They have room for two. That means they aren’t in dire need for another manager to even out the numbers, so it’s not exactly like how I began my fantasy career. It does mean they’re inviting us to be nice. In a way, that makes it even more impossible to say no.
I had a hunch this moment was going to come. Eventually. I’d wrongly assumed it would happen in the form of an email I could ignore for a few hours while I stewed and searched my soul.
I would’ve eventually come to the decision I’ll have to make now on the fly. At least with an email, I would have felt more in control of my destiny. And, God, am I being dramatic? It’s just another fantasy football league.
“We’ll do our draft online next week,” Lisa continues. “It’s a standard league. We don’t do dues, but, first place gets to pick where we hold our end-of-season dinner.”
“And last place has to plan the logistics for it.”
Whitney’s hand tenses in mine. It’s hard not to feel a little faint when faced with such a prospect. But what choice do we have?
“What do you say? Are you in?”
Whitney and I exchange a look and she gives a slight, but weary nod.
I swallow hard. “We’re in.”
“Great!” Angie claps her hands. “Lisa will send you the details tomorrow. Oh yay. I just love fresh meat.”
“We’ll see you at the first home game next Saturday,” Lisa calls over her shoulder.
Once they’re onto their next victims—or rather guests—and out of earshot, Whitney mutters an expletive under her breath.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Sam warned me this was going to happen, but I was hoping there’d be some way out.”
“I’m with you. One fantasy league is more than enough for me.”
“And this one isn’t going to be just any old fantasy league. There are bigger stakes at hand.”
She’s right about that. It’s not just the risk of having to coordinate a massive event during the holiday season. It’s what being part of this league means. I was worried about upsetting the order and balance at the dealership when I joined the Mega Ballerz.
In hindsight, those guys were nothing. These are the coaches’ wives. Anything we say, or do, can be held against us—and potentially our husbands—for as long as we’re all at Seattle State.
“At least we’ll have each other.” Whitney squeezes my hand once more and lets it go. “It’ll be nice to have another person I can count on at these functions. Or at least I’ll have a venting buddy. It’s always more fun to bitch when you have a sympathetic and engaged audience.”
The dread eases away and amusement bubbles up inside me. I think this might be the start of a beautiful friendship.
Mega Ballerz: Team Harper’s Draft Recap
Round 1: Riley Garcia (WR)
Round 2: Jay Lee (RB)
Round 3: Chad Baker (QB)
Round 4: Ben Bell (WR)
Round 5: Levar Peters (TE)
Round 6: Dequan Marshall (RB)
Round 7: Aaron Makovicka (WR)
Round 8: Tommie Anders (RB)
Round 9: Breck Willis (WR)
Round 10: Freddy Zeig (TE)
Round 11: Rex Wilde (RB)
Round 12: Giles Hart (K)
Round 13: Brian Kiefer (WR)
Round 14: Packers (Defense)
Round 15: Clayton Jorensen (RB)
Round 16: Andre Piper (WR)
Season Forecast
Uh oh. Looks like someone didn’t do her homework. Not like last year, when North’s Lady—make that Team Harper—dominated the draft. This year her effort was . . . meh. Don’t get us wrong. It wasn’t the worst one in the league. But it wasn’t pretty or powerful.
Let us take a moment of silence to remember what used to be and what could have been for this once dominant team.
(crickets)
Here’s hoping Team Harper can make something of this less-than-exciting bunch of men—or find some new talent—before the season officially begins. There’s only ten days to go. That isn’t much time, but if anyone can do it, our money is on her.
We can only project Team Harper to finish the season somewhere in the top half of the league. Even that is generous. One injury could put her in one of the last spots. It’s up to her to prove us wrong. Let’s see if she’s up to the task.
Chapter Four
HOURS LATER, WHEN WE’RE finally able to make an escape, Brook and I slide back into our car and head home. He casts me a sidelong glance and raises our linked fingers to his lips.
