Three & Out Read online

  THREE & OUT

  Laura Chapman

  THREE & OUT

  Copyright © 2016 Laura Chapman

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Laura Chapman

  Cover Photo by Vadymvdrobot/Depositphotos

  Proofreading by EFC Services

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  By Laura Chapman

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Books by Laura Chapman

  Sneak peek of Playing House by Laura Chapman!

  Acknowledgments

  Sign up for Laura Chapman's Mailing List

  For Katie Olson (Steiner), my favorite football fangirl and a BFF (for life)

  By Laura Chapman

  The Marrying Type

  Smyth Saves the Date

  Playing House

  Making Christmas

  What Happens at Midnight

  The Queen of the League Trilogy

  First & Goal

  Going for Two

  Three & Out

  Amarillo Sour Series

  Counting on You

  Let It Be Me (Fall 2019)

  AFTER RUSHING TO THE altar and moving across the country, Harper Duquaine (or is it MacLaughlin, now?) is in uncharted territory. What once seemed like a promising opportunity to advance her husband’s career while giving her some much-needed independence and adventure has proven to be a bust. By the time fall rolls around again, she’s back in a boring job by day and overstocking her inventory of crocheted scarves by night. Not even the prospect of a new football season holds much excitement.

  At least that’s what she thought. Harper suddenly finds herself the manager of not one but two fantasy football teams—each with its own set of drama. Between the added pressure of her new marriage, an unexpected career prospect, and the hiccups created by people from her past and present worlds, Harper quickly finds herself going from bored to overwhelmed.

  Can she hold up under the pressure, or will Harper learn the hard way that the turf isn’t always greener on the other field?

  Chapter One

  DING. I’m up. Time to draft the first player for my team. Who you select first is an important decision if you want your fantasy football team to thrive. My first year I picked the person my brother told me to take. The next—last season—I spent weeks researching and analyzing who would be the biggest difference maker for my team. Both were highly rated and came with full accolades.

  And both of them ended up screwing me over at one point or another.

  After two seasons of coming so close to championship gold only to have it ripped away from me in the end, I’ve learned a valuable lesson: none of it matters. The first pick. The draft itself. Not even fantasy football. It’s all made up and there’s no real point. Bragging rights and cash pool aside, who gives a crap?

  That’s why I have a new goal this year. I’m going to have fun, starting right now. Click.

  Round 1: Team Harper takes Richard Maddox (WR).

  Brook’s head pokes up over his laptop. He raises an eyebrow but says nothing. I left my husband in the dark about this year’s fantasy football game plan. He would’ve tried to talk me out of it. He’d do it for my best interests, or so he’d say. He loves football with his whole being—though he claims to love me more—and it’s not just a pastime for him. It’s his life, but it’s not mine.

  Ding. My turn again. Without hesitating, I select my next player.

  Round 2: Team Harper takes Andrew Dix (RB).

  Brook clears his throat, and I pretend not to notice. Instead, I add more players to my wish list when I come across someone who fits my plan. I doubt most of these guys will even be on my opponents’ radars this early in the draft, but I want to be prepared. Ding. Click.

  Round 3: Team Harper takes Bruce Johnson (QB).

  This time Brook reaches across the desk and covers my hand. “I know we promised J.J. we wouldn’t talk strategy amongst ourselves, but what the hell are you doing?”

  “What do you mean? I’m just drafting the players I want.”

  His eyes narrow, and I choke on a laugh. I can’t tell him. Not yet. He’s a smart enough man. He’ll probably figure it out for himself soon enough.

  This year, Team Harper—I’m sticking with the default name this year, because again, who cares?—will consist entirely of dicks. Only players with names that double as euphemisms for male anatomy—Richard (Dick), Dix, Johnson—and reputed boners will be drafted.

  Drafting players based on skill and prowess hasn’t worked for me yet, but maybe this game plan will. If it doesn’t, I’ll be too busy laughing my way through every lineup to care.

  Ding. Click.

  Round 4: Team Harper takes Erik Richards (WR).

  “Babe!”

  Before I’m forced to come up with another deflection for Brook, my phone rings. I check the display and put the call on speaker.

  “It’s our commissioner. Talk to us, J.J.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  This time I can’t fight the laugh, and it comes out full-bellied. My eyes fill with tears while J.J. and Brook are left sputtering in equal parts outrage and disbelief.

  “What’s going on here?” Brook asks.

  “What are you trying to prove?” J.J. yells.

  “Are you upset about something? Is this about me being late for dinner last night? I’m sorry. I should have told you practice was going late.”

  “This is really childish. I didn’t expect something like this from you.”

  “It’s so random.”

  “Actually . . .” J.J. clears his throat. “She isn’t being random at all. Are you, Harper?”

