is something. Tenley can always find something to say. We walk silently between the expensive cars owned by players and coaches. The smell of oil is thick in the dry, stale air.
Finally as the cars grow less expensive and we move farther away from the private entrance to the arena she says, “Is this still about the wall?”
I shake my head and fish my keys out of my suit pocket. “No. I can paint the wall back whenever I want.”
We take a couple more steps in silence. I look over at her. She's really pretty tonight. Her lips are glossy, like her hair. Her eyes are impossibly blue. Her expression gentle, which isn't normal. At least not around me. And then my eyes really absorb our surroundings. Gray metal, concrete walls, pillars, and ceiling. Most of the cars are in muted tones too. It's… well, it's fucking depressing. But Tenley pops. Everything about her stands out and gives this grungy parking garage a bit of a glow. She gives me a bit of a glow too. I hate it, but it's true. We've messed around twice now and I’ve felt more alive than I’ve felt with a woman in a long time. Maybe ever. It was just so… real.
“You don’t have to paint it back. I’ll do it on your set road trip. Not a big deal,” she says quietly.
“We can keep it. I admit, it stands out.” Like you do. “Gives my place a pop of life.” Like you do.
She smiles like she just won some giant battle. She fist pumps the air. “Yes! I told you I knew what I was doing.”
I fight my own smile. “Not saying it will last forever.”
“There you go, backtracking because God forbid anyone but Nash Westwood win.” She laughs and breaks out ahead of me, dance-walking like a lunatic. “But I won! I was right! Woot! Woot!”
I walk quicker and reach out and grab her arm, tugging her to a stop directly in front of me. We’re chest to chest. She’s staring up at me as cocky as cocky can be, and I’m hard for it. For her. She bites the corner of her bottom lip. “I think I’m right about something else.”
“What’s that?”
“That you’re winning games because you substituted sex before games with jerking off with me,” Tenley says in a husky whisper.
I’ve still got my hand wrapped around her forearm. Her skin is supple and warm. The WAG jacket has slipped off her shoulders and hit the ground behind us. She never takes her eyes from mine and I don’t dare blink. “You know what else I think?”
“No, but I’m certain you’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not.”
She smirks and leans closer. Her breath tickles the column of my neck, even with the straggly playoff beard. “I think that that won’t be enough soon. That you’re going to need actual sex.”