“I know this wasn’t probably how you planned to spend your night. Or the next few months of your life. But before I say anything else . . . thank you. Just thank you for being so cool about all of this and going with it.”
“That’s me. Cool and flexible.”
He chuckles. “Our respective auto-drafts seem to have worked well enough. Neither one of us landed any real eggs. And you finally got Chad Baker.”
“I was bound to get him one of these days.”
“Maybe you can get over not getting him that first season.”
“Oh, honey. We’ll be old and senile before I stop giving you crap about that. And then it’ll only be because we’re too old and senile to remember.”
“Can’t fault a guy for hoping.”
“Can’t fault a girl for . . .”
“For?”
“I don’t know. I guess I was going to say you can’t fault a girl for holding a grudge, but . . . you probably should fault a girl for holding a grudge.”
We fall silent for a few minutes while he navigates the winding streets and gets us back en route to Seattle. Once we merge into traffic he spares another glance my way. “It’s a pity.”
“About what?”
“You and Todd.” His lips quiver, betraying the slightest hint of a grin. “I suppose you two had a good run while it lasted. And Gio taking him in the top of the third round opened you up to get Chad Baker at last.”
“I have always wanted to see what it would be like to work with Baker. Strictly on a professional level.”
“I’m still not sorry I drafted him that first season.”
“I know. Still . . . this isn’t necessarily it for North and me.”
“How do you mean? Gio won’t—”
“I’m not interested in trading Gio. I’m sure Baker and I will be very happy together. In this team at least.”
Recognition dawns on Brook’s face. “You’re going to take him in the other league.”
“Maybe. We’ll have to see.”
Brook opens his mouth, but he never gets a chance to say whatever was on his mind. My phone rings and J.J.’s name flashes on the screen.
“Sorry to interrupt. I’ve got to take this.”
“Wuss. At least put him on speaker.”
“Okay, but don’t—”
“Don’t tell him that Wade told us he’s losing it.” He shakes his head. “You don’t have to tell me. I’ve been playing dumb where J’s concerned for years.”
“Good. Just go on being dumb then.”
“I didn’t say I was dumb, I said I—”
“J.J.,” I answer loudly. “You’re on speaker with Harper.”
“And Brook.”
“You guys are nerds. You should really—”
“How can we help you?” I ask, before he can go on some diatribe about how we need to watch fewer documentaries on Netflix and pick up an edgier hobby, like going to key parties or swimming with sharks. “Did the draft take this time?”
“As far as I know. How do you feel about your auto-draft?”
“Great,” Brook says. “As far as we know.”
I poke him in the side and he grabs my hand and laces his fingers with mine—probably to restrain me rather than show affection. I guess I was asking for it.
“I don’t know how you swing it, Mac, but somehow you came out with some of the best position players this season. Are you bribing the Fantasy
Pro again?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“But Harper . . . I don’t know. Besides Baker at QB, your team of schlongs might have been better.”
“Just unlucky, I guess.”
Brook snorts and squeezes my hand. “We haven’t talked in a while. How’s everything going? How’s work?”
I shoot him a warning frown and he mouths “be cool.”
“It’s . . . fine. A little weird.”
“How so?”
“Nothing exciting ever happens anymore.”
“Maybe you need a change of scenery,” I suggest. “You could go see your family in California.”
“Or you could come stay with us here,” Brook adds. “Is that okay?” he mouths.
I nod. “You haven’t taken a real vacation in a couple of years. I bet a break would do you good.”
“That’s not a bad idea. I’ve never been to Seattle.”
“If you time it right, you could even come see one of our games.”
“You’ll be my plus one,” I offer. “I have tickets for the home games, and I’d love to have the company.”
“I’ll think about it.”
We exchange a few more pleasantries before J.J. says he has to go. We fall silent for a bit, both of us probably thinking about everything he didn’t say and we didn’t ask.
