Unfortunately, magic isn’t on my side, and I have to pull from my unimpressive collection. I reach for the first dress I tried on. As I pull it over my head, I catch Brook’s jaw clenching. Again, he says nothing. He doesn’t sigh or shake his head. His jaw just ticks ever so slightly, and he turns his attention back to reviewing tape on his tablet.
That’s a good husband right there. I wish I could take credit for his behavior, but he basically came this way. It’s why he’s so easy to forgive when he occasionally acts like a butthead or volunteers me to bake hundreds of cookies for the team.
When I make noises about changing into something else, Brook grabs my hand and pulls me to the door. “You’re beautiful.”
I give a parting glance into the mirror over my shoulder.
“I don’t know . . .”
“I do. I can’t wait till we get home and I can help you take it off.”
My stomach does a flip. Okay, that was a pretty good answer. He has me mollified enough by the prospect of what’s to come, and we slip out of the apartment while Blitz is distracted with the wet food Brook dished up for him.
“Are you sure I have to go? You could tell them I wasn’t feeling well. I could stay home and watch over our drafts.”
“It’ll be fine.” He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “We set our wish lists. And like Santa, we checked them twice. Even if we end up missing the whole thing, the auto-draft won’t let us down.”
I wish I could bottle up some of that quiet confidence. It would be my own elixir of sanity. One I’d take off a shelf and swallow down with a glass of water whenever the waves of panic wash over me. I did the next best thing by marrying him. While his job—and, therefore, vicariously he—might be the primary source of my latest bout of anxiety, at least he’s around to be the antidote.
We say little on our drive over Lake Washington. Brook is occupied navigating the traffic to Kirkland and making sure we don’t miss the exit. I’m glad to relinquish control to him in this instance. I’m too busy brainstorming polite conversation topics to be much help as copilot.
Thank you for having us. You have a beautiful home.
How interesting. I grew up in Wisconsin—we’re practically neighbors.
We love it here. Seattle is a fun city to explore.
I’d love a piece of salmon, please.
Wait. “This isn’t a steak and ribs kind of dinner is it? Like, they’ll have salmon—or something fishy—right?”
This is Seattle, after all. It’s basically a pescetarian’s dietary nirvana. But the people we’re hanging out with are transplants like us. They may not have embraced the local culinary culture.
“Well . . . Coach O’Dwyer and his wife didn’t show me their menu. But hopefully you’ll be fine. If not, I promise to keep your wine glass full and stop at whatever burrito joint you like on the drive home.”
A full wine glass and a burrito for the ride home. What more could I want?
Regardless, Brook is right. I’ll be fine. Hopefully. I really try not to make a big deal out of my diet. Most of the time I can get through a meal without anyone asking questions. Sometimes, it gets weird, though. I get people like J.J. who tease me mercilessly. I also get people like my dad who don’t quite get what I mean. “You eat chicken, right?” Even well-meaning people like Brook’s mom, who worry so much about what I will and won’t eat, it nearly paralyzes them in the kitchen.
That’s why I hate eating with strangers. I never know which crowd I’m going to find myself in. So, great. Now I have an extra level of weirdness to worry about. I better come up with something more charming than “You have a beautiful home.”
I’ll be fine. I just have to get out of my head and be myself. More precisely, I need to be myself with a filter. (This is a work function. I can’t go on some political rant or tell one of Brook’s co-workers he’s a moron for being a Vikings fan.)
The sun is setting over the city and the mountains behind us when we reach Kirkland. The shadows cast from the thin, towering trees make it hard to read the street names and house numbers. Pushing aside my self-induced mini-panic attack, I strain my eyes to look for both, trying to find the right turns. After making only two wrong turns, we pull up in front of a gate outside of the neighborhood tucked away in a thicket of trees. Brook gives our name to the guard, who lets us in. We exchange a glance. This is what hard work and sacrifice can buy you. If you’re lucky and it’s what you really want.
