Rusty. Not sure where this came from, years later, but an ending no one asked for.
He's sick of this bullshit.
There are cameras in the locker room when he's trying to make sure his junk is covered on national TV. There are cameras chasing him through the arena parking lot when all he wants is to go home. It was a shit game where he couldn't get a single shot to go, and they barely scrape by with a win.
So when a "reporter" shoves a mic in his face and asks if his wife sleeps in a separate apartment, he can't be blamed for how he answers.
"You are dumber than a bag of bricks."
She's got her fighting stance on: feet shoulder-width apart, fisted hands on hips, lips pursed.
He barely manages a shrug. She's not wrong.
Not after he told some internet bottom feeder that she keeps a secret apartment where she fucks his teammates. It was sarcasm. She should appreciate that, being the one who taught him and all.
At least he didn't hit the guy.
She's unimpressed when he tells her as much but rolls her eyes and shuffles back to the kitchen island and her pile of books.
It's a small comfort to know that it'll always be like this. Him coming home from a game; her calling him the dumbest human being to ever dunk a basketball after spending the day reading things absolutely no one else gives a shit about.
He rubs his thumb over his wedding ring then snags her around the waist to carry her to bed. These things will always stay the same, too.
He's nearly passed out, her cheek resting on his chest, his hand tangled in her wavy hair.
"The more you piss them off, the more they'll follow us around."
And it's true. Every time he fights with a paparazzo, four more show up outside their building or stalk the players' entrance or even sneak into her classes.
He's seen "papped" shots of them, kind of likes the sneaky ones where they hadn't noticed the photographer. Where he's got an arm slung around her shoulders and she's leaning into him, her small hand tucked into his back pocket. He's not the only ass-grabby one in this marriage.
He doesn't even hate the photos even when they do notice. Because he's always sure to be between her and the camera/street. He knows how to be a good Southern boy, and anyone who tries to make her uncomfortable can go fuck themselves. She's tiny, like can practically fit both his hands around her waist, tiny, and he will fuck up anyone who makes her feel unsafe. Plus, turns out Haley only puts up with the paparazzi when she's using them to win their break up.
"They didn't care who I was until I married you."
She scoffs against his chest, but he knows it's true. They use the photos to fuel her diehard fans into thinking she's making a comeback, which spikes demand for her photos, which gives them more incentive to chase her. That she's married to a hotheaded NBA player is just a footnote.
Her former manager still does a monthly check-in to see if she's reconsidered her "retirement." Bitch changed his tune about her betraying the music industry now that rumors of a performance or a collaboration cause mass hysteria every damn time.
The short answer is no; the long answer involves three albums of song material shoved into a shoebox under their bed.
He leaves for a ten game road trip, and she considers going to stay at her apartment.
It gets emptier and emptier every time she's there, but she's holding onto the thing like it's Mr. Waffles during high school. Can't help but think that the moment she lets go, they'll have a fight that drives her into needing her own space. And that's no way to start a marriage.
So her bag stays unpacked, and she hunkers down with yogurt and some brownies of dubious origin. Quinn left them behind a few days ago, mumbling something about airport security checks, and she can always claim ignorance if they happen to affect more than just her sweet tooth.
Eleven days. If he had the free time, he'd break it down into minutes and cups of coffee like that stupid song she was always humming. You know the one.
This road trip isn't much different than all the rest. They've just gone through Atlanta. On the way to Charlotte now, and he misses her, almost as bad as the year they don't talk about. Wishes she were wrapped tight around his bones, practically strangling him, but it's okay because he's nearly suffocating himself in her hair.
All these years and he still doesn't know how to say it. Usually, it all works out because she just knows, somehow, and pops up. She worms her way past security and his coaches and right under his skin (like the very first time) (where she belongs).
Nothing's really wrong though, so she's sitting in their apartment or maybe in a library, always by Julius Caesar (it's a her and Lucas thing). And he's sitting on the team bus, watching vaguely familiar highway signs roll by. Except there's this dull pain all over, like some phantom limb, which he can't explain.
He knows she will fix it if only he would ask.
Eleven days. Who knows how many minutes. Approximately six cups of tea, not coffee, a night. She owns every herbal blend out there claiming to guarantee easy sleep. They're in a box under some Broadway programs, a place he does not venture.
The plane rumbles, and she grips the armrest a little. The man next to her is sound asleep, but the teenaged sisters across the aisle look like they have her spotted. This is when she needs him, to provide well-muscled, good-looking cover from her former fans. The world still doesn't really know what to do with a voluntary exit.
She tugs the brim of her (his) hat down and sinks lower in her seat, ignoring the twinge in her lower back. There's an hour left in the flight, and sleep should be a priority. No telling how long it'll take to talk her way past his coaches, never mind if he doesn't want her there at all.
But she's got a feeling he's missing her just as much. Even if he can't say it. Even if he's never said it before because it was never possible: a private hotel room for him and a last minute plane ticket for her.