“Do you think he’ll actually come?”
Brook shakes his head. “I wouldn’t bet on it. But then again, with J you never know.”
I WAITED A FEW DAYS to read my draft recap, and I’m glad I did. Oh how quickly the tides have changed. One year ago, I was a goddess to whoever writes the recaps. Now, I’m an idiot. Not that he—or she, in fairness—is completely off base. My draft was a little lackluster. That’s what happens when you don’t research and have to rely on auto-draft. Still, what are you going to do? I believe it was the wise philosopher Taylor Swift who once said “the players gonna play” and “the haters gonna hate.”
So this season, I’m going to channel my inner T-Swift and shake it off.
But first, I have something important to do. We don’t have much time. Brook has to leave in a few minutes, but this is a rite of passage. A fantasy football season can’t really begin until we’ve selected our official Sunday night band of the year. It’s a tradition we started when we met. After mutually groaning about the silly pre-Sunday Night Football song that plays every damn week, we took matters into our own hands. We drafted a band—Bon Jovi that year—and every week before the game, we’d listen to a random song from the Bon Jovi playlist.
Of course, I later learned there was nothing random about the songs. Brook had carefully curated the list—and each week’s song—the whole time.
And because we’re grossly adorable sometimes, we did it again last year. Unfortunately, I committed the major faux pas of selecting a perfectly good band—Journey—without his input. After he got over his hurt feelings, we decided to make the decision together going forward.
We planned to have some fun with it. We’d go out to dinner, or order in. Make some charts. Argue our points. Get good and nerdy about the whole thing. But we’d underestimated just how big of a time-suck this whole coaching college football business would turn out to be. Who has time to weigh the pros and cons of a band when Brook has to head back to the stadium for a team meeting and I have to draft my team for the Real Coaches’ Wives league?
And now, with only a day to go before the fantasy season officially begins, it’s crunch time.
“Let’s do a drawing,” Brook suggests.
Oh! That’s a good idea. And I know just who I’ll nominate with my pick. I’m going with Queen. A staple of any classic rock collection, their library will offer up songs with a good beat to keep our toes tapping and our hearts pumping every Sunday. Given how prolific they were during Freddie Mercury’s life—rest in peace—we’ll have plenty of hits to last us through sixteen weeks of a fantasy season.
Plus, after we watched a documentary about the band a couple of nights ago, I haven’t been able to get “Another One Bites the Dust” out of my head.
I’m almost giddy as Brook tears out a sheet of paper from his notebook. After making sure he hasn’t scribbled a play or notes on it, he tears it in half. He hesitates a moment, then rips each of those halves into quarters and slides half of them across the counter.
I stare down at my tiny pile of paper. Correctly reading the confusion on my face, Brook explains, “We can each write three names so there’s more pieces of paper to draw from. That way neither of us can accuse the other of rigging the whole thing when it comes time to draw.”
Sometimes, I can’t believe I’m married to such a brilliant man.
“So we’ll each write down three names?”
“That’s right.”
I point to the counter. “Then why do we each have four pieces of paper?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Tearing it in halves was easier than trying for thirds.”
Ladies, he’s efficient and practical too. And he’s all mine.
Accepting the offered pen, I quickly write “QUEEN” in bold block letters. Then, after taking a second to consider, I print the same name twice more. It’s not really cheating. I swear. I’m not stacking the ballots or trying to force the issue. I just really want Queen to be our band this year. I’d been prepared to make some damn compelling arguments to support my choice. And whether we’re entering one band or three, each of us has the same fifty-fifty chance of having one of our entries chosen.
Why waste space by submitting a band I don’t want?
Following his lead, I fold my bits of paper and drop them into his Seattle State cap. Raising it above our heads, he mixes the papers with his fingers, shaking the cap while he does.
Bringing it back down to our level, he holds it out. “Want to do the honors?”
“I . . . you go ahead. It was your idea.”
