“Come on. Let’s go up on deck. I’ll buy you a drink.”
There’s no sense in sitting in the car when it’s such a clear day on the water, so I follow him up. At the concession stand, we order a couple of hot drinks. I barely lift an eye when he offers me a tiny bottle of Fireball.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to bring your own bar to the ferry. This isn’t a booze cruise.”
“Suit yourself.” He empties one of the bottles into his hot chocolate and takes an appreciative gulp.
I frown at my own cup of apple cider, which is honestly a little bland. It could use a punch of something, like cinnamon and whiskey. “Oh, all right.” I hold out my hand. “Please and thank you.”
Smirking, he does the honors and spikes my drink. “That a girl.”
“Just because it’s delicious, doesn’t mean it’s right.”
“No, but sometimes toeing the line is fun.”
“I’m not sure blatantly breaking the law counts as toeing the line.”
“I suppose you’re right. It’s still fun.” He taps his white Styrofoam cup to mine. “Bottoms up.”
The contraband cider does the trick. By the time the ferry docks and we drive the last leg to the Griggses’ home, the drink has smoothed out the rough edges of my anxiousness.
Lisa greets us at the front door and ushers us inside. She sends J.J. to the kitchen with the cupcakes and beer and pulls me aside. In the formal living room, she drops my arm and lowers her voice. “I’ve had an idea, and I wanted to talk it over with you.”
“Okay.”
“I checked out your website. It’s good—really cute and clever. You’re onto something there.”
My heart pounds a little faster, but this time, it’s not from nervousness. I’m actually honored. “Well, thank you. That means a lot.”
“I actually have a friend who works for a publishing company. They specialize in handicrafts, and I know for a fact they’re looking for some new voices to publish patterns with. Your patterns might be exactly what they need.”
The pounding stops. I swear I’m not even sure I breathe for a full minute. “Seriously?”
“I’d be happy to make an introduction. Invite you and my friend to dinner, help you come up with some sort of plan.” Lisa folds her arms across her chest. “But it’s going to cost you.”
The brewing pleasure instantly runs cold. It’s going to cost you. Did she really just say that? Did I step into a portal that pulled me out of the awkward football watch party and into an even more unsettling meeting with mobsters? I doubt I’d do well with mobsters. I’d be so scared of getting in trouble I’d turn state’s witness before an undercover agent could even approach me. Then I’d have to go into witness protection, get a new identity, and spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder and worrying about what will happen to the people I love.
And wow, I had too much spiked cider if that’s where my head is going.
“What do you want?”
“It’s been a few years since I was crowned league champion. It seems there might be some ways to make sure my team makes it to the finals.”
“Okay . . .”
“We play each other in a few weeks.”
Of course we do, and I now understand what she wants. “You want me to take a knee?”
She gives a slight nod. “I might also be interested in trading one of my receivers for Ben Bell. But only if you think it’d be a good idea.”
Oh, she’s good. Really good. If I thought I learned anything playing against the likes of J.J.—and even Gio—I had no clue what else was out there in the world of fantasy football. With the exception of the first year, when Brook and I were forced to bench players in the championships, because J.J. thought we’d been conspiring against him, I’ve never had someone hold something personal over my head in exchange for fantasy favors.
Maybe my whackadoo head wasn’t so far off by comparing Lisa to a mob boss.
Still, she conceivably has something I want—something I’d do almost anything (legal) to get. In theory. I might be buzzed, but I’m not completely out of my mind. “I’m going to need some sort of insurance.”
One of her carefully manicured eyebrows flies up. She seems more impressed than surprised I’m creating terms. Well, good. I might not make much of a mobster (okay, I think I need to retire this metaphor. I haven’t watched enough of The Sopranos to really understand how it works), but when it comes to business, I know how to play.
“What kind of insurance policy are we talking about?”
“I’m not sure. But if we go through with this, I’ll want one.”
