“They’ve even come up with a pretty clever hashtag.”
Sure enough, several of the messages are accompanied by a “#MadMacLaughlin” along with the more traditional “#choke” and “#fail.”
“Let me see.” Whitney takes the phone and winces. “Oh wow. That won’t go over well with media relations.” She passes the phone back to J.J., who goes back to reading through the stream of new tweets. Lowering her voice, she leans closer to me. “I didn’t realize he had such a temper.”
“He doesn’t. Not usually.”
I stare back at the field, where Brook and his receiver are standing shoulder to shoulder as if nothing happened. Like everyone on Twitter, I want to know what they said. Is this what coaching is about? Angry outbursts, creepy bosses, exhausting wives. I hope not. I hope it’s just a fluke, because I’m not sure we signed up for a lifetime of this.
I BRIBE J.J. INTO GOING out for the evening with the promise of making a batch of cupcakes for tomorrow’s watch party, even though he and Whitney will be the only ones eating them. All signs point toward him making some sort of a jab at Brook. Worse yet, he’ll mention those awful tweets that popped up.
I’ve never seen Brook so riled up before. He’s a passionate coach, but he’s never been a yeller. The way he got into it with that player . . . was alarming. I’m almost tempted to send him to the doctor to make sure he doesn’t have the flu or a sudden onset of Tourette’s. I shouldn’t joke, but something is clearly wrong, and I want to get to the bottom of it.
I’m going to be more stealthy about getting my answers. I’ll hide my line of inquiry behind the homemade lasagna and breadsticks I’m serving for dinner with a stein of his favorite beer.
Blitz lets out a chirp and races for the door half a second before it swings open and Brook steps inside. His shoulders sag and he makes no attempt to force a smile for my benefit. He scoops the cat up and takes in the spread on the table. If possible, his shoulders droop even more.
“Do we have to talk about it?”
“I think we do, but you can have a shower and dinner first.”
He sets Blitz down and heads to the bathroom to take care of the first part. It gives me time to prepare. Now that he’s on to me, I have to approach everything from a different angle. I promised to wait until after we’ve eaten. Maybe I could sweet-talk him into bed with some talk about my fantasy football team—that always gets him pretty worked up—and I can start my line of questioning during his post-coital haze.
No, that’s too manipulative. Not to mention degrading—using sex as a tactic to get what I want. That’s never okay, even if it’s on my husband, who would thoroughly enjoy it. Maybe even twice before we called it a night.
I could go with my old, reliable approach and unleash Harper the harper. She wasn’t popular, but she got results.
I’m weighing the merits of being a hussy or a shrew—and cringing at either possibility—when Brook returns. His hair is damp and his T-shirt clings to his shoulders. I can’t help but stare at the way his sweatpants hang casually on his hips. It’s so unfair that a T-shirt and sweatpants on him are aphrodisiacs for me. There will be no seduction for secrets tonight. If I try, I’ll only end up forgetting what I want beyond mutual satisfaction.
I set the lasagna on the table and pour him a beer in a chilled stein.
He stops me. “I can drink it out of the bottle.”
“We have a set.” His old roommate gave us a box of barware for our wedding. They’ve spent most of their short life gathering dust on the top shelf of our cupboard—the one I need a stool to reach. “We never use them. I thought tonight might be a good time.”
He takes his mug to the table, stopping on his way to give Blitz another scratch behind the ear. I join him and dish up the food, taking extra time to study him and work on my plan.
What a strange thing. Brook is usually good at communicating—except when it comes to talking about his troubles at work. Get him on the subjects of fantasy football or best rock bands of the 1980s, and he’ll rattle on for hours. He even regularly spends half an hour offering up advice when I come home frustrated about my own work issues. I wish I could ask him for advice on how to have this conversation. He’d have a solid plan in no time.
