Three & Out

by Laura Chapman

  Chapter Five

  BROOK FINALLY MAKES it out the door and only a few minutes behind schedule. Unfortunately, we’re both more sexually frustrated than we might have liked. It was our own faults, getting worked up like that when we both have things to do. Touching my lips, I can’t help but grin. We’ll both be unable to focus for the next couple of hours. But later tonight, well, maybe the anticipation of what’s to come will more than make up for the temporary case of blue balls.

  Grabbing my own iPad and a notebook, I curl up on the sofa in our living room. I really don’t know what to expect with this draft. After three—or rather four—drafts with the Mega Ballerz, I wonder what it will be like with a different crowd. Maybe they’ll be way more aggressive than my boys. Like, maybe they have a take-no-prisoners mentality, and I’ll be terrified someone will cut me if I take a coveted running back.

  It’s not the draft that has me most worried. No, even though I’ve met them all once before, I’m still not sure how I’ll fit in. I haven’t exactly excelled at making friends since we moved here. My co-workers are more like fellow spreadsheet inmates than friends. We’re all just doing our time until we’re released at five.

  Before I moved to Lincoln, I was pretty much a loner. I lucked into my friendships there. What chance do I have of winning the lottery a second time?

  At least I have Whitney. While our respective husbands were on the road for the season opener last weekend, she invited me over to watch the game. She made some fantastic black bean nachos. I gave her a crocheted team scarf to wear when the weather turns cold. By the end of the game, my suspicions last week were confirmed. She really will be a good friend.

  I should have asked her to come over for the draft. I know it’s all online, but it would’ve been nice to have a friend in the room while I figured out what to type in the chat portion of the app. Do I even need to write anything in the chat? Can’t I just draft my team without comment and call it good? How hard should I come at this draft? Like, what’s the etiquette? Do I go for the best team, or am I supposed to take some losers so Angie or Lisa win? What happens if I win? Will they be cool with it or act like they’re cool with it while waging some sort of strange psychological warfare over me?

  So many questions. Another reason I should have done this with a friend.

  Blitz, finished with the treats I gave as a distraction when Brook left, saunters into the room. Licking his lips, he makes eye contact and jumps up on the couch. He rubs his face against my laptop and meows. At least I have his solidarity to get me through this.

  I pull up the app on my computer screen and set up the rest of my drafting war room. I open up a series of tabs on the Internet with my go-to websites for researching player stats. I flip open my notebook and line it up on the coffee table next to two pens—just in case one craps out—on the right of the laptop. On the left, I pour a glass of wine, placing the bottle to the side. (Again, just in case.) I finish with a bowl of popcorn and survey the setup. This might be my first time with the Real Coaches’ Wives, but it isn’t my first rodeo.

  I’m ready as I’ll ever be. And I still have twenty minutes to go.

  Blitz curls into my lap, which is my hint to find something to do to pass the time so I won’t overanalyze what hasn’t happened yet. I flip on the TV and am about to hit play on Jerry Maguire when Blitz raises his head. Ears perked, he stares at the front door a moment before someone pounds on it.

  “What the—”

  On a chirp, he jumps down and races for the bedroom where he’ll be safe. You know, in case someone is here to kidnap him or steal his treats.

  “Wuss,” I call after him, pushing myself to my feet. I press my hands on the door and look through the peephole. “Oh my . . .”

  I throw open the door and my jaw falls slack. Blitz pokes his head out from the bedroom and lets out a shrill meow as he races forward.

  “You guys open for business?” J.J. asks, a large duffel bag and a backpack by his feet. “Because I forgot to take a leak at the airport and I’m about to piss myself.”

  I open the door wider, forgetting that Blitz might make a run for it—though he appears to be distracted by his old friend. We have ourselves a visitor, and it looks like he plans to stay a while.

  NO LONGER WORRIED ABOUT killing time until the draft begins, I grab a clean set of linens from the closet and make up a bed on the sofa in our office while J.J. “visits the shitter.” Blitz is still making a spectacle of himself by pawing at the bathroom door and whining. I hadn’t realized he was such a big fan.