“I think,” Brook brings our car to a stop outside of the most imposing fortress, “we’re here.”
The carefully assembled pile of stones and glass paint a pretty picture against the trees and brush. The lights and chatter intermingled with laughter flowing from the windows makes the mansion seem less intimidating. But only a little less. The row of BMWs, Mercedes, and other luxury vehicles in front of us is yet another reminder that we’re in another league. Or at least that we’re in the presence of another league.
He clears his throat. “Ready?”
I meet his gaze. For the first time tonight, I see a hint of nerves behind that calm confidence. He’s worried, too. Is he scared about making a good impression? Even after working alongside these coaches for six months? Or—and probably more correctly—is he worried for me? Not that he thinks I’ll act out or embarrass him. He would worry I wouldn’t have a good time.
Knowing he understands me and my reservations gives me the strength I need. I smile (and it’s only partially forced) and nod. “Ready.”
We start up the front path carrying a bottle of wine that is well above our usual price point. Brook slips an arm around my waist, silently reminding me to breathe and relax. So I do—breathe, I mean. Relaxing is a whole other thing. Standing shoulder to shoulder on the front porch, Brook rings the bell. I slip my hand into his. He gives a reassuring squeeze as the door swings open.
A perky blonde—that can only come from a bottle rather than genetics—with a trim figure—that has surely had some help being molded by man rather than God—stands on the other side. And wow, that has to be the most uncharitable assessment I’ve ever made toward another human. Which is saying something. I’m a cutthroat fantasy football manager.
“Brook!” She reaches for my husband and pulls him against her oversized chest. Planting a wet kiss on his cheek she releases her hold and pushes him inside the house, his hand comes loose from mine.
I’m left standing on the porch with the bottle of wine as our hostess fusses over my husband.
This is stupid. I feel stupid. I was raised to make my own introductions. Yet I’m seemingly incapable of helping my own cause now. I could sneak past her and follow Brook inside, hopefully going unnoticed. I could say something—anything. Instead, I stand with what I’m sure is a deer-in-headlights look on my face. Or maybe it’s a grimace. Either way, I’m sure it’s attractive and that I hold my own against this beauty queen.
Brook beats me to it—of course. He steps back outside, slips an arm firmly around my shoulder, and pushes me forward. “Mrs. O’Dwyer, this is Harper.”
Turning her attention to me at last, the bright smile stays on her face. Amusement slips from her eyes, replaced by interest. She’s quick. It only takes her half a second to give me the once-over. She must be a speed-reader when it comes to people. I feel exposed.
I should have gone with dress number two. I would’ve made a bigger statement.
She grabs both of my hands. In her thick Texas accent, she says, “Please, call me Angie. Aren’t you just too pretty for words? From what I hear, you’re just as sweet and smart. A triple threat.”
Then she pulls me in for a hug. I have just enough time to feel guilty about my fast—and completely superficial—review of her before I’m back at Brook’s side.
Opening my mouth, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Thank you for having us. You have a beautiful home.”
I CAN DO THIS. I AM doing this.
Even after a full hour at the O’Dwyer house, I have to k
eep reminding myself of that every few minutes or I freeze up like I did back in first grade when I was center stage during the spring choir concert. My parents were sitting in the second row with my brothers. Dad had the camera rolling. The piano accompanist played my solo intro three times before I covered my face and sat down, refusing to sing. Scott and Christopher like to pull out that story whenever they want to watch my cheeks flush red. Even my dear, sweet mother dragged out the footage when Brook and I were home to visit over the summer.
You can always count on your family to set you back a peg or two. And I can always count on Brook to make me feel better. Which he did after he told me a story about the time he ate too many nachos before a high school football practice and . . . never mind. I don’t want to think about that right before dinner.
While Brook chats with the offensive line coach about blocking or holding or whatever, I casually survey our surroundings. If the outside of the O’Dwyer residence was impressive, the inside is knock-yourself-out incredible. It’s like I’ve wandered onto the set of the after photo of an HGTV show for one of those multi-million-dollar houses. Which is where I am. A multi-million-dollar house.
