“Parody posts?”
“That’s right. Have you heard about them?”
“Yeah, one of my co-workers follows all of them. It’s pretty immature.”
“It is. I mean, some of these memes are kind of funny. And the one with Brook holding onto his chin—”
“Wait. Brook is on a meme?”
“Well, yeah. Looks like all the coaches are in this . . . I guess I’d call it a comic strip.”
I shoo Blitz out of my lap, where he crawled after losing his last spot to the laptop, which I’m now booting up again. “What’s the website?”
“You haven’t seen it?”
“No. I was planning on pretending they didn’t exist, but I didn’t know if Brook was involved for sure.”
“Look, there’s no sense torturing yourself.”
“The address, please.”
Amelia mutters something about stupid husbands then rattles off the address. I type it in and gasp when the picture loads on the screen.
It’s a photo of Brook taken during last week’s game. He’s on the sideline clutching his chin—the way he does when he’s thinking. Over it, in bold letters, it says, “I CAN’T GET THE GUYS TO CATCH.” On the next page, it’s his picture again with, “BUT, LOOK. I FOUND MY CHIN” written on it.
That’s not particularly nice, but I suppose it isn’t the worst. I click over to the next slide. It’s Coach O’Dwyer saying, “WAIT, WHO IS THAT GUY?”
The next slide is Griggs. “HE’S OUR NEW GUY.”
Click. O’Dwyer: “THE HAS-BEEN FROM OKLAHOMA?”
Click. Griggs: “NO, THAT’S OUR RUNNING BACKS COACH.” Click. “IT’S THE OVERHYPED GUY FROM NEBRASKA.”
Click. O’Dwyer: “NEBRASKA? NO WONDER HE CAN’T READ THE PLAYS.”
What. Dicks. Not Griggs or O’Dwyer, they’re not really saying that. (Unless they’re secretly maintaining this blog on the side, in which case, super dicks.) No one calls my husband stupid.
I click through and the jokes get worse, though none of the rest come at Brook’s expense. “These aren’t too good.”
“No, and Wade says the guys found a bunch of fake Twitter accounts. There isn’t one for Brook. He hasn’t said anything to you about them?”
“Nope. And I don’t plan to bring it up.”
“I don’t blame you.” She covers the phone again for another mumbled conversation. She removes her hand again and sighs. “Wade wants to know if you’d be interested in talking about a fantasy trade.”
That distracts me from the drama playing out on the slideshow. “Who does he want?”
More muffled talk, then an exasperated, “Ben Bell.”
“Oh, I’m not sure about that. Who will he give me?”
“Ask him yourself. I’m not getting in the middle of this.”
“Put him on the phone.”
“No, he needs to go back out there and talk to my parents like he promised. Otherwise, I’m hacking into his account and setting his lineup on Sunday.” That last bit comes out as a threat.
“Tell him to text me.”
Amelia and I chat for a few more minutes before we say good-bye. I don’t bring up the book again—now doesn’t seem like the right time. But it was nice to hear her sounding sassier and more like her usual self.
I’m not even off the phone with her for a full second when my phone buzzes with a new text. Wade works fast. I check the message but it’s from my pseudo roommate instead.
J.J.: Have you seen this? Sofa king hilarious.
I click on the link and it takes me to a fake sports news site with the headline, “SOUNDS LOOKING TO TRADE QUARTERBACK FOR QUARTER POUNDER.” Then underneath it says, “NCAA DOESN’T HAVE HEART TO TELL COACHES PRO TRADING RULES DON’T APPLY IN COLLEGE, FOOD NOT ELIGIBLE.”
Looks like my brothers and Wade aren’t the only ones keeping tabs on the digital mockery. My hopes of keeping this subject off topic around Brook are fading with every second.
I’M KIND OF FREAKED out about my fantasy teams. After having my own brother beat me by scoring twice what I did, my ego is bruised. It doesn’t help that after the Sunday night game, I’m not looking to make much of a comeback. At least not with the Mega Ballerz. I still can’t quite get a feel for the Real Coaches’ Wives.
