I’m not worried, at least not yet, but I don’t correct J.J. He might not understand what it is I’m feeling, but I appreciate his support and defense of Brook, all the same.
Then he adds, “It’s not like they’d fire him after a couple of losses. Even if his players underperform. He’s a low-ranking assistant. He’d have to really screw up to be fired mid-season.”
Like usual, I spoke too soon where J.J. was concerned.
The first whistle of the game screeches through the air and we fall silent, keeping our eyes on the field as the team lines up for the kickoff. Though Angie and Lisa keep their banter up through the first half, J.J. and I contribute little to the conversation as we learn the players’ names and watch the action on the field. There’s a lot of groaning and frustrated shouts as every time the Sounds show some signs of making it into the end zone, someone botches a play or gets a penalty sending them farther and farther away from the goal line.
“I’ve never seen such a sloppy game,” J.J. mutters under his breath. “They can’t seem to help themselves on either side of the ball.”
I shush him, even though I completely agree. I keep my eyes trained on the field, wishing I could see more than the back of Brook’s head. He’s tense, though, based on the way he’s holding his shoulders. That’s understandable. The quarterback and his receivers can’t seem to get in sync with each other. There has been dropped pass after dropped pass and no one seems to be where he’s supposed to be. It’s like watching a group of two-year-olds performing at a preschool concert. They’re all standing around, but no one is really doing anything or singing the right notes. He’s thrown his hands up in the air in frustration at least a dozen times. Each time, my stomach twists like I’m feeling his pain.
I might not have been worried before, but I am now. Not because I think he’s going to be fired. (Though, thanks, J.J., for putting that thought in my head.) I’m worried, because that’s what you do when your team is behind at the half. It’s what you do when you can tell your husband is upset and all you can do is be a spectator.
Even though I’m not hungry, I flag down a kid selling popcorn and go to town on the bag. At least it’ll be something to keep my hands busy until this is over. Eying the way I’m tossing back popcorn, Lisa laughs. “Looks like the new Mrs. M is pretty nervous about her first home game. Or is she like that at every game?”
“This is nothing. You should see her when she gets really worked up.” J.J. nudges me in the ribs, a move probably meant to be playful but ends up being painful. (He’s so strong.) “During the watch parties our fantasy league had, she’d bring bunches of yarn and make blankets and scarves.”
“She’s a knitter? Or does she crochet?”
He shrugs. “It’s one of those things. But she does it so fast and makes so many, she started her own business.”
“You have your own business? I thought you worked for the university.”
“I do. The crocheting is just a small boutique I run online with Brook’s sister.”
“Interesting.” She sips her Diet Coke and seems to mull something over for a minute. “So y’all did watch parties every week for your league back in Nebraska?”
“Every Sunday and sometimes Thursdays and Mondays, too,” J.J. says.
“We usually get the ladies together to watch the Sounds when they’re playing away games, but we’ve never done Sunday watch parties for our league.” She purses her lips. “Which is kind of silly when you figure that our husbands and boyfriends are all huddled up in some stinky field house watching game tape.”
“It could be fun,” Angie says. “I’m not sure we have time to put something together for this week, but . . .”
“We could be ready for next week.” Delight shines on Lisa’s face. “Ladies, we’re holding a fantasy league watch party at my house next Sunday. And you’re all invited.”
“Do we have a choice?” Whitney asks under her breath.
I give a quick snort and shake my head. We don’t have a choice.
“You can even bring your crocheting,” Lisa says. “And your friend. It wouldn’t be a watch party without you, J.J.”
Oh, if she only knew.
I’VE PUT J.J. ON A moratorium about post-game analysis—at least unless and until Brook brings it up. We’re not going to talk about the Sounds losing their second consecutive game of the season unless Brook wants to hash it out play by play.