A painting catches my eye. With no one nearby whose pardon I have to beg, I step closer. The strokes of blue, green, and gray move across the canvas. The contrast of light and dark remind me of the way the sun and trees from Bainbridge Island reflect on Puget Sound. It’s really quite—wait a minute. I squint my eyes and take another step toward it. Son of a . . . This isn’t a real painting. It’s a print on canvas.
What a strange place. What a strange preview of what our lives could be like if the next thirty or forty years go well. It’s the first time I’ve really had a chance to see it.
The clanging in the kitchen—which, swear to God, looks like a Better Homes and Gardens centerfold—grows louder. Good. I hope that means the caterers are almost ready to serve dinner. At this level, an invitation to a home-cooked meal apparently doesn’t mean it will be made by anyone who lives at the house. I need to eat. I’m on my second glass of wine, and if I don’t get some kind of protein or non-alcoholic carbohydrate soon, I can’t be held accountable for what I might do.
(It would probably include me dancing up on one of the coaches or wives, though. I tend to want to dance after surpassing a certain drink to food ratio. Sometimes I’m adorable. Usually I’m obnoxious. The next day, I’m always embarrassed.)
I’m contemplating sneaking a peek in the kitchen when my breasts start vibrating. What the . . . I stare down at my chest and then at my glass. Did someone slip something into my wine? Did I—Oh. I clutch my chest. It’s my phone. I forgot I slipped it into my bra when Angie had me leave my purse in the mud room. I really should invest in more dresses with pockets. I always feel so weird stashing my phone or money in my bra. Still, I had to have my phone. I feel naked without it.
Facing an unoccupied corner of the room, I remove it as discretely as possible. It’s a notification from the fantasy football application. The app takes its sweet time launching. No surprise, I suppose. We may be in a ritzy neighborhood, but there are thousands of trees blocking my data connection. (The hosts could have included a Wi-Fi password with their invitation. It’s only polite in this day and age.)
The fantasy app (finally) pops open, and I see that my first two picks have gone as planned. I’ve secured a decent wide receiver and running back. Unfortunately, my first two picks for quarterback are gone. This must be the year of quarterbacks. (Of course I don’t know for sure, because I didn’t take the time to do a mock draft. I’m an idiot.)
The top QBs are already gone, which isn’t good. Who do I have still available?
There’s old reliable—Todd Northwood, my quarterback from the past two years. We had a good run. A great one, even. But . . . rumor has it he hasn’t been his old reliable self. There’s not as much accuracy or power behind his throws, or so I overheard on TV when I was pretending I didn’t really care about fantasy information.
There’s a new rookie sensation from Georgia Tech and then . . .
There’s Chad Baker. My Holy Grail. My Ark of the Covenant. My . . . something else Indiana Jones wanted to discover before the Nazis captured it. Chad Baker, the one who got away. Brook stole him from me in year one. He earned my ire, and incidentally, I captured his heart by dropping an f-bomb in response. Baker isn’t ranked at the top like he was the past couple of years, but that’s probably a fluke more than anything. He’d be a steal as my third-round pick. Unless someone else makes that same discovery, he could be mine.
Oh my god. Baker could be mine.
I pause “auto-draft” and click “add” and watch the green bar crawl from zero to one hundred.
“Come on,” I hiss. “Load. Load.”
If it doesn’t, I’ll end up with a backup quarterback in the next round and another wide receiver this time around. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, but still. I’ve had my heart set on Baker for the past minute, and I’ll be a little crushed if it doesn’t happen. (Sometimes it takes longer to get over a breakup than to actually have a relationship, you know?)
“Come on . . .” The green bar hits capacity seconds before my turn is up.
Round 3: Chad Baker (quarterback)
“Yes!”
“Baker in the third. Nice.”
