I’m waiting for my chance to draft a fourth player when keys clink at the front door. Oh thank God. I’m out of my chair when the door swings open and Brook enters. He scans the room, betraying no sign of emotion, and mumbles a greeting to our guests.
“Can I grab you anything?” I ask as he takes the empty seat to my left and pulls his tablet out of his satchel. “Food? Drink?”
“I’ll take a beer, thanks.”
I’m unable to contain my surprise. “But it’s football season.”
“I know.” He gives a tight-lipped half-smile.
Something must be wrong, but I’ll wait until we’re alone to pry. Brook always skips drinking anything harder than caffeine most nights during the high school football season. It’s more than a tradition. It’s who he is. If he’s giving up on it . . . No. Not going to go there. For the next two hours, I’m going to push away any of those concerns and just appreciate the fact that he made it here before the auto-draft did too much damage to his team.
WELL, IT’S DONE. THERE were a few harrowing moments—like when J.J. snapped up the running back I’d planned to take on my next turn—but overall I’m satisfied with the well-orchestrated results of my draft. Not only do I have quite a bit of talent to work with, but I managed to keep my cool better than last year.
And more importantly, I waited until the last of our guests departed before I gave into the urge to obsess about Brook’s whereabouts today or the sudden change in his demeanor. Deciding to give him a little more time and space before I pounce on him with questions, I tidy up the kitchen, covering up the leftovers and putting the platters and plates in the dishwasher. But that only works for so long.
The first of many questions is on my lips when I freeze in the doorway to the living room. Still seated at the table, Brook’s eyes remain focused on his computer screen, his shoulders tense. Oh no. Did he just realize he has a weak receiver core this year thanks to his tardiness?
I frown. “What’s wrong?”
“‘North’s Lady,’ huh?”
I blink, my brain taking a moment to process his comment. Apparently someone just caught on to my team re-branding for the new season. I’d waited until I was sure I’d be able to draft Todd Northwood for a second consecutive season, but I had a team slogan and logo ready to go. “Yeah.”
“Hmm.”
My eyes narrow. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“No. No problem. I just wonder . . .”
He seems to be having trouble fully developing his thoughts. “Wonder what?”
“If maybe you’re taking this thing with North a little far.”
Even after almost a year of dating, I can’t tell if he’s kidding. If he is, well, it isn’t very funny. This is fantasy football, not a chance for him to try material for his new stand-up comedy career.
I’m about to say this when another possibility occurs to me. “Are you jealous?”
“I’m not jealous,” he answers a little too quickly. With a parting glance at his screen, he flips the computer shut and pushes it away. “Do you need help with dishes or anything?”
“I already have the dishwasher running, and what didn’t fit is soaking overnight in the sink.” I rest a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay? How were the meetings?”
“They were . . . fine.” He stands up abruptly, and my hand falls to my side. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about football anymore.”
I blink, because I can’t remember a moment when Brook didn’t want to talk about football. “Okay.”
“I’ll put the folding tables and chairs away.”
“They can wait until the morning.” I reach for his hand, but he steps away to fold the chair he just vacated. Frowning, I watch him go to work tearing down the living room like his next meal depends on it. “Do you want me to make you up a plate of food? I can reheat—”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re heading to bed in a few minutes. But thank you,” he adds more gently, almost as an afterthought.
Okay, I can take a hint. Not well, apparently, as I’m still hovering. Something must have happened at his meeting today. It went six hours longer than expected, and he’s been distracted. Dismissive even, which isn’t like him. I want to know what’s wrong, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. I could try nagging, but that goes against my “no harping” policy. We’re still figuring out the whole “cohabiting” thing, and I am trying to mind my manners. I’ll just have to wait to pry the details out of him until later.
Stepping back inside from the storage closet on our balcony, Brook heads for the bedroom but pauses at the door. He turns on his heel and purposefully walks toward me in the kitchen. Oh boy. Has he changed his mind? Is he going to tell me whatever is bugging him?
He glances around the kitchen. “Is that everything?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He moves behind me and slips his arms around my waist. Burying his face against my neck for a moment, he doesn’t move. Rather than sending a shiver of delight down my spine like this usually does, my stomach pitches. This isn’t right. He’s so tense and full of other nerves I can’t quite figure out.
I turn in his arms. He speaks before I can ask. “Thanks for hosting the guys tonight. Sorry I wasn’t here earlier to help set up.”
“It’s no problem.” My hands slip up his chest and rest on his shoulders. The muscles are tighter than usual. My fingers go to work on the knots.
Brook’s eyes close. “That feels good.”
“Is everything okay? Are you—”
His eyes fly open. “I’m fine.”
“But—”
“I’m fine.” He gently squeezes my waist. “I’m just beat. Do you mind if I call it an early night?”
“Go ahead.”
He leans in and kisses my brow. “I love you.”
“Love you, too,” I say into his shirt.
With another parting kiss to my forehead, Brook retires to our bedroom, Blitz trailing at his feet. He doesn’t turn the light on as he gets ready for bed.
