Nash is already halfway to the door so I only have time to give Liv a quick hug before I have to scurry after him. God, I thought maybe all that sex talk earlier would have kept him loose and chill, but nope. He really is hopeless. I find him beside his car chatting with Tate while Mallory gets Dylan into his car seat.
“I know. It’s weird. I kind of wish he was our assistant coach so we could win together,” Tate is saying, and my feet start getting heavy, slowing my gait. “Instead we’ll have to kick his ass.”
Tate laughs. Nash smiles. "I played under him for two years in the minors. Damn, good coach."
The wings I ate tonight start to turn to acid in my gut. Mallory pops her head up from the back door. “Who are we talking about?”
“Bryce Achilles. He played when our dads played,” Tate explains. “He’s a coach with the Comets now.”
Mallory scrunches up her nose as she thinks. “Um… I don’t know if my dad has mentioned him.”
“He’s great. Never really found his footing though and spent more of his career in the minors,” Nash says. “He stopped me tonight after the presser to ask about my marriage.”
Nash rolls his eyes. I want to puke. He must see something is wrong when he glances at me because the annoyed look on his face, whenever he talks about our fake marital bliss, disappears. "You okay?"
I nod. “Yeah. Fine. Can we get going? If we hit one too many red lights, you’ll get home after curfew and Coach will have to spank you,” I say, trying to be my light, sarcastic self, but it comes out a little tight and tense.
“You sure you’re okay?” Mallory asks, her women’s intuition is probably lighting up like a five alarm fire right now.
“Yeah. I’m just tired all of a sudden and I have a meeting about the documentary tomorrow.” I open the passenger door to Nash’s car and he moves to the driver’s side. But before Tate gets in his own car to drive away my brother wants to take one more walk down memory lane.
“Hey, did you ever come to my uncle Luc’s summer charity games? In Silver Bay?” Tate asks and I want to throttle him. I do not want to relive this. I can’t. Please let something or someone shut him up. “Achilles came to one, once. And the poor bastard?—”
“Daddy! Home! Hooooommmmeee!” Dylan hollers in a piercing pitch only a toddler can hit.
Tate stops talking instantly. "Okay, Dylan. No yelling. We'll go home."
I love you forever, Dyllie Bear, I think as relief washes over me.
Mallory blows us air kisses and Tate mutters something about finishing the conversation at practice and gets in his car. I’m already belted in and ready to leave by the time Nash slides into the driver’s seat. He starts the car, clicks his own seatbelt, and slowly, like a cautious senior citizen, makes his way out of the parking lot and toward the loft.
It’s a short drive and I’m silent the whole time. A normal person would feel my energy has shifted. That I’m in a dark place, but I don’t expect that from Nash because he really isn’t normal.
“What’s wrong? Did I do something?”
Or… is he?
He pulls into the parking lot. “You didn’t.”
I can’t blame him for talking about the one man on the planet who I truly, fully, and completely loathe. He has no idea. No one does and I intend to keep it that way. We both get out of the car and walk toward the back entrance to the building.
“You’re close to the coach on the Comets, huh?”
“He’s a family friend and he coached me a few years in juniors,” Nash says. “Won my first championship with him.”
“Brought him to that Casino night,” I add. “Tate’s rookie season. The one I met you at.”
“Oh.” Nash seems to be trying to remember. “God you were a bitch that night. You barely said two words to me. And when Bryce, Crew, Nash, and I went to play craps at the table you were at, I jokingly asked you to blow on my dice for luck and you walked away without acknowledging my existence.”
“Why did you ask me to do that?”
"I told you then, it was Bryce's idea. He was just trying to give me an icebreaker."
"An icebreaker?"
"Yeah, something funny to break the ice with a teammate's frigid sister." Nash thinks he's funny and in any other situation, he would be. But not this situation.
“Anyway, hope you know better than to hang with him now,” I reply. “TMZ Sports would love to make it look like you’re fucking with games, hanging with opposing teams’ coaching staff.”
