Now her smile turns acerbic. “You don’t want me to call him that, you probably shouldn’t have married him.”
I roll my eyes. Dad walks over with Dylan on his hip. I try to picture him young and buff in a post-game suit with me or Tate on his hip instead. I have vague memories of it. Once, he brought me into a presser after a first-round series win and I sang "I Just Can't Wait to Be King" into the microphone. I was five. Mom, Tate, and I were going through Disney movie classics. Some reporters thought it was hysterical, but some looked unamused. I remember I looked up at my dad and his smile was full of pride and he started clapping when I was done and told the reporters to give me a standing ovation.
I walk over and kiss his cheek. He blinks. “What’s that for?”
“For putting up with my bullshit.”
“What did you do now?” he asks. His eyes, the same shade as mine, are glaring suspiciously.
“Nothing more. This is enough bullshit, don’t you think?” I do a small twirl, pointing to my back where Nash’s name and number are on my jersey.
“More than enough,” Dad agrees. “At least he’s a good man. I don’t have to worry about your safety while you cohabitate.”
“You don’t,” I agree. “So tell me, what could Mom do that would help you after a loss?”
Dylan settles his little head onto Dad's shoulder, his eyes droopy with sleep. Night games are a lot for toddlers and this one went nearly a full twenty minutes of overtime too. Dad rubs his dimpled chin with his free hand. He hasn't shaved recently and he's got mostly gray whiskers peppering his face. "Well…"
His eyes lock with Mom’s and she giggles and looks away. Oh. Oh. “I mean other than that.”
He clears his throat and moves his eyes from Mom to me. "Don't harp on it. In fact, don't talk about it unless he does. And I love you Ten, but don't tease him too much. Not right now."
“That’s going to be hard,” I admit and he ruffles my hair like he used to do when I was little. “Trust me. I know. You have an advanced degree in sarcasm and snark.”
“I believe she got that from you.”
Dad shrugs.
I drove here with Nash so I have to wait for him. I did think about maybe asking Liv and Crew for a lift back to the apartment in West Hollywood. Maybe Nash needed his space. But the documentary team was filming the game and leaving without him would look bad. So I wait in the hallway, next to Liv, as Crew and Nash emerge from the locker room. They both go straight to their dad. Avery is standing just outside the locker room door, chatting with Coach Braddock, who excuses himself as the twins approach, leaving them to talk with their dad.
Crew walks right over but Nash does a stutter-step when he sees the camera pointed at them a few feet away. His thick, straight eyebrows knit. But then his dad grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him into a quick hug. He whispers something in Nash’s ear that I hope the cameras don’t pick up. He deserves to have that private moment. Nash nods when they pull apart. Their mom steps into the mix and talks to them both. After two more hugs, Crew turns and holds out a hand, his eyes on Liv. My cousin walks over and places her hand in his and he pulls her into his side.
Nash starts walking toward the exit that will take them to player parking. He never looks over. He never motions to me. He doesn’t even look for me. I feel… something between embarrassment and anger, but it’s stupid because I’m not his actual wife. His dad calls, “Nash!”
Nash turns. His dad jerks his head. Nash’s eyes move down the hallway and land on me. I can literally feel the camera pan with them. My face flushes. I wave at him. “Hey hubster! Remember me?”
Nash smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry wifey-poo. This is my first playoff loss with you. I kind of… spaced.”
“Fair,” I reply simply. “This is why men should wear rings. So they have a reminder.”
“I wouldn’t wear a ring to the rink anyway. Can’t wear it on the ice.”
“Okay well we should go with your first idea then,” I say with a grin, knowing full well there is no first idea. “A tattoo on your ring finger.”
Nash looks like he might drop dead, which makes me smile harder. Then I remember my dad warned me not to tease him. So I laugh and walk toward him. “Kidding, babes!”
When I reach him, I realize we need to look like a couple. I want to take his hand, but both are in his pockets, so I put a hand on his back and rub it, like my mom did to me. He stiffens like I’m rubbing dog poop on his back.
“Come on. I don’t have cooties,” I mutter and he shakes his head, relaxing again.
“Sorry. Rough night.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Finally. We agree on something,” he replies and we start down the hall side-by-side but not touching.
The ride to his loft is silent. The radio isn’t even on. I watch the bohemian but bougie beach community of Santa Monica and then Venice pass by. “What do you usually do now? After a game?”
“Hot tub,” Nash grumbles. “And a post-game snack.”