We split the games with the Comets winning one and Quake winning the other. That put us up three-to-one in the series, which meant tonight's game was crucial. I needed to focus and get in the zone, but instead, I was sitting on an uncomfortable folding chair in the corner of my living room doing what they call one-on-one segments—the interview excerpts they'll pepper into the series.
“So… ready?”
“Sure. Whatever.” I know Tenley is frowning from somewhere over in my kitchen but I can’t see her.
“Tell me what it feels like to get this far in the playoffs.”
What a dumb fucking question. “It doesn’t feel like anything at the moment. I mean it feels achy and exhausting but it doesn’t feel like an accomplishment right now.”
“You’ve won an entire series and you’re on the verge of winning another,” he prompts.
I can feel the muscles in my mouth trying to turn downwards and have to fight to keep my eyes from rolling upward. This guy is a total douche. I take a long slow breath. "Imagine you train your whole life to climb Everest. The whole thing, not just basecamp." He nods. "I haven't climbed the whole thing yet and that's all I want. So each series is basecamp. If we don't make it, I'll one day look back and think, well how many people can say they made it to base camp? But today is not that day. Today all that matters is the summit."
He nods, glances at his camera woman, and then changes his line of questioning entirely. “Does adapting to marriage make this playoff run extra hard?”
“What?” I hate saying ‘what’ on camera. What, why, pardon, huh, all make me sound like an idiot.
“You’re a newlywed. Having Ten around…” He pauses. “Having Tenley around, living with you, cheering you on, it makes it different, right? So has it been easy to adapt?”
“I mean, I’m sure it’s not as hard as other life changes,” I mutter and my knee starts bouncing again.
“Knee,” Tenley calls from the kitchen.
“Well, fuck. I am not cut out for this.”
Suddenly she cuts in front of the camera and the Fisher dude yells cut in a tone dripping with aggravation. She stands between me and the camera and bends to whisper in my ear, which also puts those glorious off-limit tits in front of my face because she's wearing the hottest sundress with a v-neckline. Her skin is sun-kissed as we've been in a bit of a heatwave and she's been to the beach a few times. "Nash-Hole, hubster," she whispers in my ear. "Talk about our marriage like it's hockey. A new play you have to learn. You never sound like a bumbling idiot when you talk hockey or sex, but I don't think that's the direction we should go here."
She pulls away and I’m chuckling to myself. She winks and turns to the small crew. “I’d move the light too. And take it down a watt. He’s overexposed in more ways than one,” Tenley says to the crew. “And you should try shooting slightly off-center. It’s a better angle and makes the subject less… stressed. Feels less like a suspect interrogation video for everyone.”
“I’m the director, Ten.”
“And I’m the producer,” she retorts and smiles at the camera woman who’s already moved to the position Tenley recommended. She really has a gift for this. “And we learned this in school, Fish. Just helping. Thought you might have forgotten.”
“Fisher,” he corrects.
Tenley just smirks.
“Can we get this done?” I ask, knowing it sounds harsh. “I have other things to do before the game.”
“Like what?”
“Sleep. Eat. Shower.” Fuck my wife.
Fisher goes on to ask me a bunch of stupid questions. He hits on everything from hockey to home life to my childhood growing up. “If you were to have become an accountant, would your dad still have been proud of you?”
"No," I say flatly, and once again I can feel Tenley's stare even though she's not in my sightline. "He'd be annoyed because I'd have lost a million jobs by now. I suck at everything math."
I hear a snort. It must be Tenley. I ignore her. Finally, ten minutes later, which has cut into my nap time by fifteen minutes, according to my game day schedule I follow, Fisher and the crew call it and start to pack up. I stand. “I’m heading upstairs.”
“Sweet dreams, hubster.”
Only I don't drift off right away. How can I? They're all yammering downstairs and in a loft, it's not like I can close the door to muffle the sound. The only place with doors is the bathroom and unless I want to sleep on the shower floor, I'm stuck listening to the crew chatter with Tenley as they clean up. To her benefit, she does shush them a lot. Fisher's voice is deep though and he's one of those guys who hasn't mastered the whisper.
“Is that cheap bastard ever going to get you a ring?” he asks Tenley.
She laughs. “I told you. It’s being sized.”
“That excuse has reached its expiration date, killer,” he quips and I don’t like that he has his own nickname for her. “Get him to buy you a ring. When the marriage fails you can sell it and use the funds for your next documentary idea.”
