Three & Out

by Laura Chapman

  “So much for our plan to carpool.” I wince at the bitterness in my tone, even though no one is around to hear or judge it.

  At the sound of my voice, Blitz stirs from his spot at the foot of the bed. He stretches and rises, arching his neck to look over the mound of blankets to make sure I’m actually awake.

  “Hey, kitten.” He lets out a victorious meow and sprints the short distance to climb onto my chest. “I’m glad I can count on you to want to cuddle with me.” Okay, that’s not fair. Brook is always up for early morning snuggling—when it isn’t football season. I scratch Blitz behind the ears as much to comfort myself as him. “He must have a good reason. Daddy wouldn’t skip out on us without one.”

  Wow, I need to stop with the passive aggressiveness. It’s lost on the cat, and it’s hardly a healthy way to live my life.

  No. I’m not going to be bitter. I’ve come too far to slip back into whiney, piney mode. I’m an empowered, independent woman, and I can spend this day however I please.

  With a final Eskimo kiss to Blitz, I push myself out of bed—promising I’ll come back to make it later—and pull on the fluffy robe Brook gave me for my last birthday. He’d almost gone with something silky and sexy. In the end, he proved how well he knows me by getting me the one I’d actually use.

  Today, I’ve decided, is going to be a great day. I’m going to make a pile of pancakes, dress up in my new Sounds gear, and cheer until I lose my voice or have security threaten to kick me out of the stadium at my first official game as a coach’s wife. I’ll even be friendly and charming to the other wives.

  Because I’m feeling so resolved to be positive and generous, I’ll invite J.J. to partake. (Well, not in helping me get dressed, but everything else.) He’ll pretend he’s not that interested in going to the game, but we both know better. He wouldn’t miss it—if only for the chance to offer Brook his armchair-coaching critique later tonight.

  Blitz nearly trips me on our way to the kitchen. In his excitement for a fresh bowl of food—and maybe even a couple of treats if he wheedles enough—he’s forgotten that if I go down, so do his chances of a timely feeding. After two near misses, and an unfortunate run-in with a misplaced chair—we make it. I flip on the light switch to a crash.

  “What the—”

  I spin on my heel and come face to face with J.J. He’s standing behind the refrigerator door with a bottle of orange juice in one hand and shattered glass at his feet.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “Uh . . . live here.” I gesture to his feet. “Are you okay?”

  He stares down and wiggles his toes. “Would you look at that?” His big toe hits a large piece of glass. “Oh shit. Ouch.”

  “Are you—”

  “I’m fine.” He sways to one side, dropping the orange juice as he grabs onto the door with both of his hands to stay upright. “I guess I don’t have my sea legs.”

  Sea legs. Oh, lord, he’s still toasted from whatever party he had for himself last night. There’s no way I’m taking him anywhere in this state. He’ll have to dry all the way out before I bring him within a football field of the coaches’ wives, let alone into the same box.

  He teeters to the side again.

  “Just . . . stay.” I hold out a hand to stop him when he takes another step “We should get you back to bed.”

  “I said I was fine.”

  “J.J.” He slams the door, and I freeze. Oh God. “J.J.” I repeat calmly. “I need to ask you something. It’s very important, so you need to listen closely.”

  “Okay.”

  My cheeks burn and I fix my gaze on an old water spot on the ceiling. “Where the hell are your clothes?”

  He looks down again and lets out a short laugh. “Oops. Guess I forgot them.”

  Blindly, so as not to get another eyeful of Junior J.J., I reach for a dish towel on the counter and toss it to him. He reaches for it too late and misses it by a long shot. Damn his drunken eye-hand coordination.

  “Oops. That’s minus one fantasy point for both of us on a missed pass.”

  “That’s not how the points work in our league.”

  “No, you’re right. But it’s an idea we should maybe consider for next season. Make things more interesting.”

  “Here’s another idea. You hold still until I can get you something to cover yourself up with.”

  I grab the next thing within an arm’s reach—an oven mitt. I throw it. This time I connect with the intended target.

  “Two points for Harper.” He stares down at the mitt. “I think we have a problem.”

  “What?”

  “This,” he dangles the mitt in front of his face, “isn’t going to cover anything. You saw. I need something much bigger.”

  “Damn it, J.J.” I take in a few breaths, resigning myself to what I have to do. “Don’t move.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I tear my eyes from the ceiling and step around J.J. and the glass, which he’s managed to step into again, leaving blood smudges on the floor. I pick up the towel and hand it to him, only getting a small glimpse of anything HBO-worthy in the process.

  He holds the towel over his front. Unfortunately, it doesn’t do anything to cover his back. Whatever. It’s just a butt. That’s barely PG-13. Nothing kids can’t handle. I lead him to the table and try not to think about how he’s now bare ass on one of the chairs Brook and I refinished over the summer after we binge-watched a bunch of DIY shows.

  Leaving him with a plastic cup of juice, I sweep up the glass and wipe the blood from the floor before Blitz can get into it. Then I give the poor, long-suffering cat his food and grab J.J. a bottle of water and ibuprofen from the cupboard.

