“You mean Nova Scotia?”
He nods. “Yeah. And New Brunswick.”
“Like Maine.”
“I haven’t been to Maine all that much, even though it’s technically a neighbor,” Nash confesses. “We split our time between Nova Scotia where we grew up, and New Brunswick where my dad grew up.”
“Which do you consider home?”
He thinks about it. I watch his face carefully. He really is… well, hot as all hell. Gorgeous. I hate to admit that to myself, and would never say it out loud to anyone else, especially Nash himself, but there isn't a thing about his face or body, that isn't appealing. "I think… New Brunswick. Because we spent every off-season there when we were really little and Dad was still playing. We moved to Nova Scotia when we were pre-teens and he was finished playing because of the hockey program there. Dad thought it was the best program in Canada at the time."
“But you were born in the US, right?”
“Yeah. In San Diego while Dad was playing.” Nash looks at me. “Where were you born?”
“New York,” I reply. “Lived there until Dad quit hockey. I was a pre-teen too. But he took a coaching job, briefly, in Toronto so I lived there for two years.”
“How was that?”
I shrug. “Too far from Maine.”
He laughs but not in a judgy way. In a ‘he-thinks-I’m-cute’ way. I’m more comfortable with being judged by him. “You’re very far from Maine right now.”
I nod. “Maybe because half my family is also here it doesn’t feel that way. But… when things happen, I feel it. Like with my aunt.”
“Makes sense,” he replies and then he stares at me for a second. “Come here.”
I stare and remain where I sit across the hot tub from him. He sighs. “Come. Here. I dare you.”
“Well, fuck,” I mutter and start to slide toward him on the round bench. When I’m within arms reach he grabs me and yanks me right over and turns his body so I’m tucked in against his side.
“What are you doing?” I ask, panicked.
“Comforting you.”
“You hate me.”
"You're a pain in my ass Ten, and always will be," Nash replies and uses his palm against the side of my head to push my head into his shoulder. I want to immediately lift it up but… it is rather soothing to lean on him. "But no one deserves to feel what you're feeling right now. I would be freaking out if it were my Uncle Seb or my Aunt Shayne."
“Do you really want to make me feel better?” I question.
“Yes.”
“Then explain the vibrator in your drawer,” I reply and think back to that day before the camera crew first came, when I opened his drawer intending to throw in some of my clothes and leave the drawer open so it looked lived in. Instead I found one of those little bullet massagers. It was purple and there was lube beside it.
“No.”
“I’m your wifey-poo. You can tell me anything,” I insist in a saccharine voice.
He clears his throat. “Can you just drop it?”
“Look if it belongs to your ex or something?—”
“It’s mine,” he cuts me off. His words are rushed like he’s so embarrassed he has to spit it out as quickly as possible. “I like ass play.”
“What?” I know what ass play means I’m just… my brain can’t register this uptight, rule-following, robotic guy having a kink.
“Prostate is full of nerve endings and?—”