I stop mid-fist pump and glance over my shoulder and into the amused face of Sam’s wife. I haven’t officially met her yet. They arrived about ten minutes after we did, and at the time, Coach O’Dwyer was in the middle of introducing me to his brood. (They have five kids! Can you believe it?)
I offer a friendly smile while taking a moment to study the other woman. With dark brown hair pulled up into an artful bun and well-groomed eyebrows, she screams class and put together. Her bright floral sundress puts mine to shame, and I have to fight the urge to ask if she’ll show me how to duplicate her smoky eye.
She runs a hand over her swollen belly suggesting she’s pregnant. I can’t say she is with any certainty, because Brook has never mentioned that they’re expecting. (Which really seems like something he should have told me at some point in, I don’t know, the past few months.) She’s otherwise petite enough, it’s probably safe to assume she’s carrying a baby and didn’t just have a big lunch. But I’d rather draft kickers with my next four picks than say anything without confirmation from a reliable source.
I once had a customer at the car dealership ask when I was due on a particularly bloaty day. I’d spent my lunch break locked in the office crying and tossed the shirt I’d been wearing into a donation bin as soon as I got home.
Despite the compliment, her face is quite serious—like she might be annoyed to be here or she’s upset about something. I suppose I could do a better effort to be nice and friendly.
“Baker is the best,” I say.
“Packers fan?”
“Yep. Born and raised in Wisconsin.” Relaxing my stance, I switch the auto-draft back on my phone and turn it off. I’ll wait until later to sneak it back into my bra. “Where do your professional allegiances lie?”
“I grew up in Oklahoma near the Texas border, so I’ve usually gone for the Cowboys. But it’s been all college all the time the past few years.”
I offer her my hand. “I’m Harper Duquaine, err . . . MacLaughlin.”
“Whitney Reeves. You’ve been married less than a year, right?”
“Yes . . .”
“It took me a while to figure out my name change, too.”
“Really?” I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “It wasn’t too hard the first month or so.”
“When you’re a newlywed and it’s fun to say.”
“Exactly. But after the new marriage shine starts to fade . . .”
“You forget you have a whole new identity because you still feel like the same person most of the time—because you are still the same. Just in a different tax category.” She lets out a light laugh then, which eases the seriousness fro
m her eyes. “Try being pregnant. I sometimes forget I’m carrying a whole extra person inside of me until I smack into something with my gut.”
I wince. “Ouch.”
“I figure it’ll just make this kid tougher. At least that’s what I tell myself so I won’t worry that I’m causing any serious damage.”
Thank God she worked her pregnancy into the conversation. Now I don’t have to worry about accidentally saying something that might offend her.
“When are you due?”
“December. I hope this kid doesn’t try to come any earlier. I don’t know what we were thinking having a baby so close to football season. If the Sounds make a bowl game, we’re still kind of screwed.”
Oh, that’s something I hadn’t really considered. Having a baby during football season would be complicated. Not only would you run the risk of going into labor while the team was playing—or worse, on the road—but you’d pretty much be on your own with an infant until the season was over. I’m sure people do it all the time—and it’s not the end of the world—but it’s not exactly ideal.
“How do you like Seattle?”
“It’s not a bad place to be. And, honestly, when his graduate assistantship ended we were just glad he found a full-time job on another coaching staff. We’re happy to be here.” She masks a yawn and mouths an apology. “Seattle is nice. Most of the time. I’ll admit, every day we get closer to the due date, I miss home a little more.”
“I bet. Have you—”
“Ladies!”
We turn in unison to find Angie O’Dwyer arm-in-arm with Lisa Griggs. Whitney casually grips my hand, and a sinking feeling settles in my gut.
“Were your ears ringing?” Angie asks. “Because we were just chatting about the two of you.”
“And how we’re in need of some fresh blood in our fantasy league,” Lisa adds. “The Real Coaches’ Wives has room for two newbies.”
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