He’s a vault when it comes to talking about any of his work woes. It’s like he wants me to believe it’s all rainbows and pots of gold in his coaching world. Well, I’ve seen every episode of Friday Night Lights—thanks to him—and I know there are downsides to coaching.
What makes it all the more annoying is how much Sam tells Whitney. I shouldn’t compare their relationship to ours, it isn’t fair. Still, it’s hard not to be irritated when Whitney is a thought-partner and counselor to her husband. I’m relegated to baking cookies for the players and crocheting scarves to sell to fans.
Brook sets down his fork abruptly. “Say something. Please. I can’t handle the silent treatment.”
Silent treatment? Does he really think this is what the silent treatment would look like coming from me? “I’m not—”
“Fine, we can talk about it.” He picks up his fork again and pushes a stray chunk of noodle around the sauce. “Griggs really let me have it during halftime.”
“He yelled at you?”
“Big time. He even punched a hole in the wall. I suppose it was better than him punching my face.”
“He threw a punch at you?”
“Are you going to keep repeating everything I tell you?”
“No.” I shove my plate aside so I can give him my full attention. “Please. Go on.”
“He said my plays were amateurish and they were the reason we couldn’t get any momentum going.”
“You couldn’t get any momentum because the defense had your quarterback’s number, and the offensive line wasn’t putting up much of a fight.”
He stares at me again, but this time it isn’t annoyance on his face. It’s that way his eyes go glossy whenever I talk football. I’d better keep my mouth shut.
“He went on and on about how I don’t know anything about the college game and how they’d made a mistake hiring anyone without more experience. He got to me. So I was worked up when we went back out for the second half and I caught one of my receivers playing a game on his tablet instead of studying plays. I just . . . lost it.”
“I’m sorry. Your boss is a bit of a dick.” I reach across the table and squeeze his hands. “That player had it coming. Do you know how many people would love to have a starting spot on a college football team?”
“I do.”
“And do you know how lucky they are to have you on that coaching staff?” He looks away, but I reach up and grab his chin to turn his gaze back to mine. “Babe, everyone has their off days. Today was yours. It happened, and it’s okay to be upset about it, but we’re going to move on from it. And you know what else?”
“What?”
“Griggs is probably just jealous of you. He feels threatened by you and your up-and-comer status, so he had to go all alpha-male on you in hopes it would break you.” I stroke his chin now with my thumb, tracing the scar that mars his otherwise perfect face. “By the end of this season, he’s going to have a good reason to be worried. You’re going to kick so much ass. I bet he’ll be the one looking for another job.”
I get a grin then, but it’s only for a second, because his lips are on mine. I can feel his tension and anger ease away, even as I’m filled with relief that he’s confided in me.
TENSIONS HAVE EASED by the time J.J. and I leave for the watch party the next day. I stayed up late with Brook, brainstorming ways he could smooth things over with his players and Griggs. He doesn’t have much experience with conflict resolution because he’s never really been in a conflict with anyone. I’m not a pro, but as someone who survived the nickname “Harper the harper” and went on to make the people I clashed with my closest friends (and in one case, my family by marriage), I at least can offer a point of reference.
Patching up
his issues with the players seems simple enough. He’s called a position meeting with his receivers for later this afternoon. Without issuing a full apology, he’ll let them know this isn’t the way he likes to operate. He’ll calmly explain his expectations of them going forward. Instead of saying sorry to the kid who was on Twitter—or whatever he was doing—instead of reviewing the plays, he’s taking along the cookies I (voluntarily) baked as a peace offering.
I also—as tactfully as possible—encouraged Brook to read up on stress management. I even directed him to the part of the university website that talks about the Employee Assistance Program in case he needs some extra, and unbiased, support. This might have been his first time losing it on the sidelines, but it would be ideal if it was the last.
Getting back on Griggs’s good side is another issue. As much as we discussed it, we never figured out the best approach. Though Brook hasn’t complained in the past, I’ve heard from other sources that Griggs has mood swings. There might not be any way to avoid them, but the best we can hope for is that he’ll direct his future anger at someone else. We were still talking about what could be done when I nodded off. Brook, bless his heart, let me fall asleep without any reproach.
