The Wife Win

Again, Harper’s hand flies up, the sleeve of her blouse loose at her wrist and falling toward her elbow to expose the length of her arm. She’s not overly delicate, but her skin looks milky-white in juxtaposition to the green hue of her blouse. It’s the same shade and color of her eyes which means she wore it for the sole purpose of standing out.

Glen points to Harper. “You, Miss. Second row.”

If she’s flustered or nervous, it doesn’t show.

In fact, it’s me who’s taken slightly off-guard when she stands. She must be wearing heels because she presents herself with a tall, long, and poised stance. The green of her blouse disappears inside the tapered waist of a navy blue skirt that hugs her curves in a voluptuous wrap. It’s not an overtly sexy look. It’s understated and classy, but my mouth still dries up to see how put together she looks as opposed to yesterday’s leggings, workout shirt, ponytail, and rain jacket.

She inhales a breath and accepts the microphone that’s handed to her. And then all my senses fire up as I watch her go to work.

Color me surprised. Even if I bet and lost the wager I made with myself, I’d still come out ahead with a win.

She’s fucking spectacular and nearly blows my mind.

“Harper Conrad, Spokane KXEM. Hello again, Marek.” She smiles, her eyes twinkling with the shared meaning. Her voice is soft, but sultry. Sturdy, but feminine. “As a follow-up to Bobby’s question…with the draft coming up, you have some picks that could really shake things up with the team. What does that mean for your veterans? Will you need to make some deals and moves to make room for younger players?”

Now that’s the question Bobby should’ve asked. He’s the most senior reporter in the room and should have known better. Instead, he’s grown complacent and lazy, allowing a green journalist to take a swing and hit it out of the park. High five to Harper Conrad.

I consider her question and answer it honestly. “Good question, Miss Conrad. It’s always important for a team at any level to have a diverse group of players. You want mature players coupled with fresh ones and those who have different levels of experience to balance the play. We’re looking for the right players and the best combo to get our team to the championship this coming season.”

She nods, glancing down at her phone presumably to ensure it’s recording. When she raises her eyes back to mine, I feel something shift in my chest. I grab the water bottle and take a swig, letting the cool liquid trickle down my parched throat.

“Follow-up question,” she says politely with a smile, looking between Glen and me. I nod the go-ahead. “You have three rookies who joined the team last year. Trenton Ashford, Jaeger Matlin, and Henri Moreau. Except for Jaeger, they didn’t get much playing time their first season because of the strength of your veterans. How do you plan to employ their talents this season, especially if you’re bringing on new rookies?”

“As with many rookies, it takes time to see how they’ll emerge within the ranks. These three are great young players. They work hard and put in the effort we like to see. Jaeger is a great scorer and consistent shooter. I see him finding his spot and maturing in his role as shooting guard. Trenton has the size and mobility you don’t often get. At nearly seven-two, he’s a tough opponent and a damn good blocker. They’ll continue to work with our development coaches and improve on those strengths. With Henri, we’re fortunate to have him on our roster as he plays a pivotal role for us.” I pause for a moment realizing that I don’t have an urge to move on to another reporter. I enjoy the way this feels like a conversation between Harper and me. It’s evident she knows her way around the sport of basketball and takes it seriously.

I like that about her, but I need to move on to other members of the press to ensure I’m not favoring any one reporter.

Especially a young, beautiful female reporter that gets me stirred up.

Glen picks a few others from the audience and, after thirty minutes, I grow tired of their questions. I’ve rolled up my sleeves on my dress shirt and removed my tie completely.

Chip Lawson from the Cadet asks the one question I’ve been dreading. I need to handle this response with tact and finesse, so they don’t see through the veneer I’ve put on.

“Marek, there’s rumors of a deal brewing over Carch Anderson. If he goes, how do you hope to fill that spot?”

“Carch is a free agent this year and since we’re focused on the upcoming draft, we’ll have to wait for the right time to talk with him and his agent. In the meantime, I try to be as honest and upfront as I can with my players. If there are rumors out there, it’s the nature of our business. I make myself available to my players as much as possible, so if Carch wants to ask and have an honest conversation, he has the ears of both me and Coach Green.”

Things wind down and I feel a sense of relief until Glen calls on the last reporter. Teresa Camden from some indie paper in the south Sound.

“Marek, there’s been a number of situations over the past year with your players that have interfered with their mental play. Zeke Forester, Ansel Werner and, of course, Carch. And now there’s news about your ex-wife coming out with a book that sounds like it could easily derail your own focus this season. Care to weigh in on that?”

The blood pounds through my veins, whooshing in my ears with the sound of a speeding freight train. I knew this would happen. It would turn into a media circus the minute Jasmine stepped out on that ledge with her book deal.

Who the fuck cares about what happened between us? It doesn’t matter to anyone else but us.

I struggle to keep my composure and the irritation out of my tone. “I don’t care to comment, thank you, Miss Camden. And as for my players, they are all doing well and using the summer break to manage their health, both physical and mental, and we’ll all be ready for the upcoming season.”

She tries to slide in a follow-up question, but I shut her down.

“No more questions. Thank you for coming today.”

Then I stand, grab my jacket off the back of the chair, swing it over my shoulder and walk to the edge of the podium. Glen stands waiting for me.

I whisper my request.

“Please invite Harper Conrad to meet us in my office in fifteen minutes.”