Chapter 54 Spencer Nash

Nothing Left to Say

Five Months After the Wedding

"There's Mr. Newman," Jensen says when I walk into the locker room.

"Ha-ha," I mutter, not really finding it very funny after an entire month of being teased by this asshole.

Ever since that article broke, the jokes have been relentless. I'm either Mr. Newman or Mrs. Nash, depending on the day. It doesn't matter that I proved myself in training camp or in the first three exhibition games. It doesn't matter that he can't stay on top of me during practice when he's guarding me. All that matters is one stupid fucking article that came out that insinuated that my wife goaded me into marriage, and that's what this prick likes to hang onto.

I ignore it for the most part, but today's game day. It's our opening game of this season, and I'm working my hardest to stay focused.

It's why I told Grace I couldn't spend time with her this weekend. I felt like a real dick about it, but I needed some space…which seems strange given the fact that all I have is space .

I haven't seen her since that first preseason game last month. It's been almost an entire month since our pact that we'd only let a week go by without seeing each other.

A few days after the first article broke, another one came out with photos of us at our wedding. Someone—Amelia, probably—got to the Now or Never Vegas Chapel, and they provided the photos.

All of them.

Even the unedited ones that weren't sent to us as part of our package.

Including one where we both look pretty fucking wasted, only proving all the rumors true.

I haven't made a statement. I don't want to. It's nobody's business, and instead, I'm choosing to leave it all out on the field.

But as much as I'm trying to focus…I can't. The distractions are everywhere, including inside the locker room—the one place that should be sacred from the outside noise. And it was safe from all that back in Minnesota. Here, I'm the new guy, so I'm open to whatever they want to fire at me.

It doesn't help that the ringleader is the guy who guards me in practice. He says whatever shit he can to try to get to me—to try to make himself look better. To take me out of the right mindset so he can look like he's keeping up with me when the truth is…he isn't.

I ignore his jab when I walk in, but without her here for the last four weeks, it's getting harder and harder to remember that feeling of love I felt so strongly when we were together.

I think we may have jumped the gun with those words. Maybe I fell in love with the idea of her. I wanted things to work out so badly that I convinced myself it was true.

The more time we spend apart, the easier it is to push those feelings aside, and the easier it is to convince myself that she loves the vineyard far more than she ever could love me. And that's fine. This started as a business arrangement, and feelings got involved along the way.

But I'm not sure I can continue to really give this a try when I know I'll always come in second .

It's a depressing thought to have immediately before a game, and the thought reflects on my ability to keep my focus on the field. I miss what should be an easy catch. I drop the ball when it hits me square in the palms. I fumble on another play.

It's three mistakes—three more than my usual average per game.

And it's because I'm distracted. If I don't pull my shit together, I'll lose everything I've worked for my entire career.

We lose our first game of the regular season. It's a deep, dark sort of disappointment after we were so goddamn excited to take what we worked on in the offseason onto the field.

He was only good in Minnesota.

He should never have left.

He should have just retired.

I hear the murmurs when people think I can't. I see the headlines.

It's pushing me further into a place I don't want to go, and it comes to a head when Grace calls me shortly after I arrive back home.

I'm sipping a glass of straight bourbon. It tastes like shit, but it's taking the edge off as I answer with a grunt. "Hey."

"You okay?" she asks. It's nice to hear her voice. Relaxing. Comforting.

Which is why I hate the words I know I have to say. "No."

"Talk to me."

"I played like shit today, and we lost because of it."

"It's a team effort." She's spouting the same shit people who don't get it always spout when they're trying to make a person feel better.

"I can't do this, Grace." My voice is strained and barely above a whisper because I can't seem to make it work.

"I get it. Get some rest, and we'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

"No, I don't mean today. I don't mean the game." I pause, and I draw in a fortifying breath. "I mean us."

I'm met with silence.

"I'll stay married to you for a year so you can get your vineyard, but for me…I think this has to be the end of the road. "

More silence.

I think about filling that silence, but the words weigh heavy. There's nothing left to say anyway.

"Oh," she finally says. "Okay. I guess I'll go then."

That's it. There's no fight. No protest. Nothing except a beep followed by the dead air of an ended call. A closed line. A closed chapter.

I hold my phone to my ear another minute even though the call is over, and the grief seems to slowly roll down over me from my head to my heart down into my stomach, which knots and twists violently.

I slowly lower the phone, and then I let it fall loose in my hand. It drops to the floor with a clatter.

I stare out the window into the darkness of night for a beat, and then I turn around and look at my empty apartment in a town where I still don't feel at home.

And it's because she is home.

But her home isn't me.

Loneliness engulfs me.

"Goddammit!" I yell, and I throw my glass across the room. It bounces off the wall and lands on the tile floor, proceeding to shatter everywhere.

I'm not a violent man, but this need for destruction surges through me.

I walk into my Lego room, grab the Millennium Falcon off the shelf, and stare at it for a few beats.

I toss it to the floor like I'm spiking a football, bricks flying off in every direction, probably getting lost in the carpet or sliding under the chair or maybe even breaking in the process.

I walk out of the room, not feeling any better even after leaving destruction in my wake.

In the morning, I walk into the locker room before team meetings to go over the many mistakes I made. I stop Jensen before he can start up with me.

"It's over with my wife, so if you could just lay off me, that'd be great."

His face falls a bit. "It's…over?"

I press my lips together, and he claps me on the shoulder .

"Dude, you okay? The teasing was all in good fun. I didn't realize—"

"That's sort of the problem with constantly teasing someone, isn't it?" I ask, interrupting him. "You don't take the time to realize."

He clearly feels like an asshole, which is an accurate representation of who he is. I hope he learned something.

I hope he lays off me.

But most of all, I hope this searing ache in my chest subsides soon. I have a feeling it won't.