It doesn't matter. He's waking up with a mouthful of her hair whether he likes it or not.
"Answer your fucking phone."
He's too tired to cuss with any conviction, and it's late enough that he can't really blame her for not answering. His mouth involuntarily cracks open into a yawn, and his stumble to the bathroom is interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Hey, Coach," he mutters as he pulls the door open for bed check.
"Got a present for you, Scott." While the clipboard and his frowning coach are no surprises, his wife, looking as sheepish as the only (because she's too smart to get caught again) time she was caught sneaking into the boys' locker room, is. "My room is next door, and the walls aren't that thick. See you in the morning."
"Hi." She smiles at him and lifts a shoulder in a wary shrug, and all he can do is goggle at her. "Nath—"
In one motion, he rips her overnight bag off her shoulder and chucks it behind him before crushing her against him. She lets out a half-sob, arms tight around his neck, feet dangling in the air, and he lugs her over to the bed.
"Missed you. So fucking perfect," he mumbles into her hair before falling asleep.
He's disoriented when he wakes up with a mouthful of hair and a weight on his chest that lets him know his wife is fast asleep on top of him. It takes a moment but the surprise of her shy smile and slight shrug from the night before flash through his mind.
Finally, the phantom pain he hasn't been able to shake is gone, his limbs loose and relaxed. The bedside clock tells him there's a few hours before morning practice, so he carefully rearranges them without waking her just yet.
She deserves a reward for always being what he needs.
She rolls her eyes at the judgmental stares of the hotel's elite clientele. This is far from a walk of shame, but she'd packed in a hurry, ending up with a mix of her and his clothes by accident. The jeans are hers, as are the beat up boat shoes, but the slightly oversized pullover is an antique from his days as a scrawny high school freshman. The days he is gone have not gotten easier, and she still spends a fair amount of time wallowing and wearing his clothes.
She quickly shuffles out of the ostentatious lobby and down the street to where she remembers there to be a mom-and-pop coffee shop. The late night plus the early morning (thanks to Nathan's generous idea of a thank you gift) means she is in dire need of caffeine.
It's a luxury they rarely allow themselves, mainly because she protests even the idea of being a kept woman and he's lost the argument one too many times, but she tags along the last week of the road trip. The coaches and other players would normally protest any distractions, but they're leading the region going into the playoffs and he's posting near record stats.
The night before the first game back in New York, they argue about her sister coming to visit yet again. Because Haley's still annoyed that Clay slept with Quinn at their wedding and is continuing to since the guy never did look at the off-limits photo album she put together. Even after Nathan had taken a marker and messily scrawled "CLAY, DO NOT FUCK" on the cover.
When she almost storms out, fist clenched around the key to her apartment, he makes a tactical retreat to the couch for the night. He wakes up to an empty apartment but her scent on his shirt and their comforter tangled around his feet. Somehow, it feels like progress.
That night, he shatters his scoring record, and the cameras catch him giving her the finger. Her response is a lifted chin and (his) smug smirk. The flashes are nearly blinding when he stomps over after the game buzzer and hauls her out of her seat for an angry make out session.
His involuntary smile when she presses an I'm so proud of you to his lips is the next day's tabloid fodder. As is the fine he receives for the code of conduct violations.
To no one's surprise, she graduates a year early. First, she has nearly a year's worth of college credits from high school, and second, she hustles her way through overloaded semesters and summer classes like she's terrified someone will take away her opportunity again.
He's familiar with the second feeling, especially now that he's no longer screwing his career into the ground to make her pay attention to him. She deserves to be celebrated, and he knows exactly how to do it.
Their victory celebration after her last final is ruined by a knock at their door the morning after. It's a knock he planned but obviously should have timed better. Good thing he wore her out.
When the knocking escalates to pounding, he gripes and piles their comforter on top of her before dressing. He convinces them to quietly entertain themselves while he all but tosses her into the shower.
She breaks down in silent tears at the sight of her parents sharing coffee at the kitchen island, her sisters flipping through gossip rags at the dining table, and her brothers watching last night's SportsCenter on the couch. Lucas, Karen, and Keith are yet another surprise waiting at dinner.
Two days later, she graduates, summa cum laude, surrounded by everyone she loves most.
The reporters surge forward when they see him, and he knows he's fucked.
"Could have fucking warned me," he grumbles under his breath. His teammates only chuckle at his glaring and push away the occasional reporter who comes within striking distance.
She finished her teaching certificate, took a few substitute positions, and ended up sitting on her hands because it wasn't really for her. He doesn't say a word because she never actually had time to figure out what she wants; too busy holding him together then fulfilling a goal from childhood.
Besides, it's Haley. He made a mental bet with himself (and a real one with Lucas) that a month of doing nothing would drive her insane.
Luke won with three weeks.
"I'm tired of being your wife."
Her lips keep moving but his hearing fizzes out into white noise. His knees lock up and he can feel his body swaying slightly. A stiff breeze would knock him over, but the next words out of his wife's mouth could shatter him.
