“Yep.”
“Is it bad?”
“Yep.”
The page appears at last and I let out a gasp of outrage. “Oh, hell no.” I down the last of my wine and hand J.J. the glass. “Refill please. I’m going to need it.”
“You finished the bottle already.”
“Open another.”
J.J. does as ordered while I click through the full slideshow of images. Whoever does this apparently has some kind of insider knowledge. Like, he must know that there were troubles in the locker room, because he’s turned Griggs and O’Dwyer into angry tyrants and the rest of the coaching staff, like Brook and Sam, into wussy yes-men. That’s not a completely fair depiction, but it’s not that far off. It’s also not fair for someone to judge when he clearly doesn’t understand the full situation. Coaching jobs aren’t exactly easy to find at the collegiate level. If you want to keep your job, you learn to fall in line.
I’m not going to sit by and watch some stranger eviscerate my hardworking husband.
Returning with my glass of wine, J.J. looks over my shoulder at the screen. “You’re responding?”
“Under an alias.” I created a fake username and am posting a series of my own images to the comments on his page. “We’ll see how he likes it.”
J.J. continues to watch, nodding every so often. “Wait.”
I pause and glance at him. “What?”
He sits back down and grabs his computer. “I have the perfect GIF for this.”
It’s always nice to know someone has your back in a battle—even if it’s only a war of words.
A FEW DAYS LATER, I’M heading home. Rather, I’m heading back to Nebraska, which is feeling more and more like home the longer I’m in Seattle. It’s really not the city’s fault I’m not enjoying it more here. I blame myself—and football. It’s hard to love a place where the fans are constantly railing on your husband.
That’s why I snapped the other night and fought fire with fire. The jury is still out on the long-term effects, but right now . . . I’m feeling okay about where I left things with Mr. Blogger.
Regardless of how I’m feeling about it, I only have a couple of hours before my flight to Nebraska. Even though I’m taking the red-eye flight to Denver (and camping out for a few hours before my early morning flight to Lincoln—yikes), I’m decidedly peppy. I’m on my way to see my family and friends. I have the prospect of a new book project—and not having to pretend I’m busy at work for a full week—ahead of me. Brook’s issues with Griggs seem to have settled down for the moment. And true to his word, Brook hasn’t hit me up for another talk about having a baby, even though I know he’d like to bring it up.
The hallway to his office is empty, which only boosts my mood more. I love not having to make small talk—or explain who I am and what I’m doing here as I’m hardly a fixture. Most of the doors are closed, except for the one to the office Brook shares with Sam, which is slightly ajar. I reach up to push it open but pause when I hear voices inside.
“How far along is she?” Brook asks.
“I don’t know . . . a month or two maybe.”
“And how is she?”
“I don’t know.” The other voice, which I can see belongs to one of his players, lets out a heavy sigh. “I guess she’s scared, confused. We’re not sure how it happened. We were using protection.”
“No birth control is one hundred percent effective. And sometimes . . . these things happen.”
“I can’t believe she’s pregnant. I have another year of school ahead of me.” The player runs a hand over his cropped hair. “What am I going to do?”
Brook clutches his chin, tapping it a few times while he seems to consider his full answer. “I’m not going to lie to you. Whatever you two decide to do, it won’t be easy. I can’t even offer you any advice on what to do—that’s a conversation you’ll have to have with your girlfriend. But,” he clears his throat, “the best thing you can do—the thing you have to do—is support her.”
“Like with money?”
“That’s part of it, but not really what I mean.”
“What do you mean then?”
“I’m trying to say you need to ask her how she’s feeling and what she wants.” Brook folds his arms, still seeming to take a moment between each sentence to choose his words carefully. “You can offer your opinion—and I’d advise you to give it tactfully—but ultimately, it’s going to come down to what she wants.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s her body. It’s her choice. It might not seem fair to you right now, but look at it from her perspective. How would you feel if you were in her shoes?”
“I am in her shoes.”
“Not really. Listen, the way our society is set up now, the primary burden of raising a child tends to fall on the mother. That’s why you see Facebook posts from dads saying they’re ‘babysitting’ their kids, when really, what they’re doing is parenting. It should be a fully shared responsibility, but that’s a whole other issue. The point is, whatever happens, there’s still this impression that men have the option to walk away, stay and help, or do some combination of the two. For the mother—for the woman carrying that child—it’s more than that. Whatever she decides, you have to honor that.”
“You’re right.” The player—Chris Adams—buries his face in his hands. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”
“But it is. Right now, the way I see it, you have two options. You can be a man and be supportive.”
“Or?”
“Or you can run away from your problems and never be able to look yourself in the mirror and know you did the right thing. That’s the decision you, and only you, get to make.”
Adams lifts his head and nods slowly. “You’re right. I have to man up.”
“Good.”
They fall silent and I draw a breath for what feels like the first time in minutes. It’s like I almost forgot to breathe while they were talking. I can’t imagine being in either of their shoes. That kid, that young man, has to be scared out of his mind right now. My heart hurts for his girlfriend who must be freaking out too, not sure of what is the right or best thing to do. I also feel for Brook, because I can’t imagine having to give someone that kind of life-altering advice.
