I don’t want to be having this conversation. While it might be somewhat on subject, chatting with Griggs at a bar just doesn’t seem right. Not now, and never with him. In the back of my mind is the nagging thought that he’s Brook’s boss, and no matter what happened between them in the past, Griggs ultimately controls Brook’s future with the Sounds. No matter how much I want to get up and walk out of the bar and beg to reschedule my meeting, I have to play nice.
Besides, it’s an easy enough question to answer. One I can practically recite word for word from my bio on the Team Stitches website. “My grandma taught me how to crochet when I was a little girl. It’s always been a stress reliever of sorts. A couple of years ago, I built up a stockpile of winter gear.”
“Scarves, hats, gloves.”
“That’s right. I had a good pile of finished projects going a couple of years ago when I found out about the annual craft fair at my husband’s old high school. His sister knits, and we held a booth together to raise money for the team. We made a good profit, too, so we decided to start a business . . .”
“And the rest is history.”
“Pretty much.” I glance at the clock display on my phone. Good, they should be here any minute. As excited as I was to talk about possibilities with Kristen, now I’m looking forward to getting out of this conversation. He hasn’t said or done anything to cross any lines, but it doesn’t seem right. It’s, unsettling. I may be overreacting, but I can’t shake it.
“I took a look at your website. You do good work.”
“Thank you.”
“Actually, your website got me thinking. Maybe I should hire you to make something for Lisa and the kids. Something with the team colors, help them look like they’re actually cheering for the team while they’re up in the stands.”
I can’t exactly say I’d rather not. So instead I give a polite “mmm.”
“Maybe we can come up with an original design. We’d work well together.” He rests his arm against the back of my barstool. “Or maybe if this whole book thing happens, I could take a look at one of your early drafts. Give you some ideas. You know, some insider perspective from someone in the football business.”
As if I’d go to him over my own husband. “I probably shouldn’t count my chickens before they hatch. I haven’t even met Kristen yet.”
“She’ll love you. Trust me.” He flashes another toothy grin that only draws more attention to his split lip. “There’s just something about you, makes a person like you instantly and want to get to know you better."
Maybe if I ask him how he came by those shiners or busted lip he’ll leave. Then again, maybe he’ll think I’m showing interest and he’ll stay. I’m not sure I’m willing to risk that possibility.
I’m saved from having to make any more small talk when Lisa walks through the door with a smartly dressed woman in tow. “Oh look, they’re here.” I stand, slipping away from him. “It was fun running into you,” I lie through my teeth.
“I’ll join you, ladies,” he calls out, but I’m already making my way across the room.
My eyes connect with Lisa’s long enough for me to see the triumph in her eyes, like she knows that now I’m indebted to her, possibly forever. I can practically hear her making super-complicated plans for the year-end dinner. And somehow, I get the feeling that even if I don’t end up in last place, she’ll come up with some reason for me to be in charge of it all. She either learned to hate me fast, or I have some kind of target on me that says “easy to manipulate.”
Then she realizes I’m not alone. “Griggsy.”
“Honey.” He pulls her in for a deep kiss, like he wasn’t just chatting me up at the bar a couple of minutes ago. I avert my eyes to the other woman, who must be Kristen, and I can see she’s trying to ignore this exchange, too. Well, well, well. We might really be kindred spirits.
When at last they pull apart, Lisa cups his chin. “What happened to your face?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Things got a little . . . carried away at practice.”
“Did you make the linemen practice their blocks on you again?”
“Maybe . . .”
“You promised you wouldn’t do that anymore after you broke your rib.”
“Darling—”
“Excuse me.” The other woman steps forward and offers me her hand. “You must be Harper.”
“I am. You’re Kristen?”
“You’ve got it. Come on.” She eyes the Griggses who are still engaged in some kind of bickering foreplay. “Let’s grab a table, order dinner, and talk about how fabulous you are and how much I want your brand to work with our company. Those two can spare us the agony and go get a room or something. Do you like onion rings? Maybe we can split a basket to go with the salads we’re both going to order because we’re trying to impress each other by proving how much self-control we have.”
We’re not just kindred spirits, we might be soulmates.
I CAN BARELY CONTAIN myself. Despite the auspicious beginning, thanks to my run-in with Griggs, I’m practically overflowing with excitement. Again, it’s a tough to decide on my first call—Brook or Amelia. Loyalty to sisterhood and an understanding of his game tape viewing habits sends me to Amelia.
I’m thrilled when she answers on the third ring. It almost makes up for her forgetting all about the meeting until I remind her it was today.
“She loves us,” I blurt out. “She thinks we have great, imaginative projects. She thinks our brand is brilliant. She said our voice is fresh and energetic. She wants to set up a meeting with both of us.”
“Oh . . . I’m not sure I can get away.”
“She said we could do it by conference call. In fact, she said it’d be easier. We just need to send them a copy of our book proposal before the call.”
“But we don’t have a book proposal.”
