Chapter 9 Spencer Nash

No Better Way to Get to Know a Guy

A Month and a Half Before the Wedding

I draw in a deep breath as I look at the building in front of me.

I haven't been back to the winery in a month. I haven't heard from Amelia. Our last conversation was an accusation that she'd been waiting for me to break up with her so she could green light her relationship with Drew, and she informed me that she actually hadn't waited at all, and they'd been together for quite some time.

So learning my ex-fiancée was cheating on me for who knows how long was a fantastic punch to the gut I didn't see coming.

I should have.

Over the last month, I've been biding my time waiting for the legal tampering period when teams can start talking to free agents.

Though I've not heard from Amelia, I have heard from Grace. Mostly because she's my primary contact with the business analysis I'm doing for Steve, but it's not all business. She occasionally texts me funny cat memes or wine memes, and I text back with something ridiculous Asher sent me .

It's been a whirlwind of a month. I spent a good chunk of it in Vegas with my brothers, and now I'm staring at this building that might become my new home. Or, my new second home, anyway.

It feels like the start of something new, and I almost get this strange sense of freedom here. It took me a while to pin down the word for it, but it's like I can breathe again.

And maybe it's because I'm leaving the past behind me in Minnesota for this fresh start.

I finally gear myself up to get out of the car and walk toward the building a full ten minutes early, and a receptionist greets me when I walk in.

"Good morning. Who are you here to see?"

"I have an appointment with Mr. Dell, Mr. Hall, and Mr. Elliott," I say.

"You must be Spencer Nash," she says with a bright smile.

"That's me." I offer a smile back, and she nods.

"Okay, Mr. Nash. Take a seat, and Coach Dell will be right down." She nods over toward a deserted row of chairs, and I thank her as I head toward them.

Not two minutes later, the elevator doors open, and the head coach of the San Diego Storm, Brian Dell, steps out. He beelines right toward me, walking quickly as if he has somewhere to be.

And he does. Right here. With me.

He's on the younger side at just forty-three, and he's smart, a little quirky, and an incredible play caller. He's single with no kids, and his entire life is dedicated to football—much like mine has been since I started playing as a kid. Much like everyone in my family was , now that I think about it. But that can't be said anymore for Lincoln, who's married now with a kid and a step-kid, or Grayson, who's getting married in a month and a half.

Coach Dell holds out a hand as I stand.

"Spencer Nash. What an incredible honor it is to meet you," he says as we shake hands.

"And you, Coach Dell," I say respectfully.

"Please. It's Brian. Or just Coach."

I chuckle. "Okay, then, Coach. "

He nods with a smile. "Come with me, and we'll start with a tour around our training facility."

I nod, and we get started. He shows me the weight room and locker room. We go through the training room, rehab center, and hydrotherapy rooms. We stop in a player lounge with a VR system for game simulations and other video-game-type consoles that will help us prepare for games. He takes me to a nutrition center and cafeteria, and he points out the practice fields—two outdoor fields and a smaller indoor field that only gets used on rainy days. And then he takes me through the meeting rooms, classrooms, and, lastly, the offices.

It's a state-of-the-art facility with all sorts of advanced technology to help us analyze our performances as we turn into faster, stronger, and better players, and honestly, the excitement of being in a new place starts to take root in the pit of my stomach.

I loved my time in Minnesota, but that doesn't mean I can't love my time somewhere else, too. It's been long enough now that I can focus on a new mindset that will allow me to feel this sense of anticipation rather than the dread that lanced through me when I first heard the news that I was being released.

The tour ends in the team owner's office, and the man behind the desk lifts to a stand as he walks around to greet me. "William Hall," he says as he reaches out a hand to shake mine.

"Spencer Nash," I say in return. "It's an honor to meet you, sir."

He offers a smile. "Welcome to our facility. Coach has shown you around?"

"Yes, sir. What an extraordinary and progressive facility," I say.

"We look forward to the opportunity to have you train here."

A knock at the door pulls our attention in that direction, and another man walks into the office. "Spencer Nash," he says. "Great to meet you. I'm John Elliott, the general manager here."

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Elliott," I say, shaking his hand.

"Please, it's John. Hey, are you available for the next few hours? I was able to secure a tee time in twenty minutes at the course across the street, and I tell you what, there's no better way to get to know a guy than on the golf course, you know what I'm saying?" he asks.

