He pulls me up to my feet and into his arms for a welcome home kiss. It’s enough to have my toes curling, but he pulls away before I can maybe turn it in to something more. That would be a good setup, actually. What better way to bring up having a baby than with a little baby-making?
“You’ve been busy. Are those new orders?”
“No. Just a few pieces to add to the general inventory.” From under my eyelashes, I watch him move around the tiny kitchen. He grabs a cup from the cupboard and orange juice from the fridge. Forgetting to put the carton away, he steps away from the counter with his glass. I fight the urge to remind him to put the juice in the fridge, because he doesn’t need my complaining now. “How’d practice go?”
“They’re trying their hardest, but it doesn’t seem to be enough.” Setting down his glass, he leans against the counter, palms pressed flat against the surface, head hanging. “It is what it is, but . . .”
I can only imagine how frustrating this has to be for him. After years of helping coach a team that always made it to districts and the playoffs, this can’t be what he expected. This can’t be what he imagined when he dreamed of coaching at this level. Maybe now isn’t the time to bring up the reason I waited up for him.
Pushing myself away from the table, I narrow the gap between us. I reach up to touch his back, but change my mind at the last minute. Tentatively, I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my cheek on his back.
He lets out a shaky breath and covers my hands with one of his. “I’m being a sore loser, aren’t I?”
“You’re not a loser.”
“The scoreboard would beg to differ.” He turns around and pulls me close. He plants a kiss on my brow, then my nose. “I feel like such a whiner. I have an opportunity others would kill for. I don’t have a lot to complain about.”
“You haven’t complained that much.”
Resting his head against mine, he lets out a sigh. “Enough about that. Tell me something else. Anything else. Oh, God. I can’t believe I’ve been sitting here whining when you had so many cool things happen. The book deal and your celebrity encounter.”
“It wasn’t that cool . . .”
“Yeah right. Come on. Tell my about how you almost left me for Todd Northwood.”
On a laugh, I tell him about the plane ride, leaving out some of the particulars about our conversation, because we’ll get to that. (I’d kind of like him to think I came to this conclusion on my own without having any help from North.) Then I fill him in on the specifics of our presentation, and he looks genuinely happy for me.
The tension in his shoulder eases under my fingers. “Thanks for that. What else is new? Keep talking. Please.”
“Well . . .” Maybe this is the moment after all. He’s been casually—and not-so-casually—working babies into our conversation for the past few weeks, hearing my change of heart should be good news. “I’ve been doing some thinking. About us. About what comes next.”
“Yeah? There must be something in the air, because my thoughts have been wandering in a similar direction.”
I step back so I can watch his face. “You go first.”
“Well . . .”
“Come on. Just spill. You’ve been thinking about what comes next for us.”
“Right, and, well . . . I realize you were right. We’re still settling into everything here, and now might not be the right time. Ever since we talked about it, I’ve been thinking. And . . .”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to finish the sentence. He takes his time, running a hand gently up and down my back, sending a chill down my spine and into my toes.
I’m about to shout “me, too” as he finishes. “Maybe we should get a dog. I know you lost the bet, but if it’s something you really want, I’m for it.”
Wait. “What did you say?”
“That we should get a dog.”
“Oh.” A dog. It’s not exactly what I had in mind. But maybe my little meltdown after he brought up having a baby has put him off the whole subject. Perhaps with the new stress at work, he doesn’t want to add first-time father to the mix. I’m glad I had him go first. After the mental games I played with myself this weekend, I’m not sure how I’d be able to handle him telling me he’s not ready.
“What did you think I—”
“It doesn’t matter. A dog would be great. How do you think Blitz will handle having to share our attention with a mutt?”
“He’ll probably pitch a fit, but . . .” Brook narrows his eyes. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“If it’s been on your mind, then yes, it is. Tell me.”
“Well . . .” I tear my eyes away from his and stare at his chin. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About wanting to start a family. I know said I was scared, and I still am. But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I realized everything you said made sense.” I’m rambling now, but I have to finish. “I thought maybe we could move this topic out of committee and skip the vote. You know, just go for it.”
I already want to shake myself. Out of committee and skip the vote? I watched way too much CNN at the airport.
His hands tighten on my waist, and I glance up in time to register the shock on his face.
“You want to have a baby?”
“Yeah.”
He swallows hard. “With me?”
“Of course with you. Unless Michael Fassbender calls and offers to do the job. You might get wait-listed then. I’m sure you understand.”
My cheeks flush red. Why won’t he respond? Hands shaking, I straighten the collar of his shirt because I can’t seem to keep still.
“So you want to start trying for a baby?”
“Well . . . I took the last of my pills over the weekend, and rather than start the next cycle, I thought I might just stop.” I shrug. “I’m not saying we go see doctors or start charting my ovulation, but . . .”
“If it happens, it happens.”
“Yes. That. Exactly that. We let nature take its course.”
The sparkle that was missing springs back into his eyes. “That’s pretty easygoing of you.”
“What can I say? Thanks to my counseling session with North and my killer pitch, I’m a new woman.”