  He stares at the pills in his hand. “What’s this for?”

  “Just take them.”

  He does as ordered while I look at his feet. They’re still bleeding, though it’s down to a small trickle. Still, I should do something about that before I help him back to his room. I don’t want his cuts to become infected.

  It only takes me a moment to find our first aid kit and I’m back in the kitchen. I start to pull up a chair but realize I’ll have to raise J.J.’s feet to my lap to work on them. Rather than risk another peep show, I kneel on the ground. “Don’t—”

  “I know, I know. Don’t move.” He takes a gulp of juice. “I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about. It’s just a dick. It’s not like you haven’t seen your share of them before.”

  “Don’t be vulgar.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re a married woman. You could pretend you were all pure and good before—though we both know better. But now that you guys are hitched, why bother playing coy?”

  I nearly tell him to shut up, but what’s the point? I just need to finish this. The sooner I do, the sooner I can give making today a good day another try.

  He studies me closely through blurry eyes while I work. “So, what’s it like being married?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The sex.”

  I gasp, somehow still able to be shocked after everything else that’s transpired in the past ten minutes. “I’m not going to answer that.”

  “Why not? We’re both adults. We’re buddies. And we both know you’re no angel.”

  I’m less than gentle removing a shard of glass with tweezers. “We’re not talking about this.”

  He slouches and I avert my eyes a moment while he readjusts the towel in his lap. “I always figured married sex would be different.”

  “I said we’re not talking about it.”

  “I bet you only do it in bed now. I bet that’s always what Mac has been into, so I guess it’s no different.”

  “Stop.”

  “Oh fine.” He huffs and falls silent for a moment. Then he seems to reconsider. “Tell me one thing.”

  “You don’t get to make demands from me right now.”

  “Have you guys pulled the goalie yet or what?”

  I freeze. “Pul
led the goalie?”

  “It means—”

  “I know what it means.” I stare icily at him and wrap the bandage around his foot and ease it back to the floor. “I just can’t believe you asked.”

  “Why not? You’ve been married almost a year. Mac is definitely big-time dad material.” He lifts a shoulder. “Plus everyone assumed there was a bun in your oven when you got married so fast. I figured it was only a matter of time before you went ahead and procreated.”

  I don’t say anything as I clean up the first aid supplies and throw wrappers in the trash. Only after I’ve washed my hands in the sink do I turn around and lean against the counter.

  “I’m only going to say this once, so listen.” I fold my arms across my chest and take a breath to keep my voice steady. “What happens between Brook and me—in or out of the bedroom—is our business. No one else’s. And until I invite you to talk about it—which I never will—you don’t get to ask questions. Is that clear?”

  The front door opens and Blitz lets out a joyful chirp and races to meet Brook. J.J. and I swivel toward the doorway as he strolls into the kitchen dressed in his running gear with a to-go bag in one hand and a crate of coffee in the other. He quickly surveys the scene. His brow furrows.

  “What’s going on?” His eyes meet mine, and I see only concern. “Are you okay?”

  “We’re fine. Our friend had a little accident with a glass. That was after he forgot his pants before he decided to get an early morning snack. It’s all good now. We were just tidying up and talking about boundaries.”

  Brook nods and for a second faces J.J. The concern slips from his face and is replaced by something I’ve never seen before. It’s more primitive, and I can’t quite place its meaning. Are they going to fight in the middle of the kitchen? I have to do something.

  “What do you have there?”

  “Hmm?”

  I point at the bag. “What do you have there?”

  “I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.”

  “Really? That’s so sweet.”

  “Would you mind taking the food into our room?” he asks, still staring at J.J., who has slumped onto the kitchen table, the cup of juice precariously tipping in his hand. “I’ll get him back to bed.”

  “Okay.” I push away from the counter and reach for the breakfast. As I do, Brook wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close for a second. He takes a deep breath and holds it. I can feel his heart pounding against mine as he lets out his breath. Releasing me, he hunches down in front of J.J. while I go back to our room. Shutting the door behind me, I crawl into bed, setting the coffees and food on the nightstand.

  Whatever else happened, at least I’m assured Brook didn’t ditch me. He was just doing something nice. Even if it didn’t go exactly as either of us planned, we can still make something of our morning. We have it in us.

  Chapter Seven

  DESPITE HIS EARLY MORNING performance in the kitchen, after sleeping till noon, J.J. insists he’s able—and eager—to go to Brook’s game. After passing my inspection, which all but included a breathalyzer, I reluctantly agree to take him along. It was actually Brook who swayed me into being more charitable with something he said when I drove him to the stadium.

  He’d said, “Sometimes I wonder if it would be better to cut J off and out. Make him fend for himself. Tough love. But I’m not ready to give up on him yet. Until he’s ready to change, we just have to be supportive and set an example.”

  If Brook, who has dealt with the brunt of J.J.’s antics over the years, can give him a break, well, I can, too. If only J.J. appreciated what a loyal friend he has in Brook. For his part, J.J. only nods when I tell him there won’t be any pre-gaming at bars or tailgates—and no sneaking booze into the stadium either. I can be forgiving without being stupid. Aside from asking if the shirt he’s borrowed from Brook looks okay, J.J. doesn’t say anything until we’re climbing up the steps to our seats.

