Three & Out Read online

  “It gives us a chance to kiss our wives good-bye before the season gets out of hand.” Griggs lets out a loud laugh.

  “We’ll be there. When is it?”

  Griggs shrugs. “Whenever Coach says. We usually find out on the day.”

  Brook starts to squeeze me once more, but I slip out of his grasp. I appreciate the silent show of support, but those ex-wide-receiver hands of his are going to give me a bruise. I link my arm through his instead to maintain the appearance of solidarity while restraining him at the same time.

  We chitchat for a few more minutes. Griggs offers a few words of praise for Brook and takes my email address to give to his wife. Eventually, the men grab a tablet and leave. Once we’re alone again, I sink back into my seat and snap my laptop shut.

  “C’mon.” Brook tucks a tablet and a binder under his other arm and offers me his hand. “Let’s go home. If we leave now, I won’t get pulled into some last-minute meeting and we can have dinner at a reasonable hour.”

  My heart beats a little faster at the thought of dinner for two at a reasonable hour. That is quite possibly one of the most romantic propositions Brook has ever made me.

  A Pre-Season Message

  Well, this is embarrassing. We strive for perfection in providing a top-notch fantasy football gaming experience for everyone. Unfortunately, today we fell short. Our servers were unable to accommodate the record number of leagues holding drafts. A majority of the drafts held during this time—including your league’s—were affected by the glitch. As a result, your draft selections were not recorded.

  We apologize for the inconvenience. Your commissioner has been notified and will soon contact you regarding a new draft.

  Again, we’re sorry.

  Chapter Two

  OKAY, I GOT LUCKY. Alas, it seems my pack of dicks wasn’t meant to be. At least not this season. There’s no way I’ll be able to replicate that bunch of boners again. Not with J.J. and Brook watching my every pick. I could try, but it would never come close to working as well as the original. It’d be like a bad movie franchise reboot.

  I could pretend to be disappointed, but I’ll sleep easier tonight. I’m willing to concede my team wouldn’t have taken me far. Once the novelty and humor wore off, I’d be left with, well, a pack of boners. And everyone—except for me—would be laughing. The fantasy gods must be looking out for me because I can really use this mulligan.

  The Mega Ballerz and I will start from scratch when we redraft tonight. That doesn’t give me time to over prepare like I did last year. (Or, quite frankly, like I did highlighting all the potential innuendo players I planned to have this year.) I’ll have to shoot from the hip and draft on the fly. The same way I did in my first season. I’ll be vintage Harper. (And vintage is in—have you seen those ugly throwback uniforms the pro teams are wearing?)

  It will also give me a chance to right the most grievous of my drafting wrongs from yesterday. Maybe I can bring Todd Northwood back as my quarterback. I’ve had North the past two seasons. Sure, we’ve had some ups and downs, but my team felt incomplete without him.

  Armed with a travel mug of coffee and my insulated lunch bag, I’m just closing the door to our apartment when my phone rings. At the sound, Blitz races from the bedroom. I only have seconds to get the door shut before he makes a run for it through the crack. We never had to worry about escapes before. Blitz either hates our new place, or he desperately wants to explore the local fresh seafood industry. (We’re within walking distance of Pike Place Market.) His interest in the outdoors makes our departures a challenge. We usually have to leave him food or treats in our bedroom while we make a run for it.

  I slam the door shut just as his little orange face comes into view. I flip the lock, and he unleashes a pitiful wail. A sharp pain lodges in my chest.

  “I’m sorry baby.” I press a hand to the door.

  If I have this kind of guilt leaving our cat behind, I can only imagine what it’ll be like a few years down the road if we have kids. He’ll be fine. He will. In a few minutes, he’ll forget he’s a captive and go back to being lord of the apartment.

  Burying my guilt, I juggle my lunch bag and coffee to answer the phone.

  “You have to talk some sense into J.J. He’s freaking out about this whole redraft thing.”