She jumps up on the couch to be eye level and grabs his face between her hands.
"Did you hear me? I didn't say that right. I meant I'm tired of being just your wife."
He slumps in relief and nearly headbutts her in the nose.
"Fuck, Hales. You can't do that to me." It's obvious whining, but, hell, she deserves it. After their vows, after their rings on each other's hand, he'd figured they were bulletproof.
She winces and pulls him into a deep kiss in apology.
He's panting against her lips when the topic of conversation comes back to him. "If you're so bored, do something."
Her smile is immediate and almost blinding. "I've an idea. It might be a lot."
The mob outside their building is even more ridiculous. No press badges there to stop her diehard fans. He regrets not moving once the public figured out where they live but, to be fair, he never thought this would happen again.
She's pacing the living room and biting her thumbnail when he finally makes it up to theirs. That she's only wearing one of his dress shirts distracts him for a moment.
"Is this your idea of an apology? Because fuck yes."
He expects her signature eye roll but gets a shaky smile and a brightly manicured hand running through her shoulder length waves. She's wrapped in his arms before his gym bag hits the floor.
She hadn't given herself time to second guess anything. Which now that she thinks about it also means she hadn't had time to warn her husband. A coincidence she's sure Peyton is now cackling about.
It's been two weeks of her rehired manager constantly asking Are you sure? That is until Peyton tells him to fuck off and stop treating her like a child. She would have gotten there eventually but being married to Nathan's built up her patience levels.
Two weeks of calling people she thought would hang up on her, only to find them interested and even excited to help. Then again most of the leg work was done. She just needed to sort through the overflowing pile of word vomit from the last two years and put together something resembling a finished product.
They argued over their song. She wanted to keep it private; he didn't see the point in holding back (what he calls) her best work. Her working theory is that he wants the world to have undeniable proof of how much she's always loved his egotistical ass.
Because as much as her other material is about them, this song is them.
So the song is in, and she drops the jaws of the four people in the studio when she records it in one take. She hands her guitar off and goes home to fuck her husband unconscious.
In the end, they cobble together an album and a press release, putting Peyton's shiny new marketing degree to work.
Produced on her own dime and released digitally at a nominal cost. All proceeds to the music and arts programs of the New York educational system. Haley James Scott to volunteer in music classes at several schools on a rotating basis.
The kicker, which Peyton (of all people) had kept secret from her: Nathan Scott to donate a year's salary to the music and arts programs of the North Carolina educational system.
She does a quick circuit of the morning and late night talk shows.
There's a trip out to Los Angeles, and it's the longest week of their marriage. Every night, she hears him pacing their apartment like a caged tiger while whining about how quiet it is. Because as much time as they spend apart, he's always the one doing the leaving.
She's petty enough to find satisfaction in his anxiety.
It's almost boring, answering the standard questions about her return to the spotlight, her dedication to philanthropy. Until someone gets their hands on not-so-grainy cell phone footage of Nathan's temper tantrum turned post-game make out session and it all goes to hell. She feels like a brat restricting interview questions, but they're missing the point and there's only so much gloating she can take from her idiotic husband when she's not there to put his mouth to better use. She finishes the itinerary without walking out of any interviews, and her manager rewards her with an early flight back.
Her only memories of the next two days are their bed and the constant rumble of mine against her skin.
A year later and he's the hot topic in trade talks. He takes it better than she thought he would.
They're not a championship team. It's been four playoff series of almost but not quite, and ownership (and the City) is ready for a change. He can finally understand the appeal of a fresh start, rather than trying to force something that clearly isn't happening. It helps that they dismantle most of the current roster instead of singling out players.
When Clay brings him the offer, it feels like a no-brainer.
To his surprise, she's on board.
Even if she hadn't gifted her childhood home to her parents, Tree Hill is an almost four hour drive away. Plus, he had shuddered at the thought of having sex in the master (her parents') bedroom; she had dry heaved for five minutes.
So they buy an old house outside of Charlotte.
It's different (pleasant), having teammates who didn't witness the complete and utter train wreck he was during their break up. She so fondly refers to that persona as the worst version of himself; he can't argue.
She picks up a few volunteer commitments but is preoccupied with getting their house in livable condition. He gives it six months before she's twiddling her thumbs, thinking up the next great scheme to turn the world on its head.
One morning, she brings up Colin the baseball player who no one has even thought of in actual fucking years, and he about loses it. He's winding up to chuck his coffee mug out the window when she produces a sledge hammer from out of nowhere and directs him to the wall separating the kitchen from the dining room.
He retires after his first and only championship, taking her cue about going out on a high note.
They move back to Tree Hill.
She teaches English and music by day, produces records by night. Everything from church choirs to college a cappella groups to pop stars looking to reinvent themselves.
He coaches the Ravens, almost lets them name the new gym after him, but the Whitey Durham Field House must live forever.
It's a cliché of the worst order.