J.J. begrudgingly agrees, but only because I tell him he can set my Real Coaches’ Wives lineup. Now that he’s met my competition, he’s even more determined to see me win the league. He claims my performance there is a reflection of the strength of the Mega Ballerz. It’s so egocentric to think anyone would care, but that’s J.J.
So while I have him working on my lineup and roster in the living room, I sneak into my former office-turned-houseguest suite to grab my laptop. I give the room a cursory glance and my heart sinks. Just a few days ago, this room was my little grownup oasis. With carefully selected artwork and our newly refinished desk for two, it was a place that made me feel like Amelia, Team Stitches, and I were going places. Now, with J.J.’s belongings strewn about like he’s lived here for months, it’s looking more dorm room chic than sophisticated.
I halfway expect to find a jockstrap under my laptop when I extract it from the desk. I let out a sigh of relief—and just as quickly decide to breathe through my mouth rather than nose until I’m out of the room. What is it about guys making a room smell like corn chips? And I could be wrong, but I caught a distinct whiff of stale beer and weed. At least we’re in Washington and I don’t have to worry about Brook ending up embroiled in some drug scandal just because J.J. is enjoying his sabbatical.
Slipping into my bedroom, I pull up my emails to see if we’ve had any new orders or general interactions on the Team Stitches front. I’m also hoping Amelia will have gotten back to me on a time for us to do our bi-weekly conference call. Our pattern orders are growing, and I want to brainstorm a couple of new ideas.
It’s actually Wade who shoots me an instant message while I’m processing an order.
Wade: Is that a new picture of you and J.J.? In Seattle??
New picture. Where? I haven’t updated my messenger profile picture in months. Wait. He must mean on Facebook or Instagram. J.J. snapped a few photos of us—and the rest of the wives—during the game. He was pretty pleased about being the token male in our bunch.
Me: Yeah, I took J.J. as my plus one to the Sounds game. If you and the ladies are able to make it out for the game, I’ll get extra tickets. I hope you can make it.
Wade: So J.J. is in Seattle?
Me: Yes . . . He’s staying with us during his sabbatical.
Wade: His sabbatical, right. Is everything going okay then?
It’s on the tip of my tongue—or fingers rather—to tell him about the awkward run-in with J.J. this morning in the kitchen. That seems unnecessarily embarrassing—to myself as well as him. It’s also strange Wade didn’t know J.J. was staying with us.
Me: So far so good.
After hesitating a moment, I ask if there’s anything I should know about J.J. and his break from the dealership.
Wade: No, tell me if anything comes up.
Me: Will do.
I frown at the screen, unable to go back to the menial work tasks or even check in on what J.J. has done with my lineup. This whole situation gets stranger and stranger. First, J.J. shows up unannounced. Then, by all appearances, he hasn’t told anyone else where is spending his break.
I wonder, again, if J.J. has been completely honest with us. Surely Wade would have said something if there’d been more. He was the one who contacted me about J.J.’s issues in the first place. Just in case, I send off a couple of messages to Gio and Anderson—masking my questions behind general inquiries about how life is going. Hopefully I’ll have answers sooner than later. Until then, I’m keeping my guard up.
Week One Recap: Team Harper Chokes 110-123 in Season Opener
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You only get one shot at a first impression, and our first look at Team Harper wasn’t pretty. Though projected to beat Team Gio with a cool ten points, Team Harper underperformed, falling well short of the mark. Running Back Jay Lee only saw two carries for minimal yards before fumbling the ball and riding the bench the rest of the game. Wide Receiver Riley Garcia was under double coverage and only managed to sneak in one touchdown and a few yards.
Only Quarterback Chad Baker seemed to put in a good effort. With four passing touchdowns and no interceptions, he’s the clear strongest link on this team.
As for everyone else activated this week? They were too weak to bother writing about.
It might be time for Team Harper to make some trades with her fellow managers or surf the waiver wires. Something has to give if she wants to be any kind of a contender in this year’s league.