It comes back to this. “No, not yet. We’ll make one.”
“But we still don’t know how to write one.”
“I did some research, actually.” Not that she would know. She hasn’t been answering my calls or texts. I’d think she was mad at me, but Wade assures me she’s just busy. (Yes, I went behind her back to Wade, but I was developing a complex.)
Once again, her questions are like a pinprick to my bubble of excitement. I can still taste the crème brûlée I shared with Kristen for dessert, and I’m almost empty. Trying to rally what’s left of my enthusiasm, I keep my tone light when I tell her we can work on the proposal together when I’m back in Nebraska next week.
“That might work,” she says begrudgingly. “Actually, there is something I need to talk to you about. Could we do dinner?”
“Of course. And I’ll come prepared. I swear, you won’t have to do that much.”
“We’ll talk when you’re here.” There’s a crash in the background. “Hey, I have to go. Marley is wrestling Ellery for control of the remote.”
She clicks off before I even say good-bye. Well, at least she’s willing to talk about a proposal. That’s better than before. Unfortunately, we don’t have much time. We only have two weeks before this meeting.
In desperate need of rejuvenating my spirits, I make my other call. Brook picks up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey,” he whispers. “Is everything okay? Do you need something?”
“No . . .”
“Okay. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you, things are kind of crazy here.”
It’s strange that he says things are “crazy” at his office when I bumped into his boss only two hours ago. “It’s no big deal. I was just going to give you an update on the meeting.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry, baby. I should’ve known that’s why you were calling. Tell me everything.”
“It can wait.”
“Come on.”
I begrudgingly give him the same news I just shared with Amelia. He has the good grace to say he’s proud of me and apologize for being so short about five times before we hang up.
By the t
ime I make it back home and hastily close the door, I’m on the last dregs of my excitement. J.J. glances up from his semi-permanent spot on the couch. “Hey. How’d it go with that publisher chick?”
“You remembered.”
“Well, yeah.” He turns his gaze back to the football highlights playing on the TV. “It’s all you’ve been talking about for the past few days.”
“That didn’t help anyone else remember,” I mumble.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” I eye the empty bag of chips and the pyramid of beer bottles and energy drink cans he’s constructed throughout the day. A dull pain throbs behind my eye. “The meeting went well. The publisher likes our website and wants Amelia and me to present a book proposal to her team next month.”
“That sounds like a good thing.”
“It is.”
“Well, awesome.” J.J. flips off the TV and heads to the kitchen. “We should celebrate.”
“I’m not sure I’m up for—”
“Come on. Don’t be a buzzkill. Or should I say BK?”
I frown. “I’m not.”
“Then let’s toast to your success.” He hands me a glass of wine and raises his bottle of beer. “To new opportunities.”
“To new opportunities.” I mimic his gesture and raise the glass to my lips.
While I sip on my celebratory wine, J.J. eyes me closely. “Speaking of new opportunities, have you checked your roster lately?”
“For the Real Coaches’ Wives? It hardly matters now, does it?”
“You should be fine on that front this week, actually. Your boy, North, is on fire.” He tips his bottle of beer back and finishes it off then sets it aside. “I mean in our league.”
“Are you offering me insider information on my team even though I’m the competition?”
He snorts. “You’re hardly the competition at this point.”
“Hey—”
“But you’re playing Brook this week, and his team is on fire. It would help me out if you beat him.”
I shake my head. “J.J., I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation. It violates your rules.”
“Just check your player stats.”
To humor him, and, okay, to appease my curiosity, I pull up my team roster. I scroll down the list until I fall on my first-string tight end.
Levar Peters wasn’t in practice again today, and insiders tell us he pulled a groin muscle during last week’s game. His backup has been taking most of the snaps in practice, and the front office is talking about putting him on the injured reserves.
Fantasy owners should go ahead and put him down as doubtful and find a better option for Sunday. In fact, it might not be a bad idea to find a more permanent replacement. Those groin injuries can be tricky.
“Well, shit. My backup is on a bye week. I’m screwed.”
J.J. smirks and opens another bottle of beer. “Better check those wires.”
Chapter Thirteen
THANKS TO MY LAST-MINUTE hustling on the wire, things are looking up for the Mega Ballerz. We finished the Sunday game with 129 points, putting me a little ahead of Brook. Each of us has one more player left for the Monday night game. His kicker versus my running back Jay Lee. His second-to-last-round pick against my straight-up second-round pick.
Even though I know this is fantasy football and anything could happen, I feel pretty safe looking up dogs available for adoption going into the game. I stop myself short of making a list of potential candidates and coming up with names, though, because I’m reasonable.
Thank goodness for that. I would’ve been nursing a broken heart when the notice comes in from the Fantasy Pro over my lunch break.
Jay Lee - Out
Lee’s coach confirms that the hit he took in practice the other day was harder than they let on. After failing his concussion test this morning, it looks like Lee will be sitting out this week.