I have just enough guilt about my entries to not risk a full dose of bad karma by being the selector.
Giving the cap another ceremonial shuffle, Brook reaches in and draws out a piece. He sets the hat aside and unfolds it. Pulse quickening, I arch my neck to read.
“Queen.”
I blink twice and check again. Sure enough, “Queen” is scrawled in Brook’s messy writing. What are the chances he’d submitted the very band I wanted? He doesn’t notice the goofy grin I give him, but I can’t help but internally celebrate my victory. Not only do I get the band I wanted, but I’m married to a man with exceptional musical taste.
He taps his chin with his free hand. “Does this work for you?”
“Sure. What would you have done if I said, ‘no’? And after we went to the trouble of making it a fair drawing?”
“I would’ve said, ‘Tough luck, sister,’ then left the building before you could give me an ass-chewing.”
On a laugh, I wrap my arms around his waist and plant a sloppy kiss on his lips. Throwing the paper aside, he presses one hand to my back. The other slides into my hair, pulling me even closer. My eyes flutter shut. We really don’t have time for this, but I sink in even deeper, enjoying the way his fingers are stroking the small of my back. If you can’t kiss your husband senseless every now and again, what’s the point?
At last, I pull back regretfully, my heart pounding and arousal tugging at my belly. “We’re going to be late.”
“Mmm.” He presses his lips to my forehead. Then my cheek. Then they move to the side of my neck, over my pulse, before he gives my jaw a little nip. “I don’t suppose my bosses will excuse my tardiness, even if I tell them the little woman couldn’t resist having her way with me.”
I pinch his side and extract myself from his hold. “If I ever hear you’ve called me ‘the little woman,’ you’ll get more than an ass-chewing.”
“Ooooh. I’m scared of you.”
“You should be.” I dump the undrawn bands on the counter and shove the cap back on his head. “Now go talk about how you plan to improve your
passing game before the weekend. Or whatever is on your agenda.”
“Stop.” He covers his heart dramatically. “What have I told you about throwing around football lingo outside of the bedroom?”
“At ease, boy.”
He chuckles, straightening the cap. He reaches for his notebook and iPad, but pauses. Instead, he picks up one of the discards and unfolds it. “Let’s see what else we had to work with.”
“I don’t—”
But he’s reading one of the entries before I can fully protest.
“Queen. Hey, that’s cool.” He shakes his head. “What are the chances?”
Better than he can imagine. “Great minds.” I step forward. “Shouldn’t you be leaving?”
“Just a second.” He unfolds another. His eyebrows fly up. “Queen.”
I clamp my mouth shut. There’s really nothing I can say. I maintain that I did nothing wrong. But if I say that—or any variation—he’ll think I believed I was doing something wrong, which is almost the same as admitting guilt.
Brook opens the last pieces of paper and I squeeze my eyes closed. Damn. Where were any of those the first time around? I mean, seriously. How could my picks go three for three now? Realizing I’m being a wuss and only delaying the inevitable teasing he’s probably dying to give me, I open my eyes and meet his gaze. The humor dancing in those pale blue eyes sends a jolt to my stomach. Oh boy. This is going to be good.
He speaks at last. “Baby?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you really write ‘Queen’ three times?”
“Obviously.”
He stares at me another second then hands me the last two unopened papers. “Take a look.”
Hesitantly, I do as ordered. Not because he told me to, but because I’m curious. I read the words and gasp. “What?” I thrust the papers in his face. “You were stacking the ballots, too?”
“I guess we both really wanted Queen this year.” Then, in one swift motion, he flips his cap around backwards and captures me in his arms again. “Baby, I don’t say this lightly . . .”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes, I love the shit out of you.”
His lips crash against mine, trapping the laugh and gasp in my throat. I really am lucky to be married to someone who gets me in more ways than I even know. And, I’m lucky to have found someone who I get even when I’m not trying. Sometimes, I love the shit out of him, too.
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