Whatever is going on, I hope he tells me soon. I won’t push, even though I desperately want to find out now. I put the dishes in the trash, ignoring the pang of guilt in my contemplation. I’m glad to have less cleanup to do after the monsters—who happen to be our closest friends—left, but I still feel badly adding more trash to our world’s already overflowing landfills. It’s a big problem.
The bed creaks under Brook’s weight. If only I understood his problem, or what I could do to help.
North’s Lady’s Draft
Round 1: Duke Smith (RB)
Round 2: Matthew Prince (WR)
Round 3: Todd Northwood (QB)
Round 4: John-Paul Massa (RB)
Round 5: Sebastian Richards (WR)
Round 6: Ambrose Saltimbacca (RB)
Round 7: A.J. Watson (TE)
Round 8: Shawn Woodson (WR)
Round 9: Tim Pierce-Rhys (RB)
Round 10: Brett Johnson (TE)
Round 11: Aaron Christopherson (RB)
Round 12: Derek Stauffer (QB)
Round 13: Tommy French (WR)
Round 14: Luke Harris (TE)
Round 15: Denver (Defense)
Round 16: Chewy Martinez (RB)
Round 17: Michael Luck (WR)
Round 18: Drew Pruitt (K)
Season Forecast
She’s back, and this year our token woman has more than a new name, she has a new sense of urgency if her draft is any indication. North’s Lady didn’t waste time with her first overall pick. Or any of her subsequent selections. She’s clearly not messing around and came into this season ready to take some names. And kick a little you-know-what along the way.
Her team is the clear front-runner going into the season. North’s Lady is projected to win all but one week, when several of her key players will be out on a Bye Week. It’s either a brilliant plan or a careless error on her part. Based on the tenacity we saw during the draft, we’re willing to b
et it’s a brilliant military strategy.
In fact, her biggest problem will be deciding who to start each week. Her talent pool runs that deep.
We look forward to seeing what this juggernaut team does. Mega Ballerz beware. There’s a new challenger in town.
Chapter Three
I’M STIRRED AWAKE EARLY the next morning by the sound of rustling plastic in the kitchen. Shoot. We must have forgotten to put one of the shopping bags away. Blitz has a knack for finding them. I should probably go intervene before he ends up getting his head and paws caught in the handles. That happened a couple of months ago. I still sometimes have flashbacks of Blitz’s pitiful moans for help.
Careful not to disturb Brook, I inch toward the edge of the bed.
“Leave it,” he murmurs sleepily, wrapping an arm around my waist to hold me in place.
“He could get hurt.”
“He’ll be fine.”
Despite myself, I snuggle into his embrace. “I hope you’ll be more concerned about our future children’s well-being than you are about our cat’s.”
“If our kids get trapped in a plastic bag, I’ll let you rescue them.”
My eyes narrow. “What will you be doing while I’m saving their lives?”
“Staying out of your way.”
“Man, I can’t wait to have a real, live baby with you,” I say dryly. “You’re going to be such a wonderful father.”
He chuckles lightly and pulls me even closer. “I could surprise you.”
“Mmm,” is the only response I can make with him nuzzling the side of my neck.
I’m glad he’s in a more lighthearted mood today. Particularly because this early morning banter means his foul mood probably didn’t have anything to do with me. At least, it seems safe to make that assumption based on where his hand is currently roving.
I’m still on the fence about morning sex. On the one hand, it’s a pretty spectacular way to start the day. Especially compared to the usual routine of waking with Brook’s alarm followed by my hitting snooze three more times before finally stumbling to the gym at our apartment complex for a half-assed thirty-minute cardio session. On the other, this is hardly me at my best. I haven’t been to the bathroom or brushed my teeth. It’s hard to feel sexy with a full bladder and stinky breath.
Despite my reservations, Brook almost has me on board. I suppose we’ve reached the point in our relationship when the superficial things don’t matter as much. I should just enjoy what’s happening.
The thud and subsequent wail from the kitchen break through our haze. I freeze and Brook lets out a heavy sigh.
Planting a kiss on my neck, he gives me a parting squeeze. “I’ll go take care of the baby. Meet you back here in two minutes?”
I nod and wait just long enough for him to step out of the bedroom before I hop up and head to the adjoining bathroom. Since I have the time, I might as well deal with those bladder and breath issues.
I’m still curious about what happened yesterday. As long as I’ve known him, Brook has been a busy man. His team meetings and practices, homework grading sessions, and the million other little tasks on his to-do list have run long before. But he’s always been good about sending me a text to say he’d be late. Yesterday’s meeting went well beyond “running late.”
Add in his weird mood last night—being so dismissive, drinking a couple of beers during the draft—and it’s obvious he’s dealing with something.
Brook is already back in bed when I’m finished in the bathroom. He’s scratching between Blitz’s ears, while the cat gazes up at him adoringly. I suppose it’s nice for the cat to get this one-on-one time with his master, but I wouldn’t mind swapping places. Blitz meets my gaze, and I swear he has the audacity to look smug.
