The Wife Win

Marek

In the three hours that follow the interview and facility tour with Harper, I’ve held four meetings, called a vendor who wants to renegotiate their contract, and spoken with my buddy, Ballas Keeney, a pro hockey player with the Vancouver Vikings.

We grew up together, each of us playing sports in high school until he chose the direction of hockey and I fell in love with basketball. Now that we’ve landed in the Pacific Northwest, with both teams owned by Marvin Spurlock, we’ve been able to chat a lot more often in person.

In fact, his team was just eliminated from the Stanley Cup finals this past weekend and I’d been meaning to reach out to him in brotherly support, but got sidetracked on my road trip. So when he called, I answered on the second ring.

“Are you calling to cry on my shoulder over your loss?”

Ballas laughs heartily. “Nah, man. I got all the sympathy I wanted this weekend from Tara, Chloe, Sheridan, and let’s see…who else was there? Oh, yeah, Christi. So, I’m good. All cried out for now. Plus, there’s always next year.”

“You’re such a player,” I tease with a laugh. Although, with Ballas, he’s not kidding. He’s said he’ll never settle down while he’s still playing in the league. Until he retires, he’s a free agent when it comes to women. “Good to see nothing’s changed there. And that’s the right attitude to have. Dust yourself off and make it happen next year.”

Ballas groans. “I don’t know, man. This old body of mine is falling apart. Not sure there’s enough duct tape to even hold it together for another year. This season took a lot out of me. I need a fucking vacation to lay on the beach or something. What’s your schedule look like? I could come down for a visit. Or we could take your team jet down to Vegas for the weekend.”

Damn, that does sound great and brings back some wonderful memories of times we spent together hanging out when we were in our teens and early twenties, each getting ready for our careers to take off. But I’m right in the thick of things leading up to the draft. There’s no way I have the time to spend on anything else but work.

“Ah, man, I wish I could, buddy. But things for me are just starting. I’m out of town this weekend in Chicago, then back for the draft, and then it’s all uphill until the season starts. But maybe a quick trip in July?”

“I can work with that. Although, not Vegas in July. That’s a fucking hot sandlot. Maybe a beach destination? We could go down to the Oregon Coast. Lay on the beach, drink cocktails, hike, get laid…”

I laugh. Ballas has never been a man of real leisure. I don’t think he could sit still for more than fifteen minutes. Plus, he’s never been to the Oregon coast. It’s not like a tropical paradise.

“If you want cocktails, beautiful women, and nice sandy beaches, you should think about Hawaii or something. The coast is rocky as fuck.”

He’s quiet for a moment and then says, “Huh. I guess I didn’t realize that. Okay, I’ll figure something out and be in touch with some dates.”

“Sounds good. I’ll talk to you later.”

“You too, brother. And good luck with the draft.”

As I end my call, Vivian stops in to deliver lunch and I take a moment to stand and stretch. My back has been killing me, probably from the various hotel beds and all the flights. It’s nice to be back home in my own bed again.

“Hey, Viv. Can you schedule me with Dr. Johnson sometime before the weekend?”

Dr. J is our team’s chiropractor. We have a plethora of sports medicine and medically trained staff for our players and office staff to use on the regular. A perk of the organization. There’s a ton of bumps, bruises, sprains, and various other ailments that need tending to on a professional basketball team.

“Of course. And Miss Conrad is waiting for you in the lobby.”

I glance out my office window and see Harper sitting alone in one of the leather chairs, one leg draped over the other, the position hiking up her skirt so I catch a glimpse of the bare skin of her thigh. She’s taking notes on a notepad, scribbling furiously, biting her bottom lip in serious concentration. I smile to myself at the sight.

As if she feels me staring, her head pops up and she meets my gaze. I drop my smile and wave her in, noticing that her cameraman isn’t with her. When she enters, she looks longingly at the buffet of food I’ve had catered in.

“Come on in. We can eat and make this a working lunch.”

She strides in as Vivian closes the door to leave us in uninterrupted peace. My eyes remain glued on Harper, who wanders over to the craft services table and peruses the food.

“Wow, this all smells wonderful. I’m starved. Thank you.”

“Of course. Is Doug not joining us for lunch?”

Harper swings around, her chin held up. “No. He was called away by the station to tape something happening down at Westlake Center. Some kind of protest, I think. He’ll be back later.”

She casts her gaze down and then looks up at me sheepishly. “I hope that’s okay. We can just talk off-camera. I have more questions after my interviews downstairs.”

I motion a hand toward the table for her to begin. She grabs a plate and fills it up with salad, chicken, pasta, and fresh bread. I follow behind her and do the same.

“That’s fine with me,” I assure her, although I’m still hesitant about where this session will go and whether she’ll try to sneak any personal questions into the conversation. My guard needs to remain up at all times. “Did you get what you needed from Brendon and Jaeger?”