“I suppose that’s a reasonable request. You’ll let me know what you decide?”
“You’ll be the first to know.” Actually, it’s more likely she’ll be the third to know, after I talk this over with Amelia and Brook. Ultimately, it’ll be my decision as to whether or not I’m willing to screw over my team, but I can’t keep something like this from my business partner or husband.
Lisa guides me into the kitchen. I pause at the door. J.J. and Whitney are shoulder to shoulder at the island. A small pile of discarded cupcake liners litters the granite countertop in front of them. Noticing me, J.J. freezes, half a cupcake hovering an inch away from his mouth.
“It’s my fault.” Whitney takes another bite. “I’ve had a huge craving for sweets, and I couldn’t wait any longer. None of the other women wanted one, and I couldn’t eat alone. So really, he was saving me from pigging out all by my lonesome.”
He polishes off the last of his cupcake. “I’m basically a hero. You know I can never say no to a lady.”
“Only when it’s to your benefit,” I mumble under my breath. Then, more loudly, I ask, “No one else wants one?”
“Most of this crowd is pretty calorie conscious,” Angie O’Dwyer says, adding a healthy pour of vodka to a glass of tomato juice. “I guess it comes from being around athletes all the time.”
“Don’t let her fool you into thinking we’re health nuts.” Lisa wraps an arm around my shoulders in a show of affection that doesn’t quite feel real. “We just tend to drink our calories.”
“More for baby and me.” Whitney pats her belly then reaches for another cupcake. “These are so cute, so yummy, and so what we needed.”
I’m glad someone appreciates my efforts.
J.J. hands me one of his beers, and we step into the massive living room with an equally large TV. “This is a bit of an upgrade from our setup at home.”
He lifts the beer to his lips. “Definitely more room. But your place isn’t so bad.”
We grab the last couple of empty seats toward the back of the room. He gives me an update on his biggest concerns for his matchup today while I message Brook to let him know we’ve arrived. I include a photo of the room, which I snap as discretely as possible.
Brook: (Open-Mouthed Smiley Face)
By the way, our song of the week has a little Bowie action. It’s “Under Pressure.”
Me: You have no idea how fitting that is.
Brook: ???
Me: I’ll tell you later.
“‘Under Pressure,’” J.J. reads over my shoulder. “You guys picked Queen for your band of the year?”
“Yep.”
“But they’re British.”
“So?”
“Football is pretty much as American as it gets.”
Oh. Oddly enough that hadn’t occurred to either of us. I suppose it isn’t terribly patriotic to go with a British band for American football, but at this point, what can we do? It’s already the second week of the season. Besides, it doesn’t bother me all that much. Not when the music is so good.
I have enough other football-related issues to worry about.
I have a side bet with Brook in the Mega Ballerz. I have a backroom deal in the works with Lisa in the Real Coaches’ Wives. I’m not sure what to do to support Brook while his team is struggling on the field.
I remember when my biggest worries us
ed to be about figuring out how to actually draft players and set a lineup. Those were simpler times. Now, it’s almost not even about the game anymore.
Week Two Recap: Team MacLaughlin Takes a Lickin’, but Will She Keep on Tickin’?
Ouch. That had to hurt. For the second time in as many weeks, league newbie Team MacLaughlin’s wide receiver core fell short. Sure-bet Ben Bell couldn’t get much going while he was under heavy coverage all game and Aaron Makovicka missed almost everything thrown his way. It’s a wonder she scored any points with such dismal performances.
In the end, not even the consistency of veteran quarterback Todd Northwood could save her. Team MacLaughlin fell for the second consecutive week.
Real Coaches’ Wives Record: 0-2
Chapter Nine
I CAN HARDLY WAIT TO tell Amelia about Lisa Griggs’s proposal. We have a couple of weeks to decide if we want to go for it, but after sleeping on it, I’m already prepared to throw away my game to make it happen. If playing fantasy football has taught me anything, it’s that while none of this really matters, real life does. Getting an introduction with an editor at one of the top craft-driven publishing companies in the country is about as real as it could get for us.