I put on a good front for Brook and J.J. I even made a joke about myself saying something like, “That’s what I get for giving up on a team of Johnsons.” Now that I remember it, that isn’t terribly funny, but they both gave a good laugh. That’s how low I’ve sunk. Even J.J. feels so bad for me, he’s laughing at my stupid jokes.
By Monday evening, I’ve managed to put most of it behind me. It’s a good thing, too, because I get a Code Red from Brook.
“Griggs wants to celebrate our win on Saturday, so he’s invited his coaches—and their families—out for a late dinner. Are you up for it?”
As if I could say no.
It’s a nice thought, and at the very least, I am happy I’ll get to spend some time in the same room as Brook on a week night while the sun is still out. Especially on a Monday—they’re usually tied up in meetings for hours. Still, if he’s going to have an evening free from work, it would be nice if we could go out on a date that didn’t include half a dozen other couples.
Then he said the magic words: “Griggs is picking up the tab.”
I definitely can’t say no to that. Coming off his wife’s proposal for me and how many times he’s kept Brook late at the office this season, it really seems like the least he could do.
Most of our group is settled around a few tables when we arrive at the restaurant. I’m to blame for our tardiness. I gave Brook a few tips on a new tight end to bolster his roster. That, of course, led to us being detained a few minutes longer than necessary, which meant we were late. Still, the wink Brook gives me as he opens the door to the restaurant tells me there are no regrets on his end. Whitney and Sam were good enough to save us seats with them. It’s the smallest of the tables and removed from the rest of the group. If Brook is disappointed to be so far from everyone else, he doesn’t let on. While everyone at the main tables orders bottles of wine to share, we stick to a round of iced teas and waters.
“They probably think we’re teetotalers,” Sam jokes. “In reality, we’re just showing solidarity for preggo here.”
“Oh, y’all don’t have to do that. Order something to drink if you want it.”
“Okay, you’ve got me.” Sam glances around then whispers, “Word on the streets is that the Griggses can get a little handsy when they’ve been drinkin’. I reckon we might want to keep our wits about us tonight.”
“Good plan,” Brook agrees. “J.J. says Lisa gets pretty flirty after a glass or two.”
“She doesn’t even need a glass half the time,” I say, flipping through my menu. Brook’s jaw tightens, and I quickly smooth over my remarks. “Don’t worry, nothing happens. They just banter.”
“It’s harmless,” Whitney adds.
Brook doesn’t look entirely convinced, but our conversation comes to a halt when Griggs stands to make a toast. “This game was a real turnin’ point for us. I couldn’t be more proud of this crew we’ve put together, and I know we’ve got bigger days ahead of us.” He places a hand on Lisa’s shoulder and she covers it with one of her own. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t give my gratitude to your better halves. They put up with an awful lot from us.” He turns his gaze around the room. His eyes pause when they meet mine. “We couldn’t do this without y’all, and we do it for y’all, too. Now let’s eat.”
I shake off the slightly uncomfortable feeling that came over me while he was looking at me and turn my attention back to my dining mates. Sam and Brook talk about a few new plays they showed Griggs earlier that day. Meanwhile, Whitney tells me about her plans for the baby’s nursery. While she goes over the whole look, I mentally design a color scheme for the afghan I want to make for their baby.
The waiter comes to take our plates away just as the youngest Griggs bo
y launches himself into Brook’s arms. “I have to tell ya about my team.”
Team? Brook catches the question in my eyes and mouths, “fantasy football.” I can’t quite mask my surprise. The kid is six or seven and he has a fantasy team. Does he even have a phone to set his own lineups? I wonder how early Brook will want to start our future kids on fantasy.
From the head table, Lisa and one of the other wives are debating whether or not we should order a round of desserts for the group. I try not to be insulted after the way they snubbed my cupcakes. Rather than give in to the temptation to send them death glares, I excuse myself for the restroom.