He told Chris Adams it was the woman’s choice and that he had to honor it, no matter how he feels about it. It’s not empty advice. It’s what Brook is doing in our own situation. He might want one thing, but ultimately, it’s my decision, and he’ll respect it.
The player’s voice snaps me back to attention. “Is that your wife?”
My heart nearly jumps out of my chest. I shouldn’t have stood here so long eavesdropping. Now I’ve been caught. How can I play this off cool? Is there any chance they’ll believe me if I say I just got here?
“Where?”
“In that picture.”
My heart falls back into place as Brook’s chair creaks. “Yeah. It’s from our wedding.”
“How long have you been married?”
“It’ll be a year in December.”
“She’s kind of hot. I heard she was hot.” I suppose that’s a compliment, even if it’s coming from a virtual child. Plus, where’d he hear I was hot? I’m not sure if I want to kiss or slap them.
“She is. She’s smart, too, and funny.” There’s a twinge of pride in Brook’s voice. I once again feel guilty for spying on this private moment, but not guilty enough to stop. Then he lets out a full-bellied laugh. “Do you know what she did the other night?” I press closer to the door, curious to know what I did to crack him up so thoroughly. “She got into it with the creator of one of those parody blogs.”
“The one with all of our pictures . . .”
“And the less-than flattering captions. Yeah. That’s the one. She jammed his comment board with a bunch of GIFs and memes about people hiding behind their computers. And when she ran out with those, she replied to all of his comments with 1980s music videos.”
I didn’t realize Brook had heard about my tipsy behavior the other night. Thanks a lot, J.J. Way to blow my cover and not take credit for helping me find those videos.
“Bet it pissed that guy off.”
“Probably, but she didn’t let him stew long. I guess she felt bad about it the next morning and sent him an apology.”
I did do that. Once I sobered up and stood in my truth, I realized I was too old—and in serious need of acting my age—to fight with some college student on a message board. He actually turned out to be an okay guy. He thanked me for my apology and said he’d tone down the personal attacks. He said he enjoyed our back-and-forth and it had boosted traffic on his site, so there you go. Then he asked if I’d be willing to do it again, but I’m still on the fence about that. I really don’t want it to come back to me and then back to Brook. One tipsy message board fight is probably enough.
“Crazy,” the player muses. After another moment he asks, “Do you think you guys will ever have kids?”
I’ve eavesdropped long enough. I have a flight to catch and Brook has a staff meeting. I knock on the door and wait a second to push it open and poke my head inside. “Hey, Coach. Got a couple of minutes for some private tutoring?”
Okay, that sounded funnier in my head. Out loud, it sounds like a ridiculous come-on. One I just gave in front of a player who has a fair share of drama in his own life.
The player jumps to his feet. Brook rises too, though a bit more slowly. “Hey you.” Brook nods at me. “This is my wife, Harper. Harper, this is—”
“Chris Adams.” I offer him my hand. “You had a great game last week.”
His brow creases. “But we lost.”
“You still played well.”
He turns his eyes shyly to the ground. “Thank you, ma’am.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m going to head to the weight room.” He lifts his eyes to Brook. “I’ll see you later. Thanks, Coach, for earlier.”
Once the door closes, I make my way around the desk and perch on the edge. “Is he going to be okay?”
Brook raises an eyebrow. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough to know he has more than the game to worry about this week.”
“It won’t be easy, but I think he’ll be okay. He’s a good kid.”
“He must be. He came to the right person for advice.”
“Yeah, well. Are you on your way to the airport?”
I nod. “I wanted to give you a proper good-bye before I left.”
“How proper?”
“Does that door lock?” Brook’s jaw falls open, and I can’t keep myself from laughing. “I’m kidding. J.J. is meeting me here in a few minutes to take me to the airport. We don’t have time.”
“That’s what you think.”
I nudge his shin with my boot. “Don’t be crass.”
“You started it.”
“Oh, be quiet.”
“Make me.”
On that dare I grab both sides of his face and press my lips to his. His mouth moves under mine, soon taking the lead. It’s a more thorough kiss than I’d planned on giving him—he is at work, after all—but I forget to care.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but eventually I pull back. “That wasn’t a bad good-bye.”
“Not at all.”
“On that note,” I reach for my purse, “I guess I’ll be going then.”
“Hey.” He reaches for my hands, halting my departure. “Before you go . . . want to listen to our song of the week?”
“We’ve probably already missed Sunday Night Football.”
“Yeah, but . . .” His thumb traces a random pattern over my knuckles. “This might be one of our only chances to listen together this season.”
That tugs at my heart. One pang for the sweetness of the thought. Another because I miss spending our Sundays together. I took those moments for granted that first season. I appreciated them more last year. By then they weren’t guaranteed. We’ve already become so entrenched in our new normal I’d almost forgotten we used to have Sundays. It will probably be a long time before we have them again. At least I hope that’s the case. It would mean Brook is still coaching college football and living his dream. So until he retires, I’ll miss those Sundays, but mostly, I’ll be glad they happened in the first place.
