Fourth & Inches

by Laura Chapman

  “Which I’m sure you understand well.”

  “That I do. The meetings, workouts, and practices are all important. More when you have the eyes of the world on you.” He pauses a moment to look over his shoulder at the boys in the backseat. “But it’s good to take the time off for what really matters.”

  My heart hitches. I’d always heard Booker Swift was the real deal: a top-rated athlete who studied more than his playbook at the university. And I’d always heard he was a good guy—one of the first to sign-up to help for charity events or to hit the pause button long enough to meet a young fan. Now I can see that for myself. Booker Swift, my champion quarterback, has a heart of gold.

  But, I also feel a need to defend my husband a little. As frustrating as his frequent absences can be, he does his best to be there for his family.

  “Brook is a great dad,” I say. “He always makes sure to get home in time to put the boys to bed at night, and we visit him for lunch at least once or twice a week. The boys worship him.”

  “I don’t doubt that. I’ve only met him a couple of times, but I know his team would go to battle for him.”

  “They’re a good group. I’m pretty sure Clay and Tate think the guys on the team are oversized toys and friends instead of highly trained athletes.”

  We’re never in the training facility long before a wide receiver has one of them hoisted in the air while a running back is playing catch with the other.

  “I bet it’s just as good for the players to have kids around as it is for the kids,” Booker says. “When you’re far away from home—sometimes for the first time in your life—it’s nice to feel like you’re still part of a family.”

  My heart does another pitter patter. Seriously, if I wasn’t head over heels for Brook, it would be all too easy to fall in love with Booker. As it is, I’ve already gone way into crush mode. That makes my grin spread even wider.

  “That’s the tone the coaches are trying to set for the team,” I say. “From the head coach down to the assistants and graduate coaches. We’re all encouraged to be around for games and practices. It makes the season a little easier for all of us.”

  “It’s still hard. My girlfriend and I have been together since junior year. And she’s about as understanding as they come. But I know it’s been a big adjustment for her. First being the girlfriend of a college town celebrity, and now in the pros.” I catch another one of his grins out of the corner of my eye. “But she’s been a rock for me.”

  “She sounds like a keeper.”

  “She is. Actually . . . you’re going to the mall to see Santa?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Which one?”

  I throw out the name.

  He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “I hate to invite myself along—especially after you’ve already picked me up from the airport and now you’re taking me to dinner, but . . . would you mind if I tagged along to the mall?”

  “You want to go to the mall?”

  “I’ve been wanting to pick her up a ring for Christmas, but I’ve been crazy with my own

  practices. Plus, it’d be nice to have a woman around to give an opinion.”

  “You want to buy a ring?” I’m finding it hard to draw a proper breath again. The last time someone asked me to help pick out an engagement ring for his girlfriend, Wade was getting ready to propose to Amelia. “Here?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble.” But I think about how Wade and I were nearly caught buying Amelia’s ring, and we were all nobodies in the eyes of our fellow Lincolnites. “Aren’t you worried about being recognized.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Not really. Besides, Christmas is only a couple of days away. I doubt any rumors of my ring shopping would get back to her before I can give it to her. Plus, it’s not like we haven’t talked about getting married. And I can go incognito.”

  I very much doubt that Booker Swift can ever really go anywhere incognito. But, if he isn’t worried about it, there’s no reason for me to worry either.

  “I’ll help you watch the boys in line for Santa,” he says.

  How can I possibly say no to an offer like that?

  Chapter 3: The D-Line

  “Son of a—” I cut myself off before I let out another expletive for Clay to repeat.

  But as I take in the line leading to Santa’s Workshop, I’m pretty sure I’d be justified in teaching my son the B-word. Hell, from where I’m standing—which is at the end of a line that loops around the holiday nuts stand, two cell phone provider kiosks, all the way to one of the still-standing department stores—I’d be justified in letting out an F-bomb.

  Little pitchers and their big ears be . . . Okay, I need to calm down. Clenching my eyes shut for just a moment, I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I repeat my yoga breathing a few more times, again noting that I should really carve out some time to do them in an actual yoga class and not just as a coping mechanism.

  Beside me, Booker Swift lets out a low whistle and a murmured “damn.”

  My eyes fly open and my jaw clenches as I wait for Clay to shout the word. Fortunately, he’s too preoccupied by the brother and sister playing tag in front of us to catch Booker’s slip.

  I cast a sidelong glance in his direction. With a nondescript gray slouching beanie and a black puffy jacket now dangling open to reveal a white undershirt, he still looks every inch the pro baller in his so-called disguise. Especially with the way his pec muscles are protruding from the undershirt.

  I tear my eyes away as my cheeks start to flush again, and I remind myself that I’m a happily married woman and that Booker Swift is not an object for me to ogle. I’m really becoming an unenlightened creep in my old age.

  Still, no one seems to have noticed that they’re standing in line with one of the most famous men in professional football. I don’t need to draw attention to that fact myself.

  “There’s a jewelry story not too far ahead,” I say instead, pointing as casually as I can to a high-end store that will surely have something worthy of a professional football player’s wife. “We’ll be fine waiting here if you want to take a look.”

