His hands clench into fists. “What else?”
“My flight upgrade. It seemed weird and like a turn of luck, but . . .”
“That was him?”
I nod. “I swear I didn’t do anything to lead him on or give him any idea I might be interested in, well, you know. I’ve played it over and over in my head, and I just don’t see—”
“Oh, baby.” The anger leaves Brook’s face almost as quickly as it appeared. He reaches for me, cupping my cheeks with such care. “I know you didn’t. I know you wouldn’t.” He wipes away a tear that’s slipped loose with his thumb. “I’m not mad at you for that.”
“But you are mad at me?”
“I am a little.” He strokes the hair away from my face. “But only because you didn’t tell me sooner.”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“I get that. On some level I appreciate what you were doing, even if I don’t agree with it.” He lets out a heavy breath and shakes his head. “But how many times have we talked about being in this together?”
I sniffle. “At least a million.”
“That’s right. But being in it together doesn’t mean you shoulder the bulk of the load. It means we share it.”
“I just didn’t want you to get fired.”
“I know, baby. I know.” He presses his lips to my forehead and I collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around me. “God, what I wouldn’t give to beat the shit out of Griggs.”
My eyes fly open “Oh, no. You can’t.”
“I know I can’t. That doesn’t change the fact that I’d still like to give it a shot.”
“Besides, J.J. got in a few good punches.”
“Remind me to thank him later.”
Despite myself, a shocked giggle bubbles out of me. I allow Brook to ease me back into his arms, and I wrap my own around his waist. We sit together like that for some time, guilt and anger flowing over me. Through the painful haze, there’s also gratitude and awe that he can trust and love me so implicitly. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand what I did to deserve that kind of devotion. The least I can do is try to pay it back by giving him the same.
“I’m sorry.”
“Shh, baby, it’s not your fault.”
“I know.” I take a deep breath, tracing the muscles on his back with my fingertips. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, before things escalated to this.”
“You had good intentions.”
“I might have, but I still should have told you. You had a right to be angry, too.” I press a light kiss over his heart. “Can you forgive me?”
“Of course.”
We hold each other a few minutes longer. Then I pull back to look him in the eye when I ask, “What do we do?”
His jaw clenches again, but this time his anger is more controlled, more restrained. I can almost feel the frustration rise within him under my hands.
“I’m not sure. We’ll have to figure out something. But we will.”
He kisses me again. This time our lips meet. As they move against each other in that sweet familiar way, my resolve strengthens and I’m restored. When at last we pause, I reach up to stroke his cheek.
“Would you be really mad if I asked if we could talk about this later?”
“No . . .”
“Because—and I’m not trying to change the subject—right now I’d love nothing more than for you to hold me and make me feel like everything is going to be okay.”
He nods and pulls me closer. His mouth finds mine again. I need this right now—for us to take comfort in each other and in knowing whatever happens, we have each other. We may not have a clue of what to do about this rotten situation, but at least we’ll be starting the rest of our day on a much higher note. We’re not just stronger, we’re better together.
Week Eleven Recap: Team Harper Finds Victory Once More in Solid Race
It was a strong week for the underdogs. Backup wide receiver Breck Willis played his all-time best with eight carries and 65 yards on top of his touchdown. Tight end Levar Peters proved that his position can make a big splash when given the option. He scored two touchdowns and made six receptions.
Oddly enough, the weakest link on the team was Quarterback Chad Baker. Granted, he was up against one of the toughest defenses in the nation, but that resulted in only one touchdown.
With only two more weeks left in the regular season, there’s no way we’ll see her in the tournament bracket, despite this last-minute show of strength. It’s just too little too late for Team Harper.
Mega Ballerz Record: 2-9
Chapter Twenty-Two
WE’RE GETTING PRETTY good at pretending everything is fine. After deciding we wanted to keep Griggs’s behavior under wraps—and not wanting to create any trouble for J.J. if word got out about the punching—we quickly realized putting on a happy front was going to be critical.
We kept smiles on our faces on Thanksgiving when my brothers surprised us by arriving to celebrate the holiday with us. In a hushed conversation in our kitchen, the three of us made a pact that no one would mention Brook’s concerns about the welfare of his job, J.J.’s scuffle with Griggs, or the fact that Griggs habitually hits on me. The first and second issues would concern the boys and the third would prompt them to take a ferry across Puget Sound so they could get their own punches in, and I hardly want to spend the holidays bailing my brothers out of jail.
On Friday morning, when Brook flew out with the team to prepare for their final game of the season, we congratulated ourselves on how well we’d kept ourselves on message and out of trouble. By the time we watch the Sounds kick off on Saturday afternoon, from the comfort of home, I feel like we just might make it through the weekend without Scott or Christopher being any bit the wiser.
In between the plays, all three men find plenty to tease me about.
“I can’t believe how badly your team has choked this year.” Christopher shovels a huge bite of nachos into his mouth. “You almost won last year and now you suck.”
