Three & Out

by Laura Chapman

  My Mega Ballerz team sucks, and the Real Coaches’ Wives team did a little better, but only a little. We still lost. Even with J.J.’s meddling, my running back Jackson Sterling pulled a hamstring in the first quarter of his game, and I lost by eight points. Oh well. It’s just the second week. A lot can happen.

  Rather than do any research on how to improve (it’s only Friday, and like I said, a lot can happen before Sunday), I’m finding other ways to pass the time until lunch. I don’t even have any Team Stitches stuff to keep me busy. We’re squared away on all of our orders. I don’t have any blog posts to edit, I’m not going to film a video at work, and I can’t create a new pattern when I don’t have my crochet hooks.

  Unfortunately, Amelia still hasn’t gotten back to me with any thoughts on the book concept. Until we discuss our plans for the future, there’s not a whole lot I can do. I could work on some other long-term plans, but I probably shouldn’t attempt anything so strenuous when I’m still waiting for my liver to decide I’ve been punished enough.

  The only thing keeping me going (besides the need to use the bathroom every half hour on account of all the hydration efforts) are the silly messages Brook keeps sending me.

  Now is the start of the season when I’d probably start missing him. He’s up and out the door to get in a workout while I’m still in the midst of my second REM cycle. More often than not, I fall asleep waiting for him to get home. That was a problem last year. I missed him. I even resented the game we love, the game that brought us together.

  This year is different. I won’t go so far as to say we’re old pros at balancing a relationship with football season, but we’re not exactly rookies either. We’ve already established a routine. On Fridays, I meet him at the athletic dining hall for lunch. Thank goodness for that. Their food is the best on campus, and my poor beer-battered body could use a high-fiber, high-protein meal. We’ve also decided I’ll keep driving him to the stadium before games.

  Plus, thanks to texting—and the fact that Brook’s phone is basically attached to his hand these days—we stay in touch. I doubt our exchanges will ever end up in a collection of great love letters, but they do the trick.

  Today my better half is on a roll with his emoji game. He’s been sending me tips for setting my lineup for the Real Coaches’ Wives completely in emojis. (He doesn’t dare try to give me any hints for the Mega Ballerz. With J.J. staying with us, it’d be all too easy for him to retaliate.) I think he feels bad for me after he dominated in his first two weeks of the fantasy season and I lost both of my games in both of the leagues. As Jessie is reading gossip columns on her computer and our boss stepped out for coffee half an hour ago, I don’t even bother to pretend to be reading a spreadsheet while I wait for his next tip to come through.

  (Up Arrow) plus( Tree) plus( Quarter-After Clock) plus( Back Arrow) equals( Thumbs Up).

  I roll my eyes. Thanks, Captain Obvious. He’s saying I should be good to play Todd Northwood as my quarterback. That’s way too easy and way too obvious. If he wasn’t being so adorably dorky right now, I’d be annoyed with the audacity of telling me to do what I already know I should do.

  Then again, given how touchy he is about my infatuation with North, I suppose it was big of him to say. I wonder if it was hard for him.

  (Lion) plus (Tennis Shoe) plus (Back Arrow) equals (Bomb).

  Okay, not as obvious, but still pretty clear. Pat Lionel, one of my running backs, is expected to bomb this week. Fair enough. He’s out. I’ll play one of the other running backs.

  The next one comes in and takes me a moment to decipher, mostly because I can’t quite figure out the first symbol. I stare at it for a while before I realize it’s one of those old bells you see on the concierge desk at hotels. Or at least you see them in the movies. I’ve never paid enough attention when I’ve gone to hotels to know if they’re still a thing. Way to be obscure, Brook. Or maybe it isn’t his fault. Maybe the emoji designers (or creators, or whatever they’re called) didn’t think to come up with something more obvious like a handbell or a church bell type of thing.

  I search through my own emojis to be sure and quickly find an example of each. Sheesh, hubby. Way to make this even more challenging and complicated.

  I reply with an okay symbol and wait. It takes him a moment to type the next clue. The little dot, dot, dot on the screen shows he’s actively working on it for a full few minutes before his message arrives.