  I roll my eyes at the irritation in Wade’s voice. How like sweet, lovable, but basically helpless Wade to want me to save the day and soothe everyone else’s nerves. Even though I’m two time zones away. It’s my own fault. Back when we all worked together at the car dealership in Lincoln, that’s what I did. I fixed things. Not to brag, I was good at it. Too good, apparently.

  I start the brisk walk toward campus. After looking around town, we’d settled on a tiny walk-up a few minutes from campus rather than going for something more spacious in the suburbs. What we pay for in extra rent, we make up for in gas and time savings. Plus, every work day starts and ends with cardio, which is how I’m able to rationalize skipping the gym. I’ve always been bad about going, but now I can do it guilt-free.

  “What are we going to do?” Wade asks. “He’s out of control.”

  “In his defense, it was a pretty big pain in the butt to find a time when we were all available to draft in the first place. Things are complicated now that we’re on the West Coast and Gio is on the East—”

  “It’s not a matter of time zones.”

  I imagine myself flipping Wade the bird. “No. I suppose it isn’t.”

  “You’re not here every day. You don’t get it.”

  Now I have to fight the urge to throw my phone into the street. The only reason I don’t is because I don’t want to have to replace it. Especially not until I back up my music and photos. I have a bunch of pictures of Blitz and my latest crocheting projects on my phone. I can’t risk parting with them in a wave of misplaced fury. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I like Wade. Most of the time. Plus, I have to be patient with him. He’s married to Brook’s sister now, so he’s family.

  “What else is going on?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Try.”

  “Well . . .” Then Wade launches into something that’s a mixture of rant and useful information. Apparently, J.J. hasn’t been handling the changes to his environment well. First, Brook and I moved in February. Aside from the few months he spent playing in an arena league, J.J. hasn’t been away from his former practice squad wide receiver since they were freshmen in college. Then in May, Gio transferred to the flagship store in Schenectady, New York, so the owners of the dealership—the Donaldsons—could enjoy early retirement and a second honeymoon.

  With his most stable influences gone, J.J. spent the summer in a free-for-all binge. There’s more drinking. More one-night stands. More shoving matches with strangers in bars. More illegal substances. It’s all of J.J.’s vices, only on a bigger level. He’s Deluxe J.J.

  “Why are you just telling me this now? If it’s been going on all summer, why—”

  “I thought we could take care of it. Contrary to what you might think, I usually try to handle things on my own.” I can almost imagine Wade tussling his cropped brown hair on the other side of the line. “But this morning, after we got our messages about the botched draft, J.J. lost it. He threw a chair at one of the cars in the lobby.”

  I gasp and nearly run into a woman walking her dog in the other direction. Recovering quickly, I dart an apologetic grin and mouth, “Sorry.” “What did Anderson do?”

  “Nothing.”

  I stumble again. “He did—”

  “Well, not nothing really. He told J.J. to cool down and check our Internet sales. He said it in that voice of his that scares the crap out of you.”

  I’m all too familiar with it. “That was it?”

  “Well . . . then he asked Dylan to take the car back to maintenance.”

  It makes sense. He’d want to make sure there wasn’t any damage to the body. He’d also want to take care of the d
ents with as little fuss as possible before ripping J.J. a new one.

  “Then he asked you to call me? So I could set J.J. straight.”

  “Pretty much.”

  That figures. It all does. However, understanding the source for this request doesn’t give me any clear ideas on what I’m supposed to do to help. It’s not like I can hop on a plane and smack some sense into J.J. I’m already flying back in October, and I can’t take off that much time from work. A phone call will only do so much. There’s also the chance I could say the wrong thing and make it worse.

  It’s not a good situation.

  “Look, Wade, I don’t know what I can—”

  “Just think of something. Anything. Give him a call and talk some reason into him. He listens to you.”

  “Yeah, right. You mean he listens to Brook.” Which is who Wade should have called, come to think of it.

  “Brook is my next call if you won’t help. But you’d be surprised by how much stock J.J. puts in you. I know I’m asking a lot—”

  “You’re asking for a miracle.”