“Ease up on her,” Scott warns. “She had a lot of bad luck with injuries. It could happen to anyone.”
“She’s still a contender in her other league.” J.J. pulls up the Real Coaches’ Wives stats on his computer screen. “It’s too close to call, but she might win the whole thing.”
He politely doesn’t tell them that he helped me draft the team.
“If I do win it, I’ll probably retire from fantasy football.” Three jaws drop and three sets of eyes stare at me in shock. “What? It’s just something I’m thinking about.”
J.J. recovers first and takes a gulp of water. True to his word, he’s stuck to staying sober. “You had a bad year. We’ve all had them.”
“This wasn’t just a bad year. This was apocalyptic. Two teams and one of them is about to go two and ten and the other is six and six. That’s abysmal. I shouldn’t even be a contender with a six and six team.”
There’s more grumbling and we return our attention to the game. The Sounds aren’t looking good. Again. It’s strange how a person can grow accustomed to losing. After Brook’s high school team was undefeated last year, after my fantasy team cleaned up, I would’ve thought I wouldn’t know how to lose gracefully. I guess you don’t have much of a choice when you suck.
The Sounds call a time-out, and the commentators go into some spiel about how fans and boosters alike are calling for changes on the coaching staff. They make a few speculations about who should be first to go, and I let out a breath when they don’t mention Brook’s name. They’re about to crunch some numbers from the first half of the game when a scuffle breaks out on the sidelines. The cameras pan to the Sounds bench where players huddle around two coaches. They appear to be restraining Griggs. The other coach is up in his face and—Oh God—it’s Brook. I can practically see the spit flying out of his mouth.
“It looks like tempers are high on the Sounds sideline. Who can blame them after the turbulent season they’ve had.”
“That’s right. Brook MacLaughlin typically keeps it cool, though it’s worth noting he did have one argument with a player earlier this season.”
“It’s also worth noting that player came forward and admitted he was misusing team equipment on the sideline.”
“I wonder what has them so riled up now.”
They break for commercial, leaving us to stare at the TV in mute shock. I can’t believe it. If any of us was going to crack under the pressure of it all and lose it, I would’ve put money on me. I’m the one with the track record of snapping when pushed. Brook—up until we moved here—is the picture of composure.
Not even J.J., who is almost never at a loss for words, can come up with anything. What can we say? My brothers have never seen Brook do more than roll his eyes at a bad call from a ref or raise his voice to a half-yell when he’s trying to prove a point.
Shaking his head, Scott asks, “What just happened?”
“Well . . .”
“What do you think it was about?” Christopher asks.
J.J. and I exchange a glance, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Scott. “You know? Don’t you?”
I shrug, silently letting J.J. know there’s no point in pretending we’re oblivious. He clears his throat. “We couldn’t say for sure, but I have a pretty good idea.”
Christopher frowns. “What is it?”
Now it’s J.J.’s turn to look at me helplessly.
“Okay.” I clear my throat. “We’ll tell you, but you can’t get mad.”
“IT WASN’T MY FINEST moment.” Brook admits later that night—or rather early the next morning—after he’s come home. He’s sprawled out across the bed, still dressed in his polo and khakis, his head in my lap. “I shouldn’t have lost it like that. And during the last game of the season.”
I run my fingers through his hair, gently massaging his head. My mom used to do this for me when I was little and had a hard day. It always brought me calm. It settled me. I don’t know if it’s enough to ease everything for Brook, but I figure it couldn’t hurt. I’m not sure what else to do for him right now. I don’t know what to say. It’s not like I can find a guidebook on how to help your husband when he’s pretty sure he’s days away from being fired and his boss is a sexist asshole, who also thinks he’s God’s gift to women.
“What happened?” I ask at last.
“I was standing next to him on the field, studying the game and making my plans for what would happen next like I do.” He blindly traces a pattern on the bedspread. “He started laying into one of the receivers, calling him a screw-up, saying he wasn’t a real man. And I snapped. I just couldn’t let him stand there and tell that kid he was less than human. Not when he’s a giant piece of shit who thinks being a man means forcing himself on women.”
“So you told him to stop.”
“And then some. I don’t think there’s any doubt he knows I know about what happened. I didn’t choose my words particularly carefully.”
“He probably had it coming.”
“He didn’t even get half of what he’s owed. I had half a mind to punch him, but . . . I got control of myself before that happened.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe they caught all of that on camera.”
“The public loves drama. At least no one knows what you were fighting about.”
“I don’t think the kids did either, to be honest. I wasn’t exactly making sense.”
We fall silent for a moment while his breathing returns to normal and my fingers continue to work their soothing magic.
Eventually I have to ask him the question we both know needs answering. “Do you think Griggs will use this as an excuse to cut you from the staff?”
“Who knows? O’Dwyer will have to sign off on it.”
“It’s not fair.” It’s not right that people like us—hardworking men and women just trying to do the right thing—should have to cover up for scum like Griggs, just so we can keep going.