  (Octopus) plus( Church) plus (Parted Hands) plus( Phone) equals (Prayer Hands).

  Prayer hands? Oh, dear. That can’t be good. That means someone is on the fence and could go either way before Sunday. The only way I’ll know for sure is if I pray. Well, crap. I hate having to leave decisions up to chance.

  Before I can reply, another message comes through.

  (Beer) plus (Multiple Beers) plus (Cigarette) plus (Needle) equals( Police) plus( Law Scales) equals (Flying Money) slash (Skull and Crossbones).

  Yikes. One of my players has been caught partying. Big time, by the sounds of it. Apparently the jury is still out on whether he’ll be fined or suspended. Based on recent trends, I bet it’ll be both, but Brook probably didn’t want to upset me by coming straight out and saying it’s all over. Or maybe the prayer hands are his way of saying, “Sorry, babe. Praying for your team.”

  But who?

  Octopus Church. Octopus Church. Octopus. Church. Octopus . . . Octavian. I have a wide receiver named Octavian Peters so that must be it, though it’s a bit of a stretch. What does the church have to do with Peters? Though, now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure Brook’s parents go to a St. Peters, so Octopus Church must really mean Octavian Peters.

  I stare at the screen in stunned silence for a moment. I mean, damn. That’s impressive. Who cares about whether or not Octavian Peters plays this Sunday? (Actually, I care. He’s quite good.) Still, it’s hard to get too worked up about a fantasy football player when you’ve just played one of the most impressive rounds of emoji charades ever thanks to your husband’s outside the box depictions and my (not to brag) brilliant deductions.

  We should really consider joining a competitive charades league in the off-season, if that’s a thing.

  I send Brook a little emoji story of my own.

  (Boy) plus( Girl) plus (Kisses) plus (Rocket Ship) plus (Fireworks).

  I hope he gets that message loud and clear. Before I can read up on Octavian’s legal troubles (which are really going to be a pain in the ass), the laughter on the other side of the cubicle becomes more than I can ignore. Whatever Jessie is reading or watching is apparently the funniest thing to ever happen, and I wouldn’t mind having a laugh of my own. It’s that or get really depressed about losing one of my top guys. I push away from the desk and roll over to peek around the edge.

  “Everything going okay over there?”

  Jessie wipes away at some tears that are rolling down her cheeks, and she nods, gasping for breath between laughs.

  “Yeah,” she says once she’s settled down enough to form words. “I’m just reading this hilarious parody page for the . . .” She sobers at once and averts her gaze. “It’s nothing.”

  “I love parodies.” I wheel myself closer. “What’s it for?”

  “Well . . .” She stares at the screen then shoots a guilty look my way. “It’s about the Sounds.” At my confused expression, she explains. “Last year, when the Sounds, err, losing record began, someone started this blog and Twitter account under the guise of being the coaching staff. They never trash the players, but they kind of make the coaches look . . . silly.”

  What she’s describing is a lot like some of the parody pages we saw back in Nebraska. There was someone who impersonated the head coach. Someone who made comic strips about what the pregame coaches meetings looked like. J.J. and Wade used to read them at the dealership all the time and would laugh like crazy. I’ll admit I read some of the posts, and they were pretty funny. Like Jessie said, it never mocked the players really, which
is good, because those students are under enough scrutiny. But the coaches came off looking like idiots.

  If the coaches are featured in this too . . .

  Then Brook is one of the people being made to look like an idiot. I don’t like that, even if it makes me a hypocrite.

  Though a little humor remains hidden in Jessie’s eyes, it’s mostly masked by genuine concern on her face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.”

  “No, no, it’s okay. That’s part of the game now in this day and age. I’m sure it’s all in good fun.”

  “It’s kind of a compliment in a way. It means people care and want to enjoy the whole experience.”

  Yeah. Enjoying it by making the coaches into the butt of their jokes.