  I didn’t pounce on J.J. right away to find out what was going on. I just invited him in and went through the motions of preparing for an unexpected houseguest. Something about this situation—about him just showing up at our front door—doesn’t quite fit. It’s not wholly unheard of for J.J. to spontaneously appear without warning, but at this hour? And on a Wednesday.

  Still, if something was wrong—and he gave no indication anything was—surely we would’ve had a heads-up from someone back in Nebraska.

  I send a quick message to Brook.

  Me: Guess who’s crashing at the MacLaughlin House tonight?

  Brook: ???

  Wait . . .

  J.J.?

  Me: You got it. And on your first try.

  Please tell me you didn’t know he was coming and you forgot to tell me.

  Brook: No. He’s just the only person either of us knows who would arrive unannounced.

  Well, at least I don’t have to worry about fighting in front of our guest.

  Brook: Is everything okay?

  Me: Yeah, I’m fine.

  Brook: Good. But I mean, is he okay? Did he get fired?

  Fired. I’ll admit that thought hadn’t even occurred to me. In all of the scenarios I’ve been working over in my mind, I found myself somewhere between him taking a leave of absence and just quitting. If he was fired . . . surely we would’ve heard something by now. Wade or Gio would’ve been in touch to say what had gone down. But, honestly, I can’t imagine Anderson giving J.J. the boot. He’s too much of a big deal in Lincoln. No matter what he does, he’ll always be remembered as the beloved quarterback who helped Nebraska make one of its biggest comebacks in history. If he was fired . . . it wouldn’t be good for business.

  Plus, Anderson just likes him. They have some kind of father-son, mentor-mentee thing going on.

  So, no, the f-word hasn’t crossed my mind yet (at least not that one), but it’s probably still a valid question. One I don’t have the answer to yet.

  Me: I’ll subtly dig for some details and keep you posted.

  Brook: Good luck with your inquisition—and your draft. (Football) (Raised Hands) (Trophy) (Heart)

  Before I reply, J.J. strolls back into the living room with Blitz fast on his heels.

  “So . . .” He tucks his hands into his pockets and leans casually against the counter. “What are you up to tonight? Where’s the OBC?”

  OBC? Is that another new hip term like sofa king? (Which, by the way, I asked Brook about, and he didn’t have a clue, but said J.J. has sent it to him a couple of times, too.) OBC . . . Oh. Wait. Not new. Not hip. Just pretty rude. OBC or old ball and chain.

  “You mean where’s Brook? Your best friend?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “He has a coaches meeting. And I’m about to draft my other fantasy team.”

  “You have another team?”

  I nod. “The Real Coaches’ Wives of Seattle. It’s a league for the spouses of the Seattle State coaches.”

  “I figured as much.” He shifts from one foot to the other, staring at me with a quizzical expression. “You’re doing another league. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Contrary to what you might think, you’re not in charge of all things fantasy football.”

  “I’ve never claimed to be in charge of all things fantasy football. It would’ve been nice to know, all the same.”

  Crossing the room, he comes to s
tand on the opposite side of the coffee table. He strikes a warrior’s pose, and I’m once again in real danger of cowering, which sends another spark of annoyance through me. Why should I feel awkward or uncomfortable? I haven’t done anything wrong.

  “Why do you care?”

  “I like to know if any of the league’s managers are going to be distracted or won’t take this season seriously. You know how I feel about people half-assing it in my league.”

  “Yeah, I do.” But at some point, J.J. has to understand that everyone in the league has lives outside of the league. Okay, this other league isn’t much of a life when you get down to it, but he doesn’t need to worry. Especially not when he probably has other real, tangible things he should focus on in his own world. Which is what we should be talking about rather than my ability to manage two teams.

  “So . . . How long are you planning to stay?”

  “Not sure. Could be a couple of days. Maybe a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks?”