When my alarm went off this morning, I press snooze half a dozen times, before I realized we had to leave if we wanted to catch the ferry on time (and without washed hair). Of course Brook got up with his first alarm at six and hit the gym before going to the office while I pretended I didn’t have any plans for the day.
I wish I didn’t have plans for the day. I’ve never wished it more than when J.J. and I arrive at the Griggses’ house late Sunday morning. Lisa wastes no time on pleasantries. With barely more than a bat of her eyes to J.J., she grabs me by the arm and pulls me in the opposite direction of the TV room.
“How’s hubby doing after yesterday?” Before I can answer, she rattles on. “Griggsy has always had a temper on him, so I’m used to those kinds of sidelines outbursts. But from what I hear from J.J., your man is usually so composed, so in control on the sidelines.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“I wonder what set him off,” she says in a tone that clearly states she already knows. “Speaking of husbands and issues with husbands, I heard you had quite the little chat with mine.”
I stare at her in disbelief. “What do you mean?”
“The other night at dinner.” Oh. That little chat. The one he cornered me into after a few too many glasses of wine and whiskey. Again she doesn’t give me a chance to speak. “I don’t know what he promised you—and I don’t want to, honestly. His dealings are none of my business. But let me make one thing clear: any chance, any hope you have at an introduction to my publishing friend has to come through me.” She tightens her grip on my arm. “Do I make myself quite clear?”
“Definitely.”
She loosens her grip and the iciness in her eyes cools to a tepid chill. “Good. Now, have you come to a decision? We only have a couple of weeks to go until our matchup, and these things take time. I’d hate for you to miss out on this opportunity to advance your business.”
I’m not the sort of person to call another woman crazy, but Lisa Griggs has to be certifiable. One minute she’s getting territorial about her husband and making digs at mine and the next she’s back to bribery. It’s hard to keep up. The sooner I make a decision, one way or the other, the sooner we can move on with our lives. Or rather, the sooner I can pretend we’ll move on, because I’m sure this isn’t the last conniving I’ll witness from Lisa. I’m not sure either answer—accepting her trade offer or rejecting it—will make any of those future encounters easier. I just have to go with my heart and gut on this one.
I want that introduction. I want to take control of my professional life. I want a chance at building my own little empire with Team Stitches (or at least the potential to generate some extra revenue with an interesting project), even if Amelia isn’t ready.
“I’ll accept your trade, but—” I’m the one to cut her off this time. “I want an introduction before I give you Ben Bell or set my lineup.”
“How do I know you won’t screw me over?”
“Tell you what. How about you arrange for us to have a drink with your friend sometime this week? That night, I’ll trade you Ben.”
“What about your lineup?”
“I’ll let you set it for me.”
She arches an eyebrow. “You’ll go with who I say?”
“Yes, and you’ll just have to trust me.”
She takes another full minute to consider my answer. With a huff, she nods. “Sounds like I need to call my friend. We have a deal.”
I shake her hand and hope my gut isn’t leading me astray this time.
Week Five Recap: Does Team Harper Even Want to Play This Game Anymore?
Team Harper isn't just phoning it in this season . . . She doesn't even seem to be using the phone.
Testing . . . testing . . . testing . . . One, two, three. Is this thing working? There has to be some logical explanation for why Team Harper—a once promising manager on the rise—has stopped showing up for work. Her players are standing by, awaiting direction, but she doesn’t seem to care.
Activating the wrong players happens. Underestimating how key matchups will affect individual performances is understandable. Everyone has accidentally traded away a good running back for a dud. Mistakes are inevitable when you’re conquering the fantasy football world.
But failing to set a lineup with active players who aren’t on bye weeks doesn’t make sense.