  Brook’s eyes fly to mine, his face bemused. Under his stare, my resolve slips along with the humor. He looks . . . upset—really upset—and about nothing. It’s just a joke.

  “It’s not random.” I roll my fingertips over the desktop, clicking the scratched wood with my fingernails. “I’m . . . drafting on a theme.”

  “What kind of a theme?”

  Now J.J. snickers. “She’s drafting a team of schlongs, man.”

  Ooh, sch
long. Another name for a penis I hadn’t considered. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s anyone playing in the NFL with the first or last name of Schlong, but there could be a sound-a-like or two out there. I should Google “penis euphemisms” right now in case there are any others I forgot when building my dream draft.

  Brook’s wide-eyed stare recaptures my attention.

  “Sweetheart.”

  “Yes?”

  I point to his screen. “You only have ten more seconds to make your selection.”

  The reminder buys me a few extra moments. Rather than come up with a logical explanation for my draft—there isn’t one—I inspect Brook’s office more closely. With the shoddy Internet service we have at our apartment, we came here to use the university’s fast service. (When it comes to a draft, you don’t leave anything—including your connection—to chance.) We’ve been in Seattle since February, and this is only the second time I’ve seen it. He hasn’t done much to decorate. There are two framed photos on his desk—one from our wedding last December, the other is of him hoisting the high school state championship trophy in the air with his team huddled around.

  We haven’t discussed whether or not he misses coaching and teaching in high school. I’m sure he does to a degree, but this was his dream. Ever since he spent two years as a graduate assistant at Nebraska, he’s always wanted to coach at the collegiate level. Now, he’s doing it.

  Aside from the photos, a couple of empty coffee mugs, and neatly stacked binders and folders, there isn’t much hint this desk belongs to Brook MacLaughlin, the new wide receivers coach for the Seattle State Sounds.

  (I’m still figuring out the mascot. I get what they were trying to do. The college is settled on the edge of Puget Sound, after all. Still, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. When I brought it up one night, Brook adorably defended the name. He claimed it was creative. I said it didn’t work unless the fans were expected to dress up like bodies of water. He reminded me of the minor league baseball team in Nashville with the same name. I told him that was a major stretch. After going back and forth for a good twenty minutes, we’d agreed to disagree in the interest of saving our marriage.)

  Brook waits for J.J. to take his turn drafting before turning his eyes back to me. He taps his chin three times but says nothing. His blue eyes pierce mine.

  I cave in ten seconds flat.

  “Okay, J.J. is right. I’m drafting a team of dicks. I’m sure this seems juvenile. Or crazy. It’s probably both, but I’m doing it this way. For fun.”

  I gulp and finally raise my gaze to his. Sheesh. Our future kids are in for some serious trouble. If I ever suspect them of lying or sneaking around, I’ll just have Brook stare them straight.

  “Why dicks?” J.J. asks.

  “Between the names and personality types, I figured the NFL would have more than enough to give my team a full roster.”

  “Not all football players are dicks.” J.J.’s tone takes on a sharp edge.

  “I agree. Just the ones I’m drafting.”

  Brook’s eyes crease around the edges, and his shoulders shake. My stomach instantly settles. Good. I’m glad he found his sense of humor.

  “Whatever.” J.J. sighs. “I’m not going to stop you. It’s in my best interest for you to draft a crappy team. But as league commissioner, I needed to make sure you were cleared of any wrongdoing. For all I know, you’re helping your husband secure a playoff spot.”

  “I assure you, my intentions are entirely pure.”

  For some reason, this sets Brook off, and I disconnect the call before J.J. can take offense to Brook’s laughter.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, babe,” he says, once he finally regains some control. “When you decide to throw the game in the pre-season, you don’t mess around.”

  My jaw drops, but I pause to draft my next player—Arney Walker, a known jerk who is constantly in trouble for attitude problems—before addressing his comment.

  “Why would you think I’m throwing the game?”

  He gives me his “let’s be serious” look, before pointing out the lack of consistency with most of the players I’ve already drafted. I again tap my fingers on the desk impatiently while he rattles off every reason my team won’t succeed until I’ve had enough.

  “I have complete faith in my team. In fact, I’m guessing my pack of boners will outperform your so-called talent.”

  “Want to place a side bet?”

  “What are the terms?” I have to know what’s at stake because I don’t actually think my team will come close to beating his. This is probably the finest roster I’ve seen him draft, and he’s right about my team. They suck.

  “That’s up for negotiation.”

  Brook rips a Post-it off of a pad and hands it to me along with a pen. He grabs a second one and scribbles on it, motioning for me to do the same. I write “get a dog” above “wins head-to-head.” We fold our pieces of paper. I hand mine over and reach for Brook’s, but he pulls it out of reach.