Mega Ballerz Record: 0-1
Chapter Eight
I GIVE ANDERSON AND Gio until the end of business on Monday to respond before I send follow-up messages. Gio doesn’t keep me waiting too much longer. I have a new email waiting for me when I wake on Tuesday. It’s a lengthy—albeit taunting—email recapping all the ways his team showed mine up when we went head-to-head over the weekend. To his credit, he keeps the banter mostly playful and cordial. I do take some exception to his saying my running back core is in “worse shape than the Undertaker after Brock Lesnar destroyed his undefeated record—and him—at WrestleMania 30.”
If you aren’t a psycho WWE aficionado like Gio (or a closet fan like me), that doesn’t make much sense. But trust me, it’s a slam. It’s like he’s saying my running backs have been crumpled to the point of needing medical attention. It’s also possible he’s making a personal jab by insinuating my legacy is over—that I’m washed up as a fantasy manager and destined for retirement. Really, there’s no need to say I’m a has-been prematurely.
So rude.
Then again, I’m maybe reading too much into his message. We’ve bonded over our mutual enjoyment of watching paid professionals toss each other around (and in some cases, outside of) a wrestling ring. He’s probably just trying to make me laugh.
He doesn’t offer much more insight into what’s going on with J.J. He kept his comments on that subject brief.
I just heard J.J. was staying with you guys. Hopefully a break will do that boy good. He needs to get his head together and stop acting like an ass.
I suppose I was expecting too much to hope Gio would have some sort of inside knowledge of the situation. He’s not even in the same office anymore. Still, he was always papa bear-like with J.J. and Wade. Even now, he’s showing it with his message of fatherly love and reprimand. If there was something up with one of his cubs, I figured he’d be the one to know.
Anderson is even less forthcoming when he responds around lunchtime. He talks about how well Kelsey has settled into my old role—though he assures me I’m missed—and that he hopes J.J. enjoys his time in the Pacific Northwest.
Neither of those replies hints at anything more sinister than what J.J. has already told us. I suppose I should let the subject drop and try to move on from it. Something still doesn’t add up, but maybe I’m looking to add a little more drama to an already rocky situation because I’m bored and scared of turning into a coach’s trophy wife or something.
There is another avenue I could try to discover what’s going on. It’s pretty unorthodox, and it will mean asking two of the people I care about most to betray bro code. But blood is thicker than bro code (or something like that).
I step out of the office to take an afternoon break and call Scott. He’s probably on his way home from work by now, and as a trustworthy pair of eyes and ears on the ground in Lincoln, he might have some insight. Ever since he and our brother, Christopher, joined the league last year, he’s been close with Wade. If Wade was going to vent to someone about the goings on with J.J., it’s quite possible he would turn to Scott.
By that same logic, I could call Amelia, but while I have zero qualms about playing the sister card and asking Scott to betray a friend’s confidence, I’m not comfortable using the sister-in-law card to ask a woman to sell out her husband. It would be a dangerous precedent to set.
Scott picks up just before the phone goes to voicemail. “Please tell me you aren’t calling to propose a trade request.”
“Um, no. When have I ever called you for a trade?”
“Never, I guess. But this is only the second year we’ve been in a league together.”
“So . . .”
“Last year you had a juggernaut team. This year you suck.”
You can’t argue with facts. Well, not when you’re a rational human being. If you’re nuts, you can argue with the truth all day. “I was actually calling to ask you about J.J.”
“Isn’t he staying with you?”
“Yes . . .”
“So shouldn’t you know more about what’s going on with J.J. than I would?”
“You would think, but we both know that probably isn’t true. Did you hear of anything happening before he took this leave at work? I’m not asking to be nosy. I’m asking, because I want to help him out in any way I can, and I need to know what I’m working with.”
Scott’s sigh comes through heavy. “Look, I can’t tell you any particulars, but Wade mentioned that J.J.’s behavior has been erratic over the summer. He was even wilder than usual at both of our draft parties, but it sounds like that’s been par for the course.”