  I keep my mouth clamped shut into a fake smile and give what I hope is an amused chuckle. (It might sound more like a deranged bird choking, but I can’t be entirely sure.) Still not speaking, I return to my cubicle and pick up my phone. My first instinct is to message Brook and ask if he knows about these parody sites, but I hesitate. If he already knows, and he hasn’t said anything, there’s a reason. He’s probably embarrassed and would rather fewer people know. If he doesn’t . . . I’m not sure how he’ll react. I imagine he’ll laugh it off, but I can’t be sure if it’s a laugh of genuine, self-deprecating humor, or one that’s masking hurt.

  I definitely can’t mention it to J.J. While he seems to have lightened up on his teasing of Brook where football is concerned, I don’t want to stoke any of those embers into a full-fledged fire.

  There is someone else. I pull up Whitney’s contact information and ask if she’s heard about the sites. She responds quickly.

  Yeah, Sam was telling me about them last week. I guess they’ve become really popular and the coaches and media relations team knows. There’s just nothing they can do but ignore it.

  That answers my next question. Brook must know, but unlike Sam, he doesn’t feel the need to confide in me. I’m not going to let that upset me. I’m not the one who’s being mocked, it’s him. It’s not my place to make myself a victim in this story.

  Me: Have you seen the sites?

  Whitney: I have. If I can offer one piece of advice, don’t go looking them up. It will only make you mad.

  Don’t look them up. That’s not going to be easy. Now that I know they exist—now that I know Brook knows—I’m curious. But I also don’t need to give myself any more reasons to be upset. No, it won’t be easy, but I’ll just have to do my best to follow the coaches’ lead and pretend it doesn’t exist.

  Week Three Recap: Team Harper Picked a Bad Week to Stop Drinking (If She Did in Fact Pick This Week to Stop Drinking)

  Knock knock. (Who’s there?) SLAP. (What was that for?) I just wanted to make sure you were still paying attention.

  Yes, I’m talking to you, Team Harper. I know everyone has a bad day—and, okay, sometimes even a bad season—but this is ridiculous. In case you need me to remind you, you were the runner-up in your league last year. And now, you just lost your third game of the season. By 84 points. That’s right. When your opponent scores 169 points and you end up with 85, you’ve lost by almost twice as many points.

  I’m going to let that sink in for you a moment.

  (Pause.)

  Are we good now? Okay, great. We’ll admit this isn’t entirely your fault. Your opponent’s team played the game of their lives. Four of his players were among the top five scorers of the week, so, that’s a bummer. Those excuses aside, you need better running backs, but otherwise, your other position players did pretty well.

  Mega Ballerz Record: 0-3

  Chapter Ten

  I’M AT A BIT OF A LOSS for what to do a few days later. It’s Friday night and Brook is halfway across the country with the rest of the Sounds getting ready for tomorrow’s final non-conference game. It’s within driving distance for our families, and I know Brook is excited to have a bigger cheering section. (As long as the Sounds can pull it together and eke out a victory at last.) J.J. is taking advantage of his absence and hitting the bars in the hope of scoring with a co-ed. Though he generously—or stupidly—invited me along to play wing woman, I opted for a night in with Blitz.

  It’s been so long since I had the place to myself. There’s something so freeing about knowing I could Risky Business-it and dance around in my socks and underwear if I wanted. (We have hardwood floors that are just asking for a slide-a-thon.)

  Instead of taking advantage of the situation, I’m slumming it with a frozen pizza, cheap boxed wine, and my pajamas. I’m just a little too meditative to get my dance on. I can’t stop thinking about Amelia and how our conversation went. I wish she’d been more excited. Not that she was out of line with any of the concerns she raised.

  What kind of a book?

  That’s easy. We’ll feature a bundle of patterns with some quirky anecdotes. Of course, we’ll have to figure out what that will look like. I guess we should establish our audience and find comparable titles and that sort of thing. (I Googled “how to write a book” after our chat the other day, so I at least have half an idea of what I’m talking about now.)

  How are we actually going to write this thing?