  “No way. I promised to help you with the kiddos, and you promised to help me look. I’ll wait.”

  Well, then. I’m not really sure what to say about that. I could try to insist he go on. But for as down to Earth and kind as he’s been so far, I don’t imagine Booker is the kind of guy who likes to be told what to do. I’ve seen the intensity he plays with on the field. He’s clearly the one calling the shots out there.

  I might as well pass the time another way.

  “So tell me more about your girlfriend,” I say. “It might help with picking out the . . .”—I pause to look around and make sure no one really has caught on to who is standing here in their presence—“you know what.”

  Which is true. As much time as I’ve spent looking up Booker Swift online for fantasy football research purposes, I’ve never delved that deeply into his personal life. I’ve seen him post the occasional photo of the two of them together on his Instagram profile. Mostly he shares pictures from team practices, games, and a few of his endorsement deals.

  I wonder how much money he makes for each of those posts. On a scale of one to ten, I wonder how rude it would be of me to ask. I’m guessing a ten.

  And there I go again with my inability focus on anything for more than a minute. Which is too bad, because Booker’s already started talking.

  “. . . And after college she started working for a sports marketing firm,” he said. “She still runs every day. Once a track star, always a track star, you know?”

  “Oh, of course,” I say, like I haven’t just been contemplating his income. “What kind of style does she have?”

  “Like what does she wear?”

  “Exactly.”

  He scrunches up his face, and I swear, I’ve never seen him look so deep in thought even while studying the playbook on the side
line.

  “She wears a lot of boots, I guess,” he says.

  “Hiking boots or something more stylish?”

  “I guess more stylish.”

  Okay, we’re getting somewhere.

  “But she did wear hiking boots when we went to Estes and the Grand Canyon,” he adds.

  Then again, maybe not.

  “So she dresses up for going to work and out, but she also likes to be more casual in everyday life?” I ask.

  “That’s right.”

  Yeah, this is no help. Time for a new approach.

  “Does she have an Instagram account?”

  His brow furrows, but he nods.

  “Could you pull it up?”

  He only hesitates a moment, but does as I’ve requested. A moment later he hands me his phone—the newest, fanciest model from one of his sponsors. I recognize it from those sponsored posts of his. Holding it carefully in my hand, because I’m not sure I could afford to replace it I open up her first photo and begin scrolling.

  She’s pretty. Not in an America’s Next Top Model—give the woman a contract—kind of way. But in a natural, youthful way that still probably turns heads and leaves an impression. She seems to shift between wearing her hair in perfectly coiffed curls that fall almost to her waist and a messy bun on top of her head. As far as clothes go, she seems to update hers for every season, wearing pieces I recognize from magazine covers. There are also a lot of black jeans and leggings with T-shirts and the occasional flannel shirt, still artfully tied around her waist or worn to look casual.

  That’s her style. Formal casualness. My job just got a whole lot easier.

  “You should probably look for a round-cut solitaire diamond,” I say, giving him back his phone before I get distracted again and break it.

  He mouths “round-cut solitaire diamond” like he’s committing it to memory. “How big?”

  “That’s going to be your decision. But, remember, it’s not just the number of carats that make a diamond impressive. It’s color, cut, clarity—”

  “The five Cs,” he interrupts, nodding in understanding. “I remember seeing those when I was looking up rings online.”

  I grin at the idea of his researching rings on his phone in the locker room after practices.

  “I’d also say a plain white gold or platinum band. You could probably do a plain band, but if you wanted, she might like one that has diamonds embedded in it all the way around. I think it’s called a halo, or something like that.”

  When he gives me a blank stare, I pull out my own phone. Ignoring a number of notifications, including unread texts from Brook, J.J. , and my brother Christopher, I do a quick search of my own. I look through a few pictures until I find the right one.

  “Maybe something like one of these,” I say, giving him my phone. It looks so small in his hand.

  He squints at the screen, but after a moment he nods.

  “I think you’re right. This looks like something she’d like. You really know your jewelry.”

  I lift a shoulder. “Not really. But I went ring shopping a few years ago.”

  “For your ring?” he says, gesturing to my left hand, which is perched on top of the two-seated stroller.

  “No, this is a family ring.”

  His brows knit together again. “I hadn’t thought about a family ring.”

  “Do you have one?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then you’re probably good buying one.”

  The line inches forward a couple of feet, and I can’t believe the boys are still sitting so peacefully. It won’t last.

  I eye the store ahead nervously. “Seriously, if you’d like to go take a look, I’ll hold down the spot here. I can give you a second opinion later.”

  “Maybe I could text you from the store? Send you a few pictures?”

  Oh. My. God. Booker Swift is about to get my digits. If I was about ten years younger, hadn’t met brook, and was not about to help him pick out an engagement ring for his future wife, I’d be about to lose it here. Even under those circumstances, it’s still a bit of a struggle for me to keep myself as chill as possible as I put my number in his phone.

  “Great,” he says. “I’ll check in with you soon.”