I linger a little longer than necessary, but that’s only partially to do with my need for a reprieve. Christopher just sent me a trade proposal. He wants Ben Bell in exchange for Kenny Rawlins. I take a few minutes to run a search before rejecting the request. Though the experts believe Kenny is more reliable, everyone says Ben is poised and ready for a big breakout. I’ll kick myself later if I end up giving him up in both of my leagues. At least in the Real Coaches’ Wives I’ll be advancing Team Stitches in the process.
Washing my hands—maybe again, because I can’t remember if I did before my research—I check my makeup and decide it will do for the rest of the evening. I step into the hallway and almost run into Coach Griggs.
“Fancy meeting you here.” He offers a droopy-eyed smile. “Are you having a good time?”
“I am, thank you.” Something about how closely he’s standing to me makes me nervous. I’m probably just on edge any time I’m around this group. “And thank you for inviting us all out tonight. This was so nice of you.”
“Yeah, well, that’s me. A nice guy.” He leans against the wall next to me and lowers his voice. “Lisa told me you’d like to meet her friend Kristen.”
Kristen. Her contact has a name now. I wonder if I could do some snooping on my own and make a pitch without having to involve her or my fantasy team. “I’d definitely be open to meeting her.”
“She told me what was at stake for you to get an introduction.” He shakes his head. “I told her it wasn’t appropriate, but she told me to stay out of league business. I’m sorry she’s blackmailing you into it.”
“Yeah, well, my team isn’t doing so great anyways.”
“You know . . . I know Kristen, too.” He clears his throat and leans closer. I catch a whiff of whiskey on his breath. “I might be able to set something up.”
“Oh, I don’t—”
“It wouldn’t be a problem.” He runs a finger up my arm and my stomach clutches in protest. “I’m sure we could work something out.”
I’ve never wanted to slap a person so much in my entire life. What a genuine, certifiable creep. A creep who employs my husband and controls his professional destiny.
Taking a step back, I force a grin on my face. “I appreciate the offer, but if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll let your wife handle this.”
“Suit yourself.” He pulls himself up from the wall and heads to the restrooms. “The offer still stands if you change your mind later.”
The door closes behind him and I hang back a moment before rejoining the group. I need to collect myself—and fast before I end up cornered by Griggs again—so as not to give Brook any hint that something is wrong. Now isn’t the time, or place, to tell him I think his boss made a pass at me.
Amelia may have been right to question the book project. So far, even an introduction seems to come with a lot of less-than-moral strings attached. What will an actual deal from a publisher include?
Week Four Recap: Team MacLaughlin Makes a Crucial Comeback
Team MacLaughlin didn’t leave much to chance this week, pulling out all the stops to defeat her opponent 124-120.
This week’s victory belongs to none other than wide receiver Octavian Peters, who was back on the field Monday night after being vindicated in the courts of law—and the league. Though there are still some questions about whether or not he did in fact have medication in his system when he was discovered by police weeks ago, he’s been cleared of all charges. And that cleared the way for him to score a cool 22 points, including two passing touchdowns.
The tides appear to be changing for Team MacLaughlin as she balances the scales.
Real Coaches’ Wives Record: 2-2
Chapter Eleven
THE SOUNDS ARE BACK in Seattle on Saturday to host their first conference game of the season. It’s always nice to wake up with Brook the morning of a game, but especially this morning. Cautiously optimistic after their recent victory, he was more excited about today’s matchup than usual.
“Griggs had our offense run a few of my plays in practice this week,” Brook explained while he shaved this morning. I’m not normally a hang-out-in-the-bathroom-while-your-man-primps kind of girl, but on game days I make exceptions. It’s the best way to get these little tidbits about his football life. “I guess he usually doesn’t take much input on play calling from us new guys.”
He doesn’t flat out say it, but this could be huge for his career.