Mega Ballerz Record: 0-5
Chapter Twelve
CONFESSION TIME. THIS is a big one, and it’s something I don’t ever plan to tell another soul. Well, no one unless Brook brings it up. But I’ll take it to the grave before I let J.J. find out. Okay. The Fantasy Pro was maybe onto something with his last report on my performance this week. It’s no secret I’ve really phoned in this season, but it’s the other part. The one about me not using my phone.
In the hustle of getting to the watch party and following excitement about meeting with Kristen, I forgot to set my lineup. For both of my teams. Which means I kind of, sort of accidentally activated a player who was on a bye week in the Mega Ballerz league. Embarrassing, I know. Particularly because I was actually at a football watch party on Sunday and it never crossed my mind to check my lineups. J.J. hasn’t said anything, but if he does, I’ll swear there was some horrible glitch and I’m outraged.
I lucked out, and everyone did well enough on Team MacLaughlin. We even won our third game in a row. I’m not going to let that get to my head, though. It was dumb luck.
It’s a total rookie move. One I never even made my actual rookie season. Yet here I am, in my third year with two teams, and I’m acting like a real amateur. I’ll do better this week. I swear.
In the meantime, I’m as prepared as I can be for my meeting with the publisher. I’ve agreed to sacrifice Ben Bell—who has so much promise—in exchange for someone named Xavier Jimenez—I’ll research him more later. I haven’t even talked it over with Amelia since our lackluster chat. Despite all of that, I’m ready. It’s just a talk—nothing for sure—but it’s a first step. No matter what comes from it, this is forward progress.
I hope something does come from it, though. After another mind-numbing day of organizing a LISTSERV and sending blanket responses to recent applicants, I could use a new professional option.
I arrive at the designated meeting place forty-five minutes early. I wasn’t sure how long it would take to get to the swanky bar in one of Seattle’s landmark hotels. I didn’t want to be late, so I built in a cushion. Actually, I wanted to check out the dress code and give myself enough time to run home to change in case my shift dress and jacket combination didn’t fit the setting. A quick glance around shows I chose well. At least as well as I could from my budget wardrobe. I’m not a label expert, but even I can tell the difference between my discount store outfit and the well-tailore
d dress practically painted on the woman sitting next to me at the bar.
I wonder if I have time—or room in my bank account—to pop out to buy a scarf or statement necklace to at least give the illusion I belong in a place like this.
“Is this seat taken?” Flinching, I glance up and into the blackened eyes of Coach Griggs. I’m too stunned by his presence—and by the dark bruises covering his face like a raccoon—to do anything more than shake my head. “Lisa told me you had your meeting with Kristen tonight. She told me you agreed to her terms.” He tsks and points toward my glass of wine and holds up two fingers before turning back to me. “You really didn’t have to do that. We could’ve worked something out.”
“I’m fine with this approach.” Seriously, what is this guy doing here? The way he’s studying me sends a pang of nerves to my stomach.
His lips curve down. “Are you okay?”
I nod and pretend to be fixated on a bottle of Jim Beam behind the counter. “Sorry, it’s just such a surprise to see you here.”
“I was in the area, so I thought I’d stop by to wish you luck.”
“That was nice of you.” It was also presumptuous. I’ve only met the guy a few times. Each encounter made me feel uncomfortable, like he’s making me now. It’s also nervy of him. He has to know that Brook told me about their showdown during the game. If he thinks I’ll ignore that and pretend to appreciate his presence, he’s nuts. “I’m surprised you’re not at practice.”
“Yeah, well. We wrapped up early and I had a meeting.”
That’s interesting. When Brook texted a bit ago, he said practice was running long because of some drama earlier. He wouldn’t or couldn’t explain what had happened, but he told me he might be a little later than usual. He still had game tape to review and make notes on before his meeting with his players in the morning.
When I don’t say anything, Griggs gives another small cough and eases a little closer. “So tell me about yourself, Harper. What got you interested in crocheting?”
Three & Out Page 11