  I’m left to stare after him for a moment thinking about what it means to have exchanged phone numbers with a legend in the making. I don’t get very far into my thoughts, because out of the corner of my eyes, I see a familiar and determined face stalking toward me.

  “Oh, Lord . . .” I let out a sigh and try my best not to look annoyed as J.J. appears.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was going to stop by the house to hang out with the kids this afternoon,” he says, his frown deepening. “You weren’t there.”

  Oh, crap. I’d completely forgotten J.J. had been scheduled to come over to watch the boys this afternoon so I could get a couple hours of work done. He does that a few times every week. He calls it “hanging out,” but really, he’s basically the boys’ manny. Though I don’t pay him to do it, which I guess makes it hanging out.

  Whatever it’s called, in the excitement of the pregnancy test followed by chauffeur duties, I completely spaced canceling.

  “I’m sorry. The afternoon’s been crazy.”

  “I was worried when you guys weren’t there,” he says, kneeling down to give out high-fives to the kids in some semi-elaborate way they always do. “Hey Mac Junior and Small Fry.”

  Mac Junior and Small Fry. I wonder what he’ll call this baby.

  “I called your brothers, and they didn’t know where you were. I finally got ahold of Mac and he told me you might be here,” he continues, looking up at me, a frown still marring his face. “Hey. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” I say, though now that he mentions it, I am feeling a little warm.

  “You’re looking a little green.”

  And I’m nauseous. Somewhere in the food court, someone is cooking something the baby doesn’t like. I cover my nose, taking a few shallow breaths through my mouth hoping that will help. It doesn’t.

  For some reason, Booker Swift chooses that moment to suddenly reappear.

  “Remind me again what that band style is . . .” he trails off. “Are you okay?”

  I clench my mouth shut and nod, hoping that’ll keep me from being sick.

  From the ground, J.J. let’s out a soft “holy shit,” which Clay parrots back. Standing, he thrusts out his hand.

  “I haven’t seen you since the last alumni dinner,” he says.

  Booker gives a nervous glance around, but everyone is too busy to notice what’s happening here. He shakes J.J.’s hand, but releases it to cup my shoulder.

  “You don’t look so good.”

  I’m about to assure them all that everything is totally fine, when someone walks by eating an egg sandwich. Where did they get an egg sandwich at this time of day? The thought barely goes through my mind as I race ten feet away to the nearest trash can. I make it just in time to empty out my guts.

  Behind me, I’m vaguely aware of J.J. telling Booker to stay put. A moment later, he’s at my side, a hand on my upper back. I let out another wretch and he flinches, turning his head aside.

  “Ugh,” he says. “Sorry, but I forgot how gross it is when you puke. I haven’t seen you do that since . . .”

  I slowly stand upright now, the back of my hand pressed to my lips. Beside me, J.J. is staring with wide open eyes.

  “Wait a minute,” he says.

  “J.J. . . .”

  “Are you . . .”

  I glance around and catch the horrified stares of strangers all around us. “Okay, be cool.”

  “You’re pregnant?”

  Behind him, I see Booker’s eyes go wide too as he stares at me, shellshocked.

  Great. Just great. I’ve lost my lunch in front of at least two-hundred people—not to mention horrified children, who, thank goodness, haven’t thrown up themselves. I probab
ly have a little vomit on my coat, which happens to be my favorite. J.J. Sanchez and Booker Swift know I’m pregnant.

  And my husband—who is now fifteen minutes late—doesn’t know.

  “Shit,” I whisper.

  From the stroller, Clay perks up. “Shit!”

  Chapter 4: Game Time

  “You guys didn’t say anything,” J.J. says a few minutes later as I’m sitting on a bench sipping a can of ginger ale he’d found in a vending machine.

  We’re within a couple of feet of the boys and Booker, who is dutifully keeping our place in line. By now, my coat has been removed and my stomach is more settled. More importantly, most of the people have stopped staring at me, and no one seems to have noticed national football celebrity Booker Swift or local football celebrity J.J. Sanchez are in their midst.

  Thank goodness for small favors, I guess.

  “I just found out today.”

  I take another sip then set the cup aside.

  “Brook must be pretty stoked,” J.J. says.

  “He doesn’t know.”

  J.J.’s eyes widen, and before his imagination can run away with itself, I hold up a hand.

  “He doesn’t know, because I haven’t seen him yet. I’m going to tell him tonight.”

  J.J. nods and from his spot a few feet away, Booker gives me a little salute to say he’ll keep it quiet too. J.J. looks like he wants to say something, but he keeps his mouth shut. That must be a first. I’ve never known him to keep a thought unspoken. Which isn’t a very nice thought to be having about the man who just watched me hurl into a trash can and helped me recover from it.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath in through my nose, grateful when it doesn’t end in another wave of nausea.

  A phone buzzes and my eyes pop open. Gripping onto the ginger ale, I reach for my pure only to remember I’ve left it in the stroller.

  J.J. holds up the phone in his hands. “It’s mine.” He glances down at the screen and frowns, muttering an expletive.”

  My own brow furrows. “What’s wrong?”

  He shakes his head. “Looks like my dad’s plane will be landing shortly.”