Unfortunately, it’s a couple of days before I’m able to get Amelia on a video chat. I was tempted to text her about it a million times, but this isn’t the sort of thing you want to tell your business partner and best friend in a text. You want to see her face and get her reaction.
I’ve even resisted the urge to tell Brook about it. We may have vowed to be honest and open with each other at our wedding, but this is a definite chicks before dicks situation if there ever was one. He’ll understand. Plus, he’ll be my next call just as soon as Amelia and I are done.
So on Tuesday evening, when I’m curled up in bed with Blitz while J.J. watches Sports Center, I finally get her on FaceTime. I’m about to blurt out the whole story the second she answers, but the words die on my lips when I get a proper look at her face. It’s gone white and has dark smudges under the eyes.
“Are you okay?”
She grimaces at my concern. “Sheesh. Do I really look that bad? I thought I’d pulled myself together pretty well.”
“No, you don’t look bad. Well . . . actually.” To be blunt, or not to be blunt? That is the question we always have with our best friends. “You just seem . . . tired.”
And the not blunts have it.
“I am tired.” She halfheartedly masks a yawn. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
“Are the girls acting out?”
“No, they’re actually being really well behaved.”
“Anything stressful happening at work?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Are you sick?”
“It’s a little bug. I’ll be over it soon.” She waves me off. “Now what did you want to talk about. I know we have to go over our summer figures, but you said there was something else.”
“Oh, we can talk later—”
“No, go for it. Talk to me.”
“Well . . .” She really doesn’t look too hot. She should probably be lying down and trying to get some sleep rather than having an impromptu business meeting. I feel terrible forcing her into a chat that can wait. At the same time, I want to tell her so badly, I’m practically bursting. “Okay. So get this, I may have a line on a publisher who might be interested in doing a book with us.”
“A book? What do you mean? Like one we’d write?”
“Exactly. One we’d write.” As opposed to one that would just magically appear.
“Yes, but what kind of a book? We’re not exactly novelists.”
“This wouldn’t be a novel or anything like that. It would have patterns, maybe a few tips on best practices. We’d really be able to make it whatever we wanted.”
“But don’t you have to know how to write to make a book?”
It takes all of my willpower not to gasp in outrage. Instead, I evenly say, “I do okay with our blog posts.”
“Yeah, they’re great. But a book is different. It’s more, formal.”
“Sure . . . I’m not exactly an expert here, but I think we’ll be able to work it out. We have a lot of material already.”
“I’m not saying you can’t do it—that we can’t do it—but won’t it take a lot of work?”
“Probably.” Now I can’t help but sigh. “I thought you’d be more into this. We’ve talked about ways to grow the business.”
“I’m not trying to crap all over your idea. It just seems like a pretty big project, and I wonder if it will be worth it.”
“I know you have a lot going on with the kids at school. I’ll do most of the writing and planning.”
“No . . . I’d figure out a way to make it work. Again, I don’t mean to be a party pooper. I’m just so tired and out of it.”
I hope that’s all it is, because with every passing second, I can feel my own enthusiasm slipping.
“We have a little time to think on it. I don’t have to get back to my contact for a few weeks.”
“There’s a deadline to connect with this publisher?”
With my sails deflated, I launch into the rest of my explanation. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.
“So, I’d have to throw a game, but I swear I’m fine with it.”
“Fine or not, you guys are insane.” The annoyance mixed with amusement adds a little color to her cheeks. “I’m so glad I never got talked into joining a fantasy football league. It turns completely rational people into idiots.”
“Be that as it may, this might be our ticket to bigger, greater things. Look, you have an equal say in this. I want to do it, and I hope you do, too, but, no matter what, we’re in this—or not in this—together.”
“I appreciate that.”