  “Maybe, but please.”

  The way he says it—his voice so wistful—is more than a request. It’s a last-ditch plea. Like Princess Leia telling Obi-Wan he’s her only hope. And, man, I need to make some less nerdy friends if that’s the first analogy to come to mind. I’m practically a female version of any given member of the league these days. My heart pings as I think about those guys. They’re more than my buddies. They’re my family. Not just the one’s I’m related to by blood or marriage.

  Family comes through when you need them.

  “Okay. I’ll talk to him.”

  SO BORED. IT’S NOT even 9:30, and I’ve already managed to update my spreadsheets and reply to the emails I received over the weekend. And I was late to work.

  Though I had initially balked at the idea of accepting a job as part of Brook’s hiring package, when the time came, I was so overwhelmed by the logistics of training my successor at the car dealership and moving across the country, having someone else figure out my job situation became suddenly appealing. The university gave me a position as an admin assistant for the recruitment office. My main job responsibilities include tracking the mailers we send out and updating addresses. Occasionally, I get to do something exhilarating, like putting labels on envelopes.

  Once, I even answered calls for a week when the main admissions assistant was out for jury duty, but that’s about as exciting as it gets. Mostly, I spend my days trying to stay awake at my cubicle and chatting with my friends back in Nebraska.

  Still, that’s to be expected when someone creates a job for you in a department that didn’t actually need another person. No one seems to be complaining. Jessie, the woman whose job I basically stole half of, is using her newfound free time to explore the wonderful world of podcasts and YouTube videos.

  Almost like her ears are ringing, Jessie pokes her head over my cubicle. “How was your weekend?”

  “Good. We went hiking on Saturday. We tried the trail you recommended.”

  “Wasn’t it the best?”

  “Beautiful. And we grabbed lunch at that cafe after like you said we should.”

  “It’s a good thing you and the hubby have gone exploring the past few weekends. With the season starting this weekend . . .”

  “Yeah.” She doesn’t have to tell me what I already know.

  With school back in session, and the first college football game this coming Saturday, Brook and I are well aware the honeymoon is over. I had my first taste of football wife widowhood last year. We’ll be okay. Hopefully.

  At least he’s already better at communicating this time around. Under the influence of his players, he’s fully embraced the world of Snapchat and emojis.

  Just this morning, he’s already blown up my phone with a series of Snaps showing his daily workout results, the contents of his protein shake, and apparently, the results of a hotly contested round of hangman with Sam. Thanks to technology, I don’t have to miss a second of it. Oh what a time to be alive.

  I ask Jessie about her weekend and she launches into a story about one of her kids’ volleyball practices. I try my best to follow along, but she loses me somewhere between scrimmages and gluten-free snacks. Much as I love talking sports and snacks, somehow the drama of third-grade volleyball doesn’t do much for me. I make the appropriate noises and expressions while I pull open my personal email account.

  Yes! Amelia is online. I haven’t talked to her in a couple of days, which is weird. Even stranger when you factor in that I talked to her husband only a few hours ago.

  Me: Hey! What’s going on?

  Amelia: Just taking a break at work. You?

  Me: Also on a break of sorts. That’s basically all I do here.

  Amelia: Bored?

  Me: So bored.

  Amelia: Why don’t you quit?

  It’s tempting, but I have to work. If I didn’t have a job, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. If I didn’t have somewhere to go, if I was stuck at home in a strange city every day, why would I even bother getting out of bed? I can’t just sit there all day waiting for Brook to get home after a day—and night—of meetings and practices.

  Amelia: You could work on Team Stitches full time.

  Oh Team Stitches, the little online boutique Amelia and I started so we could sell our knitted and crocheted wares. Our business has grown in the last year, but it’s nowhere close to a level of quitting our day jobs.