I haven’t told him about what happened with Griggs at the restaurant the other night. I pulled myself together, put on a happy face, and kept my distance for the rest of the night. I even managed to salvage the evening by making plans to have brunch with Whitney—and J.J.—before the game on Saturday and having some frisky time with Brook before bed. How’s that for making the best of a situation?
The more I thought—okay, obsessed—about our exchange, the more I realized it could have been a fluke. Griggs had done a lot of celebrating that night. His victory dance included mixing whiskey with the wine Lisa kept ordering for their table. I still don’t doubt he was hitting on me, which wasn’t okay. But he let it go when I told him I wasn’t interested in his interference in helping me meet Kristen. I don’t want to create a wedge between Brook and his boss unless it’s necessary.
If it happens again, I’ll talk. I doubt it will, because I don’t plan to put myself in a situation where Griggs and I are alone ever again.
After we meet Whitney for brunch, J.J. accompanies me to the game once again. And once again he basks in attention from Lisa and Angie, who fuss over him like he’s the belle of the football ball. I keep my eyes trained on the field, pretending I don’t notice him taking pulls from the flask he smuggled into the stadium. I guess my request to leave it at home two weeks ago was only good for one game. If I want him to abide week after week, I have to ask him each time.
The first half of the game isn’t pretty. Though the Sounds defense is putting up a strong fight, our offense can’t seem to find the end zone. Tensions were understandably high on the sideline. Our quarterback actually threw a water bottle after the team went three and out for the fifth time.
When the teams head to the locker rooms to regroup, we release a collective breath. “Thank God for halftime.”
“Seriously.” Whitney offers me some licorice, which I decline. My stomach is too full of waffles and butterflies to handle anything more.
“Griggs looked like he’s fit to beat someone to a pulp.”
“Here’s hoping everyone comes out for the second half unscathed.”
“I don’t know,” J.J. muses. “Someone should knock some sense into the offensive line. They’re not giving the quarterback any protection. He’s a sitting duck.”
“The plays keep falling apart before they’ve even started. It’s like they can’t concentrate.”
“They’re going to get their asses chewed for sure. Trust me.”
It’s tempting to text Brook something to cheer him up, but I doubt he’s checking his messages, so it’d be a wasted effort. I take a piece of licorice after all to feed my nerves.
By the time they return for the second half, I have helped Whitney polish off the bag of licorice and I’ve even gone so far as to take a swig of J.J.’s bootleg booze. It’s about all I can do not to hurl, so I keep my mouth shut while I watch the action. Unfortunately, whateve
r happened, whatever was said in the locker rooms, didn’t make much of a difference. The other team keeps pressure on our quarterback, and none of the receivers can get open.
Our defense is about to hold them to a field goal when J.J. nudges me in the ribs. “That’s something I’ve never seen before.”
He points to the sideline and the candy almost comes back up. Brook has one of his players cornered by the benches. He towers over the player, face red, practically spitting out each word.
“Is he . . .”
“He’s ripping that receiver a new one.” J.J. snorts. “I didn’t know he had it in him. Go, Mac.”
“I didn’t know he had it in him either.” And I’m not sure I like it. The red face, the fierce—almost irate—expression. It’s a side of Brook I’ve never seen.
The outburst is over quickly, but not before everyone around us takes notice. Lisa Griggs raises her eyebrows and gives me a look that says “how interesting.”
“I’ll be damned.” J.J. hands me his phone. “Mac is trending on Twitter.”
“You’re kidding.” The last time Brook was involved in something trending on Twitter, his high school won the state championship. I doubt the remarks are positive this time around.
“Take a look at those mentions.”
Geez. New guy has a temper. You never know what you’re going to get with those corn-fed Nebraska boys.
Well that’s one way to teach those kids a lesson—bludgeoning.
Aren’t Nebraska people supposed to be nice? I swear I saw that on an ad somewhere . . .
Too bad Coach MacLaughlin has no room to get angry. Wasn’t he supposed to be a hotshot play caller?
Coach MacLaughlin—let me know if you need help making a new resume after that.
I was right. They’re not so positive. “Oh . . .”
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