  One word at a time. Thank goodness there’s no one here to find out I said that, because even I want to punch myself for making such a dumb dad joke. In all seriousness, we’ll just have to work at it. Neither of us are classically trained journalists or novelists, but we haven’t had any complaints about our use of the English language on our blogs. If this pans out, I’m sure they’ll have us working with editors who will make us better. In the meantime, I can spice up our blog posts.

  Won’t it take a lot of work?

  Yes. It’s going to take a lot of work. Everything we do is going to take work. We weren’t born into money. We also didn’t marry into it, opting for love instead. Not that this venture is about making money, but that would be a perk.

  Isn’t it more than a little insane this whole deal hedges on throwing a fantasy football game?

  Yes. Absolutely. It’s not just a little insane it’s batshit crazy.

  Will it change our lives?

  I hope so. If it changes our lives, that means it was a success, and I want this to be a success. It’d be worse if it didn’t change our lives. It would almost be like this never happened and all that work would have been for nothing.

  Will that change be for the better?

  That, I don’t know. I’m not a fortune teller, and it’s another one of those uncontrollable factors. There aren’t many ways I can see it making things worse. I mean, unless Amelia and I become huge knitting and crocheting celebrities and end up abandoning our husbands so we can go yachting with Beyoncé and clubbing with Drake. That wouldn’t be good. (At least not for Wade and Brook.) As much as I think we can do this and be a moderate success, maybe even a big one, I doubt our handicrafts will ever put us on the level of partying with Beyoncé. But a girl who’s home and bored on a Friday night can hope.

  There’s no sense in worrying about most of these issues because they’re beyond our control. We can only handle what this book would look like and how we’ll go about bringing it to life. Pushing aside my half-eaten plate of pizza and downing my glass of wine (I’ll refill it later), I flip open my laptop and start a list of comparable books we should check out for inspiration.

  I’ve made a list of about half a dozen books to explore—and poured myself another glass of boxed wine—when my phone rings. I hope it’s Brook. I want to tell him what I’ve found and maybe see if he’d be willing to go through some of the books with me so I can have a second pair of eyes. Instead, it’s Wade’s name flashing on the screen.

  The last time he called, he was giving me a heads-up that our dear friend J.J. was going off the deep end. I’m almost scared to answer now.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Why do you assume something is wrong?”

  “You only call when something is wrong. If you wanted to propose a fanta
sy trade or complain about your quarterback, you’d text.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “It is.” He says nothing, so I ask, “Is something wrong?”

  He sighs. “Kind of?”

  “I knew it.” My heart pounds in my ears. “Something is wrong and you’ve waited this long to tell me about it? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Slow down, BK.”

  I gasp. “And now you’re calling me that? Only Christopher calls me that.”

  “I thought you didn’t like it when he did.”

  “I don’t, which means I like it even less coming from you. Awful nicknames aside, for the third time, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “It’s about Brook.”

  My heart falls to the ground and the air whooshes out of my chest like I’ve just taken an elbow to the gut. The laptop slips to the couch, nearly smashing Blitz in the process. It’s about Brook. Something happened to Brook. Please be okay. Dear God, please be okay.

  On the other end of the phone, which I’ve somehow managed to keep pressed to my ear, I hear a scuffling along with Amelia saying, “Jesus, Wade, you can’t go around saying something like that. She’s probably having a heart attack.” There’s a little more fumbling and her voice comes in clearer, “Harper, Brook is okay. There’s nothing wrong with him contrary to what my idiot husband said.”

  My heart returns to its usual place in my chest and air refills my lungs. “Thank God.” Tears pop into my eyes and relief flows through me. “I thought . . . I was worried . . .”

  “I know you were. I’m sorry. Wade sucks, and he doesn’t think before he speaks.”

  “Hey,” he cries in the background. “I don’t suck. I just thought she should know.”

  “He thought I should know what?”

  “Don’t panic. It’s nothing big.” Amelia covers the phone, but I catch her telling Wade to get off the computer and go back into the living room with the family. “Wade and your brothers were grabbing a drink after work, and they stumbled upon some less than flattering stories about the Sounds. They’re not even stories so much as—”