“Do you want to pick, or should I?”
“I’ve got it.” He tugs my hand, drawing me around the desk and down to his knee. I shift uncomfortably—I’m not exactly a dainty flower. We don’t usually do the whole sitting on laps thing, but it hardly seems like something to start an argument over. Instead, I slip an arm around his shoulder and lean a little closer as he pulls up a music video on his computer screen. “Don’t laugh, but we’ve already played a few of the bigger hits, and I’d like to keep a couple on standby for the playoffs.”
“You’re assuming we’ll make the playoffs.”
“One of us will.” He gently squeezes my waist. “One of us always does.”
It’s going to have to be him. I’ll have to win out the rest of the season for even a chance at the playoffs, and that isn’t going to happen.
“What’s the song?”
“First your promise—you won’t laugh.”
With my free hand I cross my heart. “I swear.”
Mollified, he reaches forward and clicks play. A light and airy string of piano chords stream together and Freddie Mercury’s smooth voice joins in signing about the love of his life. I cock an eyebrow and Brook blurts out, “You promised not to laugh.”
“I know.” And I wish I hadn’t, because how am I not supposed to laugh? What are we even listening to right now? “I haven’t heard this one before.”
“It’s from A Night at the Opera,” he says, like that’s something everyone should just know.
“A Night at the Opera. Yep. That’s exactly what it sounds like.”
“Don’t hate. It’s a classic rock ballad.”
“And it really is pretty, but it doesn’t exactly bring to mind football or the serious ass-kicking our teams need to dole out tonight and tomorrow.”
“Maybe not, but it’s the song that comes to mind when my wife is deserting me for the week.” He covers his heart dramatically. “And you’re leaving me alone with J.J. Can you imagine the horror?”
“I’m imagining the horror that you’ll be facing if I come home to a pile of dishes and empty beer bottles.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Because you both are forward-thinking, self-sufficient guys who would never do something so sexist as leaving me to do the housework when I get home, right?”
“We’ll pick up after ourselves, ma’am.”
“That’s what I thought.”
The song takes a turn. Now there’s a violin riff—followed by a harp. “In hindsight, Queen was kind of a strange choice for our band of the year.”
“Yeah.” He kisses my forehead. “But they’re a crowd favorite.”
“At least in our crowd.”
“Which is the only one that really matters when it comes to the band of the year.”
I snicker and the song comes to an end. I should really head to the airport, but I can’t quite leave him yet. Instead, I turn to wrap my other arm around his neck. He pulls me closer and I take a deep breath. For a moment, I revel in the contentment. My eyes unexpectedly grow damp. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “You’ll keep in touch?”
“Definitely.” I give him a parting hug and pull back.
“Have fun.”
“I will. Coach good.”
“Don’t you mean coach well?”
I shrug. “Why not both?”
“There’s a novel concept.” He’s back to his usual self-deprecating ways, but after hearing that exchange, I don’t think it’s so farfetched to believe he’ll do some good with these young men. Brook, my gentle football warrior, is back. I hope I find him every bit as comfortable and at ease wh
en I return next week.
With one more parting kiss, I make myself leave so I won’t be late. I told J.J. to pick me up at seven, and even with his typical ten-minute delay, he’s probably been waiting five minutes. I’m almost out the door when I hear my name. I turn and find Coach Griggs stepping out of another office. My stomach sinks. Oh, God. Not now.
He reaches forward to shake my hand, and I reluctantly mirror the gesture, because I can’t come up with a good reason not to be polite, besides my feeling creeped out. “I heard your meeting with Kristen went well.”
“It did.”
He envelopes my hand in both of his. “So when will we see your book?”
“It’s not for sure.” I try to slip my hand out, but he holds on. “My business partner and I have to write a proposal and present it to the publishing team. It’s still up in the air.”
“Book proposal? Sounds important.”
“It is.” I glance at the clock on the wall and feign horror. “Oh, wow. Is that the time? I’m supposed to be catching a flight to meet my partner, actually. I’ve got to go.”
“Too bad. It would’ve been nice to catch up.”
I stop myself short of rolling my eyes and give him a tight-lipped grin. “Yes, well, see you later.”
I hope it’s not too soon. He watches me walk through the door, and I let out a sigh of relief when I watch J.J. pull up to the curve. In situations like these, it’s always good to have a getaway car. It keeps one from saying or doing something she might regret later when her husband ends up fired.
Chapter Sixteen
WITH MY CARRY-ON AND checked luggage in tow, I walk out of the Lincoln Airport just as Scott’s SUV pulls up. The back door swings open, and my nephew Jackson tumbles out. He’s headed to kindergarten next fall, and he’s at least a head taller than he was when I saw him in February. But he’s still young and sweet enough to be so excited to see his aunt he throws his arms around my legs.
“Harper is here!” He squeezes tighter. “And I’m never letting her go again.”
Apparently the leg bone is connected to the heart-string bone, because I definitely felt a little tug right there.
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