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“I was sad to see him go, too,” I admit. “But I spent the weekend at his penthouse in San Diego overlooking the bay, and I think he’ll be doing just fine out there.” I wink, and the couple laughs.
“As long as his wife pays him visits,” the woman says, and I laugh along with her.
Amelia stomps off as the couple finds me more interesting than her, and I wish I could rub it in her face that Spencer does, too.
Chapter 44: Spencer Nash
Does Fiona Heat Have Single Friends
A Month After the Wedding
Tomorrow is one month since we were married, and I can’t celebrate it with my wife.
I haven’t seen her since her birthday nine days ago, and the time apart is slowly killing me. I miss her, and for once, it’s not about the sex—though don’t get me wrong, I miss that too.
I miss the easy way we have together. I miss falling asleep with her beside me. I miss waking up with her next to me. I miss breakfast together. I miss laughing with her. I miss her smile. I miss the heat in her eyes when she looks at me. I miss that feeling like this isn’t a marriage in name only so she can get her hands on something that is rightfully hers anyway.
I miss us. We were forming an us at a rapid pace, and now we’re stuck somewhere in neutral since we can’t progress forward when we’re apart.
If anything, it feels like we’re falling backward, and I don’t like it.
Someone continues posting photos of me. Someone seems to know my every move and has alerted the paparazzi to my calendar so I’m never alone.
And meanwhile, I’m trying to fit in on a new team while I’m asserting my place, and it’s all change and upheaval while I fight off overwhelm without Grace by my side. It’s a lot for a guy who thrives on routine and organization.
We talk daily. We text hourly when we can. But her voice and her words aren’t a replacement for the physical person, and she can’t leave the vineyard for fear that Amelia will do something underhanded while she’s away.
It puts us on hold, and maybe that was Amelia’s intent from the start.
Whatever her intent was…it seems to be working.
When I walk into the locker room on Wednesday morning for OTAs, Clayton Mack is sitting on the bench inside his sports locker, which happens to be situated directly beside mine.
I glance at the nameplate in my locker. I’m still number seventeen, the same number I’ve worn my entire career—including college, high school, junior high, and all the way back to peewee league. I chose it because my birthday is the seventeenth, and I never had to change it.
I can’t help but wonder if this is the last locker room I’ll play professionally in.
Maybe only a few months have passed since I signed on the line, but turning thirty feels suddenly heavy. I’m not at the start of my career anymore. Any injury at all at this point could easily mean I’ll never stand on the line as the ball is snapped again.
And that’s why I’m here this week. OTAs may be voluntary, but I’ve never missed them. These are the first moments where I can bond with the other receivers, get back into season shape, work on conditioning to avoid those terrifying injuries that could be career-ending, and start building chemistry with my teammates.
So I’m here.
She’s there.
And we’re stuck like this for a few more days.
I have a flight back to Minnesota booked for late Friday after OTAs, and I’m hoping I’m not as sore as I was last week so I can unleash the need I’ve had racing through me since the last time I was lucky enough to share a bed with my wife.
My wife.
The realization that I’m married now is on constant replay in my brain, and it’s becoming less surreal now that it’s been an entire month. What’s surreal to me now, though, is the fact that every decision I make seems to be made with us in mind. It’s no longer just me.
I’m not sure I ever got to that point with Amelia even though I’d asked her to marry me. I still can’t imagine what drove me to do that. Between her conniving and my own need to categorize what we had, I acted spontaneously. It makes me realize that marrying Grace wasn’t so out of character after all.
“Does Fiona Heat have any single friends?” Clay asks me. “Or hell, if she doesn’t mind sharing…”
I turn toward him and pause for a few beats as I try to process the question. “Fiona Heat?”