  “I thought it might be bigger.” I don’t detect any criticism or mockery in his tone. It’s an observation and nothing more.

  “I suppose there’s a lot of competition for a fan-base in the area.”

  “But this is a good field. A solid facility. Brook showed me around the strength and conditioning rooms yesterday. They were cool. They’re not Memorial Stadium . . . but not many schools hold up to that.”

  Coming from J.J., this is high praise. It’s almost on the same level as saying he’s proud of Brook. It’s easier to forgive—if not forget—this morning when he’s being so complimentary. If he can keep it up—and resist any urge to be mocking—I’ll personally spring for post-game dinner.

  Whitney is already settled in when we reach our seats. I make the introductions and take my spot in between her and J.J.

  “It was good you could be in town for their first home game.” She winces slightly as J.J. pumps her hand. “How long are you staying?”

  I keep my expression neutral and as bored as possible as J.J. explains that he’s on a leave of absence from work and will be exploring new possibilities in Seattle for the duration.

  For the duration? That’s a pretty fancy—and more permanent sounding—way to describe the terms of his stay. It’s a lot longer than the “hanging out for a bit” timeline he gave us. I don’t have a chance to question his statement—or even decide if I’m going to—because the matriarchs of our new football society have just arrived.

  “Well, what do we have here?” Angie O’Dwyer flashes a bright smile that just narrowly draws attention from the daring V-neck of her Sounds T-shirt that clings in all the right places. “Looks like the newbies beat us here.”

  “And they brought a friend.” Lisa Griggs gives J.J. an appraising inspection.

  “Oh, a fox in the hen house.” Angie giggles, and I swear she somehow manages to bounce while she does it even though she’s standing perfectly still. “We don’t get strapping young men to sit with us often. This is gonna be fun.”

  “Is anyone going to introduce us?”

  I make another round of introductions, but this one goes a different route with the follow-up. Lisa wants to know all about his college and short-lived professional football careers along with the general basics of J.J.’s life story. Eager to have a captive audience, he launches into it, leaving Whitney and me to have a few minutes to talk without interruption.

  She leans closer. “This happens all the time, doesn’t it?”

  “Pretty much. He’s never been a stranger to the limelight.” I lower my voice as much as I can with the stadium filling up. “You should’ve seen the way people would fall all over themselves to talk with him back in Lincoln. He was practically a Kardashian-level celebrity. Half the time, people came into the dealership to see him and not the cars.”

  “Get a selfie with the mascot?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did Brook have to deal with much of that back in Nebraska?”

  I shake my head. “Not really. He was recognized at school functions, of course, and occasionally at a restaurant if we went out the night of a game. But it wasn’t the norm. High school football isn’t the biggest show in town in Lincoln. I expect that’ll be the same here.”

  “We’re kind of small potatoes. Except on campus. Then again, we don’t really know what kind of fans we’re dealing with yet, do we?”

  No, we don’t. Back in Nebraska, a loss meant days of speculation on every fan page and in every bar you passed. Who would be fired? Who’d be benched? Was there any hope of a bowl game? Please say there will be a bowl game, even if we barely have a winning record! It wasn’t much better in the off-season. There was at least one football story every day in the local newspaper, even in July. I always wondered how the players and coaches held up under that kind of scrutiny.

  “It’s hard to be under that kind of microscope.” I nod toward J.J. “It’s not always easy to move on and live in the present when you can still hear the cheers from your past.”

  “You can sa
y that again. Sam was a big deal at Oklahoma. After he was drafted, but cut at camp, it was hard. Luckily, he had a good head on his shoulders and made a deal to come back as a grad assistant. And here we are.” She gestures dramatically around the sparsely populated stadium. “Still, it could always be worse.”

  “It could.”

  The stands don’t fill up too much more before the marching band takes the field to play the fight song and national anthem. That’s definitely something we’re not used to in Nebraska. The sell-out record is legendary. While they were no Texas-style Friday nights, even the high school games drew a crowd.

  Eventually we rise to our feet—at least Whitney, J.J., and I do—as the team makes its way onto the field. We’re so high up, it’s hard to pick Brook out of the crowd, but I do. Mostly because I know what polo and khakis combo he left the house wearing. It takes J.J. longer, and I practically have to push his head into the exact angle it needs to be in, to spy Brook. The coaches and players get into position on the sideline, and the team captains meet in the middle of the field. My hands instinctively link with Whitney’s and J.J.’s as we hold our breaths and wait for the outcome of the coin toss. Heads. The Sounds win. They’ll receive to start the game.

  I’m vaguely aware of Lisa and Angie chatting with some of the other wives as they arrive. This might be business as usual for them, but this is a moment for me. It might not be the first game of the season, and it’s definitely not my first time watching Brook coach. It is my first time watching him—in person—at this level. My eyes fill and a lump settles into my throat. No matter what, I’m just so proud of him.

  Sensing my change in emotion, J.J. squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry. This is what Mac lives for. He’s got this.”