  “It depends on if I feel like going to my dad’s after. I figure I’ll play it by ear.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if Brook was right—to ask if J.J. was fired. But directness doesn’t always work with him. I’ll have to play it more guarded, more coy, if I’m going to discover anything.

  “How were you able to get away from work for so long?”

  “Well . . .” He tears his gaze away and stares at the bobbleheads perched on one of our shelves. For the first time since he arrived, J.J. seems uncomfortable. I hold my breath, waiting for him to explain. Every second, a new possibility pops into my mind, tearing away my earlier explanations.

  He’s quit. We haven’t heard about it because the others don’t know yet—won’t know until they show up for work in the morning and find the dealership trashed and his resignation on top of a pile of shredded paperwork.

  He’s quit. They know, but we haven’t heard because Wade hasn’t figured out how to break the news to us and he didn’t suspect J.J. would jump a plane for the coast.

  He was fired. Anderson feels too guilty to say anything.

  He was arrested and jumped bail. Or whatever it’s called. Doesn’t matter. Either way, we’re harboring a criminal.

  “Here’s the deal,” J.J. says at last. “Things have been kind of off lately. Maybe it’s my thirtieth birthday coming up. Maybe it’s boredom. Maybe it’s fucking Lincoln. Whatever it is, I need a change of pace.”

  “So you quit?”

  “No. I’m taking some time to figure out what’s next.”

  “They gave you a leave—”

  “I thought a change of scenery might help jump-start the whole figuring things out process.”

  “That makes sense.” That’s the only part that does. The rest of it seems a little shaky. Particularly the bit about how he managed to get an indefinite amount of time off from work. But until I can get in touch with someone at Whitley Motors, I’ll have to take J.J.’s word for it.

  I’m not sure what else to say, and J.J. doesn’t seem particularly in the mood to expand on his previous announcement. He drops to the other side of the couch and points to my laptop. “When does your draft start?”

  I check the time and wince. “Two minutes.”

  “What pick do you have?”

  “Eleventh.” Poor Whitney has the final pick. I guess the fresh meat go last in this league.

  “Are you ready for it?”

  “About as ready as I was for our redraft last week.”

  “That good?”

  Despite myself, I grin. “That good.”

  “Want help?”

  My eyebrows draw together. “I thought you didn’t like people cheating.”

  “I’d be brainstorming with you, nothing more.” He pulls his iPad out of the backpack he dropped near the couch on his way in. “Plus . . . I’m not in your league. It’s not like I have anything to win or lose. It’s not cheating.”

  “Why would you want to help me?”

  “I’m guessing there’s no other excitement on the schedule tonight. Besides, isn’t that what friends do?”

  He opens up a file labeled SLEEPERS and extends it toward me. I eye the tablet hungrily.

  “You’d be willing to help me out because you’re bored and that’s what friends do?”

  “Well . . . I’m also guessing a glass of wine, or better yet a couple of beers, is in it for me.”

  The clock on the screen ticks down and the bell dings and the first team manager makes her pick. Rather than look to see who went, I take the offered tablet and gesture to the kitchen. “Beer is in the fridge.”

  “Excellent.”

  I scan through the list of sleepers while I watch the time. For better or worse, I’ve just teamed up with J.J. Sanchez. Here’s hoping I don’t live to regret this.

  Real Coaches’ Wives of Seattle: Team MacLaughlin’s Draft Recap

  Round 1: Deangelo Darling (RB)

  Round 2: Octavian Peters (WR)

  Round 3: Todd Northwood (QB)

  Round 4: Jackson Sterling (RB)

  Round 5: Phoenix Mathers (TE)

  Round 6: Ben Bell (WR)

  Round 7: Joel Tyson (TE)

  Round 8: Aaron Makovicka (WR)

  Round 9: Alex Michaels (QB)

  Round 10: Brent Corey (WR)

  Round 11: Pat Lionel (RB)

  Round 12: Seattle (Defense)

  Round 13: Luke Paul (K)

  Round 14: James Reed (RB)

  Round 15: Desean Johnson (WR)

  Round 16: Cleveland (Defense)

  Season Forecast

  If there were points for drafting fast and furious, Team MacLaughlin would already be crowned this year’s winner. But there aren’t any points for something that ridiculous. This is fantasy football. It’s very serious.