“I guess so.” He starts to speak again but stops. He watches me closely, almost as if he expects me to change my mind. I let my silence do the talking and hope the message rings true for him sooner than later.
Okay, I can’t take this anymore. The suspense is killing me. “What do you think? It’s okay if you’ve changed your mind and want to wait. I mean, we can—”
I’m silenced by Brook pulling me so close I lose my breath. His mouth crashes against mine. I grip onto his shirt and tug him even closer.
The stirring within builds, and I’m ready to move this to the bedroom, or the floor if we can’t make it. J.J. is out for the night, so it’s not like we’d have an audience. Seemingly sensing the direction of my thoughts—or what is left of them—Brook tears himself away from me long enough to lead me the short distance to our room. Our clothes are off and his lips are back on mine before we hit the sheets.
After, with his weight still on me and our chests rising up and down, I push back a lock of hair from his forehead. “So that’s a yes?”
He lets out a light chuckle. “That’s a yes.”
“You know, it probably won’t happen the first time.”
“Probably not. But then there’s next time, then the next time, then the next . . .”
Then he lowers his head and he kisses me again, letting whatever happens happen.
Week Ten Recap: Team MacLaughlin Stuns the Competition
Team MacLaughlin must have access to a fortune teller, or at the very least, she had her Wheaties. Defying the skeptics and ignoring projections, she traded Ben Bell for Xavier Jimenez. That once questionable decision paid off big time when Bell tore his ACL. All team owners who didn’t have Team MacLa
ughlin’s foresight should sell, sell, sell now.
Interestingly enough, Jimenez saw more action in this week’s game than ever before. He proved to be a powerful player on the field scoring one touchdown and returning a punt. His stud-power action has us scratching our heads and wondering why we didn’t see that diamond in the rough. Team MacLaughlin did and sailed past her opponent with 130-111 victory.
That’ll do, Team MacLaughlin. That’ll do.
Real Coaches’ Wives Record: 5-5
Chapter Twenty
WHO WOULD HAVE GUESSED my trade with Lisa Griggs would turn out to be fortuitous in more ways than I ever could have imagined? When I threw the game and gave up Ben Bell weeks ago, I figured I was signing my team’s death sentence. Now . . . I couldn’t have planned it better. I only hope she doesn’t make me trade Xavier Jimenez back to her. I’ll have to come up with some kind of leverage to make sure that doesn’t happen.
I don’t have time to worry about that right now. The entirety of the Sounds coaching staff—and their significant others—are here for a surprise party to celebrate Brook’s thirtieth birthday. I don’t think he suspects anything. They had an away game, so I was able to fill our fridge and cupboards with obscene quantities of his favorite foods without raising any suspicion.
I only wish I could say the party was my idea. While I’d planned to bake a cake and present Brook with the concert tickets I ordered him months ago (spoiler: we’re going to see Bon Jovi—again), J.J. had been the one to make the connection that an early football game and early return time meant we could actually have a party.
While J.J. filled the cart with booze earlier today, I wondered if I should tell him what I found out while I was back in Lincoln. I’m still not letting him drive my car, but I haven’t told him why. I’m also concerned he’s still drinking, but I haven’t figured out how to broach the subject. I don’t do direct well, so in a passive-aggressive move, I told him I’m giving up booze. When he sent a knowing glance to my stomach, I said I wasn’t expecting but that I realized I need to cut back on my booze, because it’s so many calories and a whole bunch of other reasons.
(I mean, I really shouldn’t drink anymore now that we’re not-not trying for a baby.)
For some reason, he didn’t see through the lie and it spoke to him. He proclaimed right there in the middle of the grocery store that he was off alcohol too in solidarity.
I hope it lasts.
He’s stuck to it so far and is helping the guests get into position. We haven’t made any friends outside of his co-workers and their families—and calling all of them friends is a stretch—but I’ve made the best with what we have. Everyone is in the kitchen or in the bedrooms while we wait for Brook to arrive with Sam and Whitney. I concocted some story about not being able to meet him after the game, and then I had the Reeveses agree to distract him long enough for everyone to get over here and ready.
As the doorknob turns, I’m practically bursting with excitement. Brook strides in, still wearing his game day polo and baseball cap, with Sam and Whitney following closely behind.
“Hey.” He leans in for a kiss but pauses to close the door quickly behind him out of habit. He turns his attention back to me but pauses. He frowns at the empty room.
“Wait. Where’s Blitz?”
Oh. He’s probably tied up in the bedroom, rubbing his face on anyone with a pulse.
“Don’t worry about that. Brook?”
“What?”
“Happy birthday.”
His face relaxes and he leans in for another kiss, but this time he’s stopped by the shout of “Surprise!” as our guests flood into the living room. Eyes widening, he lets out a gasp and looks around the room before turning back to me.
“You did this?”
I nod and J.J. appears at my side, throwing his arms around both of our necks.
“Happy dirty thirty, Mac. Now who wants to arm wrestle me for the first cupcake?”