  Amelia knows this already, which is why I don’t have to say it. Still, it gives me a good segue to change the subject without being totally abrupt or random. And I need to change the subject. I feel a little guilty complaining about my lot in life. In the grand scheme, I have it pretty good. Great husband, adorable cat, and a cute apartment in an interesting city. I even get a second chance at drafting a fantasy football team worth having. I’m practically living a fairy tale. I should be more grateful, or at least less of a whiner.

  But I’m a modern woman who wants it all. I want the perfect home, the perfect team, and the perfect fulfilling career. Gratitude—or at least an attitude adjustment—isn’t going to happen overnight.

  Me: I have a series of vlogs lined up for the next couple of weeks. Plus the new patterns. They’re formatted and on the dashboard if you’d like to take a look before they go live.

  Amelia: We both know you don’t need me to proof your work. You agonize over all of it enough for both of us.

  Me: Maybe, but I still like to have your opinion.

  Amelia: I’ll take a look.

  The vlog is a newish aspect of our website. While we’re a little—okay, really—late to the vlogging party, we started one mostly out of boredom. My boredom. Unlike me, my sister-in-law’s life isn’t entirely dependent on football season for entertainment. Having a couple of overly energetic—but super adorable—daughters keeps things interesting.

  Regardless of our reasons for starting the vlog, we’re actually seeing some positive response. Our page views and comments grow daily, and we’ve even had a small boost in our product sales. Again, not enough to quit our day jobs, but growth is growth.

  At least that part of my life is somewhat interesting.

  I realize too late that Jessie has finished talking and she’s staring at me with an odd expression on her face. Like she’s waiting for me to say something. Oh, crap. That’s what I get for being rude and multitasking. No worries. I’ll smooth this over with a little BS.

  “Sorry,” I offer an apologetic shrug. “I just spaced out there a second. I’m feeling a little light-headed. Probably all of that hiking over the weekend. Would you want to grab a coffee? My treat.”

  Her eyes light up and she springs to her feet. “I’d love one. Mondays, am I right?”

  “Totally.”

  There you have it. My first official save of the season.

  EVEN THOUGH I MANAGED to get most of my work done before lunch, I still haven’t done any fantasy fo
otball research. Instead, I spent a couple of hours updating the Team Stitches sales figures and website. Then, I felt the siren call of Pinterest and spent the last hour of work pinning recipes for tailgate and watch parties. I want to be prepared, you know, in case I actually make some friends and get invited to a party.

  I’ll just draft the way I did in year one—off the cuff. I’m vintage Harper.

  At five till five, a new instant message pops up on my screen.

  J.J.: What’s this about you and Brook having a dinner tonight? Can’t you get out of it? We need to redraft ASAP. This is sofa king annoying.

  Sofa king. Is that some new slang the kids are using these days? I’ll have to ask Brook about it sometime, what with him being so plugged into youth culture now while I’m creating Pinterest boards in a cubicle.

  I reread the message and frown. Dinner party? No, that’s not possible. Brook would have told me if they’d scheduled the dinner for tonight. Especially after everything we went through last season when he volunteered me to play team mom at his high school. He knows better. He—

  My phone beeps. I don’t bother minimizing my chat window while I check my phone. (Seriously, no one cares.)

  Brook: Don’t kill me, I just found out the team dinner is tonight. I gave J.J. a heads-up so he won’t have a heart attack, but . . . Forgive me for springing this on you? (Prayer hands) (Roses) (Cookie)

  A team dinner. I bet it will be something halfway fancy, and I have nothing to wear, let alone a dish to bring. I can’t even be pissed about it because this caught Brook by surprise, too. Plus, he sent me cute, apologetic emojis.

  Well, shit.

  Chapter Three

  BROOK WISELY SAYS NOTHING when I change my dress for a fourth time. He doesn’t have to tell me we’ll be late for dinner. I already know. My last “get ready” notification popped up on my phone a few minutes ago. He also has the good manners not to gawk even though I’m standing around in only a lacy bra and underwear, waiting for something stunning to magically appear in my closet.