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But the signs against us are adding up…starting with the second I get out of my car.
There are only three of them, but it feels like a hundred as they hammer me with questions on the walk from my car to the front door with their cameras in my face, recording my every move.
“Spencer, is it true you and your wife were drunk in Vegas when you got married?”
“Mr. Nash, who is the blonde in the photos all over social media this morning?”
“Spencer, tell us how camp is going and how all these women play into your time off the field.”
I debate what to do. I have two options: ignore them or answer them. Neither feels like the thing I want to do, which is rearranging all three of their faces, but violence has never been my default.
I turn to look at them as I set my hand on the handle to open the door. “I have no comments at this time.” I open the door and head inside, knowing full well they won’t follow me in.
It feels like a bit of a relief to have them off my back as my day gets started, but the jokes start up in the locker room as soon as I walk in with Jensen Bybee, a defensive end, trailing in right behind me.
“The paparazzi is out in full force this morning for Mr. Spencer Nash, everybody,” Jensen announces when he walks in.
I lift a shoulder. “Just one of the many perks of being part of the Nash family.”
“They sure as fuck weren’t here for me,” Jensen says. “But hey, can you hook me up with some of that blonde pussy you’re getting?”
“I’m married,” I say flatly.
“So?” Jensen asks.
And that’s sort of the problem here. We’re in a locker room, and men talk. Very few players I know were raised with the values I was. I was raised to respect women, and I’d never step out on someone I’m in a relationship with.
I guess I’d just marry her sister. Is that really any better?
What the fuck have these Newman sisters done to me?
Six days later, I’m pulling into the pickup area at the airport, and Grace stands with a suitcase, watching for my car. She smiles when I pull up right next to her, and I hop out of the driver’s seat to help her with her suitcase.
But first…
I pull her into my arms and press my lips to hers.
“What was that pact about never more than a week apart?” I ask softly.
She chuckles. “We really need to be better about that.”
“Agree.” I grab her suitcase and toss it into my trunk as she slides into the passenger seat, and when I join her as I slip into the driver’s seat, she reaches over and grabs my hand.
“I’m so excited to watch you play.”
“I’m so excited to have you here,” I admit. “But you’ve seen me play before.”
“Yeah, but before when I saw you play, you weren’t my husband.”
“Fair point.” I merge into traffic as we head toward my place.
The paparazzi are out again, firing questions at us. We continue to ignore them, but I can’t pretend like it’s easy.
I can’t pretend like I don’t feel the way it’s creating more cracks between us. I can’t pretend like I don’t see her flinch every damn time. She hates it, but it’s going to be a reality of life with me.
Maybe it wouldn’t be if Amelia weren’t somehow tracking our every move and tipping these assholes off. It has to be her doing it.
But it doesn’t really matter why it’s happening. The fact of the matter is that this is what my life looks like right now, and it’s the ugly side of reality.