  This is an honest-to-God instance when the phrase “hanging loose” wouldn’t be misapplied when used to describe Team MacLaughlin’s approach to drafting. You might even call it easy and breezy or super chill. Whatever it is, Team MacLaughlin certainly wasn’t sweating it when she drafted a team for her inaugural season in the Real Coaches’ Wives of Seattle. With consistently fast picks (not to mention solid choices) round after round, here’s hoping this laid-back approach to drafting will translate to the rest of the season.

  We’re big fans of keeping it cool under pressure, which means we’re now fans of yours. We’re totally pulling for you, Team MacLaughlin.

  Chapter Six

  I STIR AWAKE SOMETIME later that night and scoot across the bed to snuggle with Brook. I’m nearly to the edge before I realize he’s not there and I’m about to fall off. My eyes fly open, and I take a few deep breaths to steady my fast-beating heart. I’m fine. I didn’t fall. I’m okay.

  But where’s Brook? Glancing at the alarm clock, I note it is past midnight—well after he should be home. That sends another cold rush through me, and I swing out of bed. I open the bedroom door but pause when I hear low voices coming from the kitchen.

  J.J. is at the table, a beer in his hands with a couple of empty cans scattered around him. Brook is leaning against the counter, watching him. For now, J.J. seems to be doing most of the talking.

  “I need some time to figure out what I’m going to do. Whether I go back or need to do something else.”

  “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. But you have to keep your shit together.”

  “I’m not going to—”

  “I know you won’t.” Brook releases a heavy sigh. “I trust you. But I need you to stay clean while you’re here. No drugs. We can’t have that in our house.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You pick up after yourself.” He points to J.J.’s mess on the table. “I’m not here enough to pull my weight as it is, and I won’t have Harper feeling like she’s tied to the kitchen or vacuum.”

  J.J. gives a short laugh but nods.

  “And no bringing women back after nights at the bar.”

 
“Hey, I—”

  “I’m not saying you have to be a monk. God knows Seattle’s a bigger pool, and we’re practically next door to a campus. Just don’t do it here.”

  “Because you don’t want the college girls to figure out where you live?”

  “College kids don’t care where we live. That’s not why. It’s disrespectful. It’s disrespectful to put Harper in a situation where she’d stumble upon you—and some stranger—in an awkward position. And it’s disrespectful to me, because I asked you not to do it.”

  J.J. eyes him another moment before giving his silent agreement. “Are those all the rules?”

  “For now.” Brook pushes away from the counter, and I close the door, leaving only a crack so I can hear them without being seen. “We’re on your side, J.J.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  The talk turns to the more mundane, and I figure it’s only a matter of minutes before Brook makes his excuses. He’ll have to be up again in a few hours. He needs his rest. When he crawls into bed at last, I wait for him to turn on his side before I wrap an arm around his waist.

  He covers my hands. “Sorry I woke you.”

  “You didn’t.” I press my lips to his shoulder and lean into his back. “Brook?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I’m sure there’s more I should say. More we should discuss about our new houseguest and what that will mean for us the next few days or weeks. How even though I appreciate his concern, he doesn’t have to worry. I can hold my own against J.J. Lots of things. Right now, “I love you” seems like more than enough.

  I WAKE UP ALONE ON Saturday morning. At first, through my groggy haze, I figure I must be mistaken. I’m supposed to take Brook to work today. We decided I’d drive him to the stadium every home game. Sure, the stadium is a twenty-minute walk, but that’s still time we can guarantee together. He doesn’t have to report until eight—I triple-checked that fact last night. It’s barely 6:30. No, I must be mistaken. I stretch my arm across the mattress to check. I hit nothing but empty space and cool rumpled sheets. I open my eyes, giving them a moment to adjust to the dark, and look at the doors to our bathroom and the rest of the apartment. There’s no light, no hint that he’s anywhere near.