“Do you think there’s any chance he was fired?”
“No. Definitely not. Wade said J.J. would have the option to come back.”
“But did he say if this break was voluntary?”
“He didn’t, and I didn’t ask. Look, I swear I’d tell you if I knew anything, but I don’t.”
“Will you tell me if you hear anything else?”
“Sure.” He doesn’t sound entirely enthused by the prospect, but I can tell he’s sincere. I suppose I can’t ask for more than that.
Assured I now have a trustworthy spy of sorts on my side, I make some small talk because I don’t want it to seem like I’m not only talking to my brother to use him for his ability to infiltrate the bros.
“So . . . what are you up to tonight?”
“Just TV and beer.”
“Are you hanging out with anyone tonight?”
“No.”
“Are you seeing anyone . . . romantically?”
“Just my right palm.”
His right palm . . . Wait a minute. “Gross.”
“You asked. That’s what you get for prying.”
“I wasn’t prying,” I protest, still struggling with the visual he’s planted in my head. “I was just being a concerned sister.”
“I don’t need you to be concerned.”
“Have you thought about online dating?”
“Harper, don’t make me say it. Don’t make me call you Harper the—”
“Okay. Sorry. It’s none of my business if you decide to date or spend the rest of your life as a lone wolf.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
It’s really hard to get good help these days. I can’t even count on my brother to get through a simple conversation without making it into a thing. He’s supposed to be my chill brother. On that note, I say good-night and promise myself not to ever ask about his love life again. I don’t need those thoughts in my head. I already have enough bad visuals thanks to last weekend with J.J.
Also, I should make more girlfriends who don’t joke about masturbation. Maybe I should give the Real Coaches’ Wives more of a shot.
I’M STILL DETERMINED to make the coaches’ wives my friends when J.J. and I leave for Lisa Griggs’s house Sunday morning with my crocheting supplies in tow. I almost left it at home, not wanting to stick out, but J.J. carried my project tote out the door himself.
“She told you to bring it,” J.J. reminds me as he navigates the always busy Seattle streets.
&nbs
p; I only agreed to let him drive because we’ll spend most of the trip on board the ferry to Bainbridge Island. Plus, I don’t trust him to hold on to the cupcakes I baked without picking at them. I woke up an hour early to hand-draw the team logos on top, and I don’t want him messing with them before the wives get a chance to see my handiwork.
I’ve stepped back into 1950s housewife mode. What with me worrying about how my hair and makeup look and wanting to wow them with my baking skills. But I also plan to show them no mercy in the fantasy football arena, so it all shakes out in the end.
Of course, there’s another good reason for letting J.J. drive now: survival. Based on the twelve-pack of beer—and the bottle of whiskey—he’s bringing along, it makes sense. I doubt he plans to share much of his haul, which means he won’t be fit to get behind the wheel later. Deep down he knows he shouldn’t drive when he drinks, but he’ll forget later. When he does, and it’s time to leave, I’ll gently remind him he already drove one part of the trip and it’s my turn. Hopefully then he won’t put up a fight.
I tighten my hold on the cupcake carrier. “I think Lisa was kidding.”
Or maybe even teasing. I definitely caught some mockery in her tone.
“She could be curious about your work. Maybe she asked you to bring it so she could see it. Or maybe—and this is crazy—but just maybe she wants you to feel comfortable while you’re around a group of strangers.”
“There’s no need to get sarcastic.”
“And there’s no need for you to assume the worst of people who are trying to be your friend.”
I stare out the window and pretend to be interested in the other cars lining up around us. I’m really not in the mood to argue and that’s exactly where we’re headed. He says nothing either as he pulls on board, though a hint of amusement plays on his face. Either he’s come up with an awesome slam for me, or he’s found something fun and whimsical about taking a ferry to a watch party. With him, it could go either way.
Three & Out Page 7