Well, damn. There goes my puppy. It’s disappointing, but it was always a risk. When you play the game of fantasy football, you win or you lose. When you place a side bet, well, you win or you lose twice as hard.
I watch the final play of the Monday night game in silence. It’s a field goal that puts Brook exactly one point ahead of me. No puppy. Not unless I can somehow strike another bargain with Brook or trick him into it somehow. I should probably go for the bet. He’s too smart for any ploy I might come up with. It’s a good thing most days, but not when a dog is at stake.
J.J. whistles. “Another loss for Team Harper. What does that make your overall record?”
“You know my record.”
“I do. I just wondered if you did. Based on your team’s performance, I just assumed—”
“I don’t have a zero streak because I’m oblivious. I’m oh-and-six because my players and I just suck.”
“For the record, you said that. Not me.”
“Whatever.” I eye the clock. Brook should be home any minute, and it might be for the best if J.J. wasn’t here when he arrived. He doesn’t know about our side bet. While it doesn’t violate any league rules, strictly speaking, I don’t doubt that he’ll take exception to us doing anything fantasy football-related without his blessing. “Can I ask you to do me a huge favor?”
“Depends.”
“Could you go to that bar down the corner for about an hour?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “I thought you said I should drink less.”
“You probably should, but I really need a few minutes alone with Brook.”
“Wait a minute. Are you talking about a little post-football nookie? You’re trying to get me out of here so you can do it on the floor or my bed.”
“I said talk, J.J., and I mean talk.” Now that he mentions it, though, I wouldn’t mind logging a few horizontal (or vertical, come to think of it) minutes with Brook without worrying about J.J. overhearing us. Our nocturnal activities have been more restrained since he took up residence in our spare room. “Please.”
It takes me a few minutes but I ultimately wear him down and he leaves with a few remarks about “porking” and “doing the deed.” By the time I’ve put our empty bottles in the recycling bin and started the dishwasher, Blitz alerts me that someone is approaching our front door. Who needs a doorbell when we have a cat?
Though he’s a wide receiving expert, Brook is no slouch at playing defense, too. He proves that by intercepting Blitz and closing the door before the cat has even figured out what happened. Scratching the cat behind his ears, Brook babies Blitz until he catches my stare. With a sheepish grin, Brook sets him back down on the ground and narrows the distance between us. I lean up on my toes to plant a kiss on his lips as a proper welcome home.
“How was your day, dear?” I ask teasingly when I ease back into his arms.
“Not bad. Are you mad at me?”
“It’s only a game. Besides, how bad can my losses really be?”
“Funny you should mention that.” Keeping one arm firmly planted around my waist, he reaches into his pocket for the slip of paper. He holds it just out of my reach. “Are you sure you’re ready to see?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Oh give me that.” I grab the paper and step away, sending him a haughty expression as I unfold it. Ready to be outraged and exclaim that meat is murder, I read the terms of our wager.
If I win: Let’s talk about having a baby.
I stare at the words scribbled in his handwriting, almost like I’m waiting for them to change into something else. They don’t. They still say the same thing. He wants to start a family. I don’t know what’s more shocking. The timing—we haven’t even been married a full year—or the delivery. Did he seriously think our wager was the best forum for starting a conversation on family planning?
When I still haven’t said anything after a moment, Brook’s expression changes from hopeful to concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yep.” It’s hardly eloquent, but it’s about all I can muster in
my state.
“What do you think?”
“What do I think?”
It’s not like this subject is completely out of the realm. We’ve always talked about having a family. Someday. I just figured someday was farther away. Plus, with everything else going on—our new jobs, our new home, hell, J.J. living on our couch—this seems way beyond the scope of our lives right now. It’s too much, too soon.
I should be telling him this. I should be open and honest. I should tell him what’s really going on in my head. I should stop overthinking my next words.
Okay. I can do this. I can tell him what’s on my mind. I take a breath and blurt out, “Are you serious?”
His eyes widen. Okay, maybe there’s something to overthinking how you’ll respond when your husband says he wants you to have his baby.
“Well, yeah. I’m turning thirty in a month, which has got me thinking . . .”
“Thinking that we need to have a baby?”
“Kind of . . .”
So his biological clock is ticking. He wants to do something about it. Naturally that affects me as the egg donor and baby carrier of this partnership.
“I thought you wanted to have kids.” Brook swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “We never talked numbers or timelines, but I’m pretty sure we had several lengthy conversations about our mutual desire to have a family.”
“We did. I do.” My heart is pounding so loud in my ears it’s all I can do to keep myself standing. My hand balls into a fist, inadvertently crumpling the paper in the process. “It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Come on.” He grips my shoulders and peers into my eyes. His own go dark and serious, like they do when he’s trying to figure out a new play. “If you have reservations, if you’ve changed your mind—”
“I haven’t changed my mind.”
“But you have reservations?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
“Then tell me. If you’re worried about something, I’d like to know.”
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