  “Do you actually want to know what’s at stake or just discuss the terms?”

  Pursing my lips, I consider the possibilities. Knowing Brook, he probably wrote something like “try my world-famous steak,” which he still hasn’t convinced me to do in the two years we’ve known each other. He respects my pescetarianism, but he still talks about the steak ad nauseam. Plus, I’d rather he not see my terms. He’s told me we can’t get a dog. Several times. He claims our apartment is too small and that our cat, Blitz, would probably traumatize any poor pup.

  With steaks and dogs on the line, maybe it’s better if we don’t know what’s at risk until the last possible moment.

  “Let’s go for the surprise. You hold on to your terms, I’ll hold on to mine, and we’ll reveal the prize later.”

  He nods and tucks his piece of paper into his wallet. “Want to go for most wins or something else?”

  “How about whoever wins when we play against each other in week six?”

  “I like it. So we have a wager?”

  I thrust my hand across the desk. “We have a deal.”

  To his credit, Brook doesn’t gloat over his inevitable victory. He doesn’t even smirk. Instead, we shake hands and withdraw into our respective rosters as our league goes round after round in the draft.

  BY THE TIME WADE MAKES the last pick of the draft, my confidence wavers. I’m staring at a bad team. I set out to draft a team of dicks, and well, that’s what I have. Of course, I knew this was a possibility, but I figured it was worth it for the laughs. Only, I’m not laughing anymore. I mean, these guys really suck.

  I catch Brook’s stare and gulp. He appears ready to say something, but his attention shifts to the doorway.

  I turn in time to watch two men stride in. It only takes me a second to match names to the faces. The first—a younger guy about our age—is Sam Reeves. He’s the running backs coach who shares an office with Brook. I met him briefly when Brook gave me a tour back in February. I’ve heard plenty of good—and sometimes ridiculous—stories about him. He’s the same age as Brook and is a fellow newbie to the Seattle State staff.

  The other I recognize from TV and the Internet only. Coach Griggs is the team’s offensive coordinator and Brook’s boss. Brook hasn’t revealed much about him aside from the occasional comment about him being a disciplined leader who doesn’t take bullshit. From my own Google searches, I learned Griggs is vying for a head coaching position of his own. He’s expected to leave at the end of the season, and fans are already speculating which of the coaching staff he’ll take with him.

  (According to the message boards, he also has a reputation for being hostile with the press. When I broached the subject with Brook, he only said most of the longtime coaching staff had “difficult” relationships with the media. He wouldn’t qualify “difficult,” and I let him change the subject.)

  The man in front of me seems more relaxed than the one I’ve seen pictured online and on TV. His scowl is gone, replaced by a friendly gri
n. Instead of shooting daggers, his dark eyes only show interest.

  “You must be the missus,” he says with a heavy Texas accent. He steps forward to shake my hand. “Damn, but aren’t you pretty?”

  Not sure whether to take offense or be flattered by his remarks, I stand to greet him. “I’m Harper.”

  Pushing away from his desk, Brook steps around to make a more formal introduction. Sam nods in greeting rather than shaking my hand, which is still clasped between both of Griggs’s.

  Giving me another squeeze, Griggs winks at Brook. “How did your draft go?”

  “About as expected.” Brook rests a palm on the small of my back and leans closer. “We both found the players we wanted. Right, Harper?”

  “Yep.” I don’t offer up anything else but extract my hand from Griggs’s grasp as politely as possible. “Thanks for letting us use the Wi-Fi.”

  “Are you as good at fantasy football as MacLaughlin claims?” Sam asks. “He claims you’re one of his fiercest opponents.”

  “I’ve made it to the playoffs every year.” Which has only been twice, but I see no need to point that out. “I was runner-up last year. I would have won the whole thing if Duke Smith hadn’t been hurt at the last minute.”

  Sam winces. “I feel your pain. I had him on my league, too.”

  “You’re in a league?”

  “My buddies and I started a league back in high school. Haven’t missed a year since.”

  A slow grin spreads across Coach Griggs’s face. “You know, our better halves have a league. My wife always likes a little new blood in it.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Interested?”

  The panic must be evident on my face because Brook’s hand slips to my side and he gives a little squeeze. We exchange a sidelong glance, and he gives his head a slight shake.

  “I’ll have to sleep on it.”

  “I hope we’ll see you at the pre-season dinner,” Griggs says.

  “Pre-season dinner?”

  Brook winces. “I was going to mention that to you. I just found out about it.”

  “The coaching staff and trainers, along with their spouses, traditionally get together for dinner and drinks the week before the season begins,” Sam explains.