“No, but maybe it’s time someone said something.”
My fingers freeze in his hair, and I peer down into his face. “What?”
“I . . . no, I can’t.”
Brook runs a hand over his face. Not before I register how haggard he looks. He’s even more rundown than he was last year leading up to the state playoffs. He’d been understandably stressed and tired then. He’d taken on more than an extra workload. He’d given his all to pull that team together in the face of adversity and lead them to a state title.
But this is different. It’s more than exhaustion. It’s defeat. This team—the game that he loves—is threatening to beat him.
That scares me. Even more than the time I borrowed my dad’s car without asking and inadvertently left my bra in the backseat. (I was going through a rebellious phase and passed a couple of bases with one of the mellophones in band.) I’d been afraid my dad would murder me and my date if I didn’t manage to sneak the bra out before he discovered it for himself.
This is worse. The one person I count on to stay steady is a breath away from teetering headfirst over the edge. Again. I have to pull myself together long enough to hold on to him until he can stand on his own.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, my fingers move to stroke his neck, offering comfort as I go. “Talk to me.”
“I’ve been doing some thinking and . . . I’m not sure I’m cut out for this anymore.” His hands fall from his face, and he shifts onto his back to stare up at me. “Maybe it’s the level, and I wasn’t ready to make the step. Or maybe I’ve lost my touch. Maybe it’s time to move on and try something else.”
I was right. He’s defeated, or close to it. He’s ready to quit. It would be way too easy to sway him into leaving the game. I could encourage him to teach history again or pursue a business venture. I’d have him for falls, and summer practices, and bowl games, and spring scrimmages. I wouldn’t have to share him with football. But whatever else he did would never fill his heart the way coaching does. And as the keeper of his heart, it’s my job to ensure it stays full.
“Okay. I hear you, but can I be completely honest?”
“Please.”
“That’s a bunch of crap.” His eyes widen. Before he can jump to any conclusions, I continue. “None of this is about your abilities as a coach. You coach one hell of a game. More, you mold these players into fine young men. At any level. The Packers could come knocking, and you’d probably show those highly skilled athletes a thing or two.”
He shakes his head. “But why can’t I make this work?” His voice catches. “How did I manage to blow this opportunity? It’s like I’ve gone three and out—”
“Only you would take this shit storm we’ve found ourselves in and turn it into a football analogy.”
He cracks a smile then. “It’s what I do.”
“That’s right. And don’t forget it.” I lean down and brush my lips against his. “Let me put this in your terms. We may go three and out on this possession. It doesn’t mean the game is over. You’re a brilliant coach. You can call plays better than anyone in the biz. So let’s call our own plays.”
“Call our own plays. How?”
“Get in touch with some other schools, find out who’s hiring. Send some emails. Text your friends. Put out feelers, or whatever it is you do to get a new coaching job. Seattle has been fun, but there’s nothing to keep us here once the lease is up.” I grab his hands and squeeze them in mine. “Let’s take control of the situation. What did you tell me about pursuing the book project?”
“To take a risk.”
“And why was that?”
“Because now is the time in our lives to take risks.”
“That’s exactly right. We’re not getting any younger. Especially not you, old man.” I nudge him playfully, and I can see his mood improving with every second. “Let’s get creative. Let’s get bold. Let’s try some
thing new and different if that’s what it takes. We can go for an onside kick.”
“Harper . . .”
I know I’m playing with fire, but why stop now? “Maybe we should push for a turnover. Or—”
He sits up and his lips fall on mine in one fluid motion. I grin even as he pulls me closer. My football lingo gets him every time. It’s one thing he can’t resist. Under my fingers, his strength returns. His confidence grows, and his lips move to the side of my throat, sending shivers up and down my spine. He’s coming alive, and it fills me with a renewed sense of power and energy. I’ve pulled him back away from the ledge.
When Brook flips me onto my back, I know we’ll be okay.
I WEAVE MY WAY THROUGH the traffic on the sidewalks, ducking for cover under awnings whenever I get the chance. It’s officially December in Seattle. I should have counted on the rain. But with my mind and heart pulled in a thousand and one different directions, remembering to grab an umbrella before I left the apartment just didn’t happen.
I’d spent way too much time deciding whether or not to actually meet Whitney for lunch. It’s been a couple of weeks since I saw her at Brook’s birthday, and I miss her. But I also know she watched the game and wants to find out what happened with Griggs. She didn’t come right out and say it, but she’s asked if he’s okay more than a few times in the couple of days since it happened. She’s probably already discovered everything she can from Sam, which wouldn’t be much.
Even though they’re work besties, I doubt Brook has confided in Sam. For one, their first—and only—language is football. Talking about anything unrelated to huddles, scrimmages, and whatever other sporty things come up really doesn’t factor into their relationship. Feelings don’t really matter when you’re in a constant battle to win games and keep your jobs.
Three & Out Page 22