From there, the party moves forward as hoped. Everyone has a drink in their hands, and Brook is holding court around the trophies and souvenirs he’s picked up over the years. Whitney and I are in the kitchen serving cupcakes (or in Whitney’s case, downing them). I can hardly believe we pulled this off.
“Your home is charming,” Lisa Griggs says, appearing with her shadow, Angie O’Dwyer. “J.J. said you had a prime location, and he was right.”
Like so many people I’ve met in Nebraska, she seems to enjoy name-dropping J.J. whenever she gets a chance.
“I hear it won’t be so long before you’re thirty yourself. Brook said you turned twenty-nine yesterday,” Angie says. “I hope you aren’t too worried about that.”
“Why would I be worried about that?”
“Well, you know, you’re not getting any younger.”
“Oh, Angie.” Lisa covers her mouth in a poor attempt at masking a laugh. “You’re so bad.”
“Come on. Let’s go see what the menfolk are up to.”
The women leave to go speak with some of the men—who aren’t their husbands—and Whitney opens her mouth to say something but closes it suddenly. Her eyes sparkle and she tries again. “I just noticed something.”
“What’s that?”
She eyes my can of Diet Coke and lifts a brow. “You’re not drinking.”
“No.” I should have decanted this into a bottle of beer or poured it into a glass with a twist of lime for effect. “I’m not really in the mood for anything harder tonight.”
“Mmm.” She sips her own bottle of water with a knowing look in her eyes.
I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to bring her in on this little secret. As casually as possible, I lead her into a secluded part of the dining room and pretend to show her the autographed poster from Brook’s state championship game last year.
“I’m not pregnant. But—and this is so not public knowledge—we are kind of trying.”
Whitney lets out a shriek and claps her hands. I dart my eyes around nervously and relax my stance a little when I find her excitement hasn’t seemed to draw the attention of anyone else.
“Sorry, I’m just so excited.”
“It hasn’t happened yet.”
“But it could.”
“It might.”
“It’ll be so nice to have a mommy friend here locally.” She unleashes another squeak. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished for something like this. It’ll be amazing not going through it alone. The fact that it’s you, well, that’s a huge perk.”
“Thank you . . .”
I think. At least I assume she’s complimenting me. Maybe I’m flattered she considers me a suitable local mommy friend. In a way, it’s comforting to have someone on board already. I’m sure I’ll have a million questions, and while Amelia is only a phone call away, it would be that much better to have a friend here who I can talk with when I’m freaking out.
“So who’s your gynecologist?”
Whoa. I guess we’re just diving right in to the mom talk. “I actually don’t have one yet. Is that bad?”
“Some people would say yes, but if you have a clean bill of health and nothing to worry about, I say you’re fine.” She lowers her voice. “Between you and me, a lot of moms—including about half the women in this room—tend to overanalyze and freak out about every little thing. It’ll be nice to have another chill mom in the crew.”
I wonder if now is the time to break it to her that “chill” and “Harper” don’t usually end up in the same sentence. Even as she’s speaking, I’m worrying I haven’t been in for my annual checkup since last summer. I hope I haven’t suddenly contracted some horrible disease or developed a condition that will endanger the life of my maybe-but-maybe-not-already-conceived child.
“Could I get the number for your doctor? It’s probably better to find someone local sooner than later, right?”
“Sure. If we grab my purse, I’ll give you one of her cards. She’s fantastic. You’ll just love her.”
While W
hitney continues to carry on about the pros of going to a gynecologist so in touch with natural childbirth (I hope she’s equally supportive of being good and knocked out, because I’m guessing that’s the only way I’ll be approaching the big show) I happen to catch Brook’s eye from across the room. He’s showing Sam the game ball from his state tournament, but he pauses to wink at me. It sends a jolt of excitement right to my stomach, and I’m suddenly wishing we’d gone for a quiet celebration instead of a big bash.
I’m about to ask Whitney if she can give me fifteen minutes so I can go seduce my husband in a room with a lock in it, when I happen to overhear J.J.’s voice rise above the rest. He’s in a heated conversation with the special teams coach about—what else—his fantasy football team.
“. . . It’s so fucking pathetic to pin your team on one or two big shot players. That’s the fastest way to end up in the loser’s circle. You have to diversify your team—add some depth. It’s so fucking simple.”
Oh, his language. If we weren’t around people with filthier mouths, I’d be embarrassed. Wait. So fucking. So fucking. Sofa king. Oh my God!
I glance up again and see Brook has made the connection, too. We both mouth “sofa king” and I shake my head. It all makes sense. All the texts about sofa kings. J.J. wasn’t talking furniture or some absurd new youth lingo. No, his phone was just cleaning up his potty mouth. Brook sends me an air high five and mouths, “I sofa king love you” and on a choked laugh I respond with my own silent “I sofa king love you, too.”
Oh, man. If these kinds of hilarious discoveries pop up during the next nine to—gulp—twenty months, staying sober at gatherings might not be so terrible. At least I’ll get my laughs in, and I’ll avoid those dreaded hangovers.
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