“But you’ll think about it? Because this could be life changing.”
“It could,” she agrees. “We need to figure out if it’ll be a change for the better.”
AT LEAST BROOK GIVES me the reaction I wanted and, quite frankly, expected.
“You have to do it.” The conviction in his voice reignites my earlier excitement. “I’m not saying you have to do it because I’m saying you have to do it. I’m saying you have to do it, because I know you would be amazing at it and I know how much it would mean to you.”
“It could be a lot of fun. But Amelia is right. It would take a lot of work. We both have full-time jobs, she has kids . . .”
“She also has a husband who could pitch in to help. I bet my folks would come and stay with them for a while if she needed extra hands.”
Those are good suggestions. I should mention them to her. Leaving out the part about Wade. I don’t disagree that he could step up to help, but I don’t want to start something between the two of them.
“I hope she’ll come around.”
“She will.” He hesitates a moment, then adds, “Shame about your fantasy team, though. It seems like Mrs. G should get over herself and win a championship on her own, not by lording connections over people.”
“Tell me about it. It’s not so much that I care about winning . . .”
“It’s the principle, though. I get it. You shouldn’t have to buy your success. You should earn it the old-fashioned way.”
“Right, by marrying into it.” I pause a moment and wait for Brook to finish laughing. “Before I agree to anything, I need to make sure this meeting will happen and that something could come of it. I haven’t quite figured out how to do that.”
“You will.” There’s a twinge of pride in his voice. “Harper Duquaine gets shit done.”
“What about Harper MacLaughlin? How does she do?”
“She gets shit done, too. And she takes names. Most recently mine.”
What a dork—and a sweetheart. God I love him.
IT’S A CHORE TO STAY awake at my desk. Not only is it Friday (And can we all just agree that being fully present and accounted for on a Friday is a
royal pain?), but last night J.J. and I decided to channel our inner college students and played flip cup. That was stupid. Not just because it isn’t really a two-person game (Brook was still at the field house and Blitz isn’t allowed to drink), but because J.J. is a pro. I never had a chance.
I also never want to drink another beer again. Ever. Hopefully the Coaches’ Wives serve wine at their gatherings. Otherwise, I’ll have to stick with water, which will probably start a rumor that I’m pregnant. That wouldn’t be the worst thing, but I don’t really need Brook to hear that he’s going to be a father from some random coach with a chatty wife, especially because it isn’t true.
Actually, that might be a fun little heart attack to plan for my husband. And oh my gosh. I have to stop thinking of ways to drive him nuts. I already have the whole Todd Northwood long-term game in the works. I should probably stick to that.
So basically, I need to go buy a couple of four-packs of single serving wines on my way home from work today so I can take those with me. I’ll just lie and say I have a gluten issue that keeps me from drinking beer. Then I’ll have to lie and say the cupcakes I’m planning to take are gluten-free, too. No, I’ll just have to let them think I’m a booze snob or with child. I’ll deal with whatever fallout comes of it.
This lying of mine has really escalated. It’s all beer’s fault. Maybe J.J.’s too, but mostly it’s the beer.
My lack of wakefulness isn’t purely hangover induced either. I’ll be over that by noon. (I swiped one of Brook’s Gatorades, popped a couple of ibuprofen, and am on my third water bottle refill. I’ll be fine.) It’s the lack of actual work I have to do. We finished cleaning up our lists yesterday, and the marketing department hasn’t sent us any information about the next round of mailings. I showed the others a few time-saving tricks on database cleanup earlier this week, and we put it to use fixing an old list that had been ignored for a few years. That’s about all the innovation we had at our disposal. We’re good and truly stuck in nothing mode until someone gives us some work.
Not even fantasy football has much to offer me right now. The Fantasy Pro was right with his last recap. (I know. After two tumultuous years of him talking smack and me taking offense, I can’t believe I said that either.) This wasn’t my best showing. I choked.
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