At least one of us is spending the Sunday morning how we envisioned. I bet this was on Blitz’s mind the whole time. Step one: Wake up Dad by playing with the plastic bag. Step two: Get Dad to come find me by pretending to be in distress. Step three: Use my “near peril” to guilt Dad into giving me treats and a good cuddle. Step four: Gloat. Blitz is just sweetly devious enough to come up with such a plan.
Brook catches me watching him from the doorway and pats the empty spot next to him on the bed. I slide my legs under the covers and tuck myself under his free arm. Still petting the cat, Brook toys with the ends of my hair. This isn’t quite what I had in mind for how we’d spend the next thirty minutes, but it’s still nice.
He clears his throat. “Coach Paxton has cancer.”
My fingers freeze in Blitz’s fur. I gaze up at Brook and the look on his face—a mixture of grief and fatigue—sends a bolt of panic into my stomach. There’s so much I want to ask. So much I want to be able to say, but I can’t.
“He told me yesterday before the meeting,” Brook continues, his words straight forward and his tone matter-of-fact. “He’s going to take a leave of absence while he goes in for treatment. The doctors are optimistic he’ll respond well, but coaching is too much for him right now.”
“Getting healthy needs to be his priority,” I whisper.
Brook nods. He pulls me in closer, resting his cheek against my head. “Pax asked me to step in as interim coach. I said yes.”
Of course he did. The knot in my stomach tightens. I can’t tell if it’s from fear or excitement at what this opportunity means for Brook. Even though it comes at far too high of a cost to a good man like Coach Paxton, it is still a chance for Brook to rally the team through a difficult time. It’s a daunting task, yet I can’t imagine anyone better equipped for it. I should be telling him this. Telling him he can do it. That I’m here for him however I can be. But choosing the right words, forming complete sentences, is still hard.
“It’s going to mean extra hours.” Brook shifts and stares down at me. “I’ll have to be at all of the practices, go to more meetings. Plus, I’ll still have to do everything I did before. It’s not going to be easy.”
“No, but you’ll manage.” I wrap my arms around him and squeeze. “You’ve got this. I have no doubt.”
“Thanks.”
“And . . .” I swallow hard. “I’m here. I’m not entirely sure how I can help. It’s not like I can run drills or make new game plans. But I’m here to do whatever I can. All you have to do is tell me what to do.”
He lets out a shaky breath and presses his lips to my temple. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”
“We’re in this together.” It’s ridiculously cheesy to say, but I mean it. In the past year, Brook has been my rock. The least I can do is offer him a little support. Even if I don’t have a clue what that will mean. I’ve been there before, and I figured it out. Just like I will now.
“We have a lot riding on this season,” Brook’s voice breaks, and he clears his throat again. “Everyone expects us to go to State. I don’t want to let the coach or the team down.”
“You won’t.” Because no matter what happens—state championship or not—he’ll give it everything he has. And they’ll see, and respect, him for that.
“What if we don’t win—”
“What if you do?” I interrupt. I squeeze him again. “You’re supposed to be the optimistic one in our relationship, remember?”
He lets out a short laugh. “I remember.”
“So think positively. You have nothing to lose.”
“Except the state title.”
“Enough of that.” I rub his back, wondering what I can possibly do to ease some of the tension building in him. “Is there anything we can do to help the Paxtons?”
“I’m not sure.” Brook runs a hand through his bedhead hair, earning a disdainful glare from Blitz. For being a finicky cat, he doesn’t take too kindly when his humans stop paying him attention. “We should pray for them, obviously, but Coach isn’t the kind of guy who will ask if he needs something.”
“Maybe I should call his wife and ask if I can help with the kids,” I suggest. “Or maybe I can make a few casseroles for their f
reezer.”
Brook’s shoulders relax, and he gives the first hint of a smile. “That would be nice.”
“I’ll call her.”
“You know . . . you sound like a proper coach’s wife.”
“It’s those Midwestern values coming into play.” My eyes narrow. “Don’t get too used to it. Making a casserole and offering to babysit won’t always be my solution to an issue.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Brook picks up one of my hands to play with my fingers. “I wish we could stay here a while longer.”
“Why can’t we?” I glance at the clock radio on his side of the bed. “Church doesn’t start for another few hours.”
“I have to go.”
“Where?”
“Team meeting.” He winces at my frown, and quickly reaches forward to rub his hands up and down my arms. “The other coaches and I talked yesterday, and from now on, instead of meeting for five or six hours on a Saturday morning, we’re going to split the difference and do a few hours on Saturday and a few on Sunday.”
“Why?”
“Would you believe me if I said it was to have more time to spend with our families?” he asks, his lips pulled into a fake smile.
“Nope. Try again.”
“It’ll give us more time to analyze the game footage before we make our game plans for the next week.”
“Getting warmer.”
His shoulders slump. “You’ve got me. A couple of the other coaches have season tickets, and—”
“They don’t want to miss any of the games,” I finish.
He nods.
“Makes sense to me.” And it does. Paired with the other two paltry excuses, it sounds perfectly reasonable.
“Are you mad?” he asks, squeezing my fingers.
“No. Why would I be?”
“Because now I’ll be gone Sunday mornings on top of Saturdays.”
“But it’ll still shake out to the same amount of weekend time when it’s all said and done, right?”
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