I nod. "I can make that work if you've got a set of clubs that isn't from when Bobby Jones played."

He laughs at my request. "I keep a spare set in my trunk at all times just for such an occasion. Graphite shafts, not wood like ol' Bobby used."

I chuckle as I nod. "Then I'm in."

"Brian?" John asks the head coach.

"You know it," Coach says, agreeing to this seemingly impromptu tee time that was likely planned all along.

"Mr. Hall?" John asks, turning to the team owner.

"Rain check."

John nods. "I also have Clayton Mack joining us," John says, naming a wide receiver on the Storm. I've met him twice post-game on the field, and he's young at just twenty-five, but he's definitely someone I've kept my eye on.

We exchange a few more pleasantries before we head down to John's Escalade to head over to the course. I jump in back to allow Coach in the front seat while John drives.

"Let us know if you need some recommendations for housing or activities nearby," John says.

"I do, actually," I say.

They launch into what's nearby, and I take mental notes as I stare out the window at the terrain that's much, much different from Minnesota.

Four hours later, I'm feeling good with a few beers in me and a decent score as I walk off the eighteenth green.

John was right—the relaxed atmosphere of the long game of golf combined with the camaraderie of being with men who enjoy the same activities I do has given me a chance to get to know them a bit. I shared a golf cart with Clay, and I got to know him the best as we searched for our balls together and complained about slices and the landscape of the course when it was really just our terrible shots causing the issues.

We laughed a lot. We drank some. We golfed hard.

I learned that Clay is a San Diego native. He's single, and from the way he spoke on the course, I get the feeling he's reveling in the single life as he uses his status as a professional football player to his advantage.

I can see him becoming a good friend of mine even if our lifestyles aren't the same, and at one point during our golf outing, he leaned over and said quietly to me that since he's a native, he can recommend better places than what the staff at the Storm will.

It feels like I made my first friend here, and I hope it's just the start of this brand-new life.

I hang around a few days solo as I get to know this new town and wait for the official offer to come through, and it's Friday morning when my phone rings with a call from my agent, Jake Barlow.

"Hey, Jake," I answer.

"Mr. Nash, good morning. I just fielded an offer from the San Diego Storm and wanted to present it to you."

"That's great news," I say, excitement shooting up my spine at this new opportunity.

"Before I tell you, though, I want you to be aware that I've heard rumors that some other teams are also getting ready to make an offer to you."

"But they haven't yet. So what's this one?"

He clears his throat. "Forty-eight over three years with twenty guaranteed and a twelve-point-seven-five signing bonus."

"So sixteen million a year?" I ask.

"That's right. Thoughts?"

"What do you think?" I don't want to share my thoughts before I hear his.

"I think it's an incredible offer."

I feel like he's leaving something out. It's an incredible offer for a player like you . I'm aging, but it hasn't affected my performance.

It's more than I would've made on what was left on my contract in Minnesota, and the signing bonus will be an immediate paycheck.

But still, it's hard not to feel a certain way after everything that's happened over the last two months. Maybe I'm San Diego's first choice, or maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm never anybody's first choice.

And there it is. The effect of Amelia's cheating as it hits me right in the face.

It took a minute for me to get to this point—for me to see some of the lasting effects of it. But there it is, making me feel like I'm not good enough in a moment when I should be celebrating an offer from a new team.

My entire life, I've strived to be perfect for everyone around me because everyone always expected me to be a certain way. I had straight As. I worked hard. I made it all the way to the NFL. But none of those successes have given me an ounce of victory when it comes to my personal life.

I chose wrong, and breaking up with Amelia was admitting I'd made a mistake. I think that's part of what took me so damn long to do it—something my mother pointed out to me when I was with her in New York.

Is accepting the first offer another mistake?

There's no way of knowing. It's one of the risks that comes with this profession. But putting them off is a different risk entirely since they could pull the offer if I make them wait.

I stare out the window of the hotel I've stayed in for the last five days. I'm looking out over the water, palm trees swaying gently in the breeze, and for the first time, it feels like home.

Maybe it'll be a mistake, but it's only a mistake for the next three years.

"Take it," I say.

"You sure?" he asks.

"I'm sure."

"You got it, Nash," he says. "I'll be in touch with the details."

"Thanks, Jake." We cut the call, and I stare out the window as a feeling of excitement washes over me.

A new team. A new town. A new home.

I think this is exactly the fresh start I needed.