Going for Two

by Laura Chapman

  Apparently, Wade has a fanciful, romantic side. He just doesn’t understand how to unleash it. That’s where I—and a lifetime of reading love stories and watching romantic comedies—come into play. Even if the heroines aren’t helpless maidens literally being swept off their feet by a hulking Viking of a man—which gives me an idea for a little game Brook and I should play in the off-season—they have one thing in common: There’s one brilliant moment when the stars and planets align in the couple’s universe and their undying love shines through.

  That’s a really good line actually. I should maybe write it down in case I want to put that in a greeting card. Oh! It would be perfect for the congratulatory card I’ll give Wade and Amelia once the blessed proposal actually comes to fruition. Would I be getting ahead of myself if I went ahead and bought the card and penned the note?

  The growing panic on Wade’s face draws me back to the present. Focus, Harper. Engagement cards can wait—at least until tomorrow. Soothing Wade’s fears can’t.

  “Let’s go outside,” I suggest, hoping the fresh fall air and wind will add some color to his pale cheeks. I can’t have him looking ill when the party arrives.

  The men of the Mega Ballerz might not be the most perceptive bunch in the world, but even they’ll suspect something is up if Wade passes out in the middle of the living room. I could always lie and say he panicked because one of his running backs was suddenly listed as questionable for today’s game. They’d buy the excuse easily enough, but why lie when I can prevent the situation in the first place.

  Outside on the balcony, I roll my shoulders and lean against the brick wall. Wade sinks into one of the patio chairs and rests his chin on his hand. We’re making this whole situation way more complicated than it needs to be.

  Keeping my tone as light as possible, I ask, “Why do you want to marry Amelia?”

  “Because I love her,” he answers quickly and more confidently than he’s sounded all day. “I can’t imagine a life without her. Or the girls. I love them, too.”

  “That’s good.” I nod encouragingly. “Why do you love her? And them?”

  “She’s a great mom, and those girls . . . They slay me.” He pauses a moment and reaches back to massage the tension at the base of his neck. “They make me laugh. I look at them and . . .” He thumps at his stomach with a balled fist. “I feel it right there. Get what I mean?”

  “I do.”

  “They’re the brightest part of my life,” he continues. “They make it worth living. I can’t come up with the words to explain it, but they’re everything to me.”

  “That’s perfect.”

  His brow furrows. “What’s perfect?”

  “What you just said.” I push away from the wall and cross the balcony. “You don’t have the words, but you have them here.” I tap his chest. “Tell her that.”

  “Tell her I don’t know what to say?” he asks. His eyebrows draw together. “That doesn’t make sense. It’s hardly poetic.”

  “Maybe it is,” I insist. “Even though you can’t write sonnets or sing a song about the way you feel about her and the girls, doesn’t mean your feelings are any less sincere.”

  Understanding dawns on his face. “So maybe if I say she makes me feel things I don’t have words for . . .”

  “She’ll think it’s the sweetest, most wonderful thing she’s ever heard,” I finish.

  “That’s pretty good.” He drops his hands into his lap. “Can I try again?”

  “From the top.”

  I step back to give him room to kneel again. He wipes his palms on the side of his pants and takes my hand. “Amelia, I can never begin to put into words the way you and the girls make me feel. But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to figure out how.”

  I nod encouragingly, a lump settling in my throat, because I’m so proud of him.

  He takes another breath. “I love you. If you’ll marry me, I’ll make sure to tell you that—to show you—how much I do every day. So . . . will you? Marry me?”

  “Perfect.” Because I can’t quite resist, I throw my arms around his shoulders and give him a squeeze. “It was beautiful and lovely and everything a girl wants to hear from the man she’s about to marry.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” I open my mouth to say more, but freeze when the screen door squeaks open and Brook steps outside.

  Well, this is beyond awkward. I release my hold on Wade and move back. Unable to lift my gaze to Brook’s, I shift to at least facing him. My heartbeat quickens. I haven’t done something wrong, but this has to look questionable in his eyes.

  Wade jumps to his feet and blurts out, “I’m asking Amelia to marry me.”

  My eyes fly up to Brook’s face then. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he nods and says, “Okay.”

  “Harper was helping me come up with how to propose,” Wade rambles on. “I’m not good at this sort of a thing, and well, I needed Harper. To make sure I don’t blow it.”

  Brook grabs his chin and runs his fingers over his lips and the hint of scruff that comes when he skips shaving on the weekends. Catching my stare, he drops his hands. “Babe, would you give Wade and me a couple of minutes?”

  My stomach sinks to my knees. “Okay.”

  I dart a worried glance at Wade then step toward the door. When I’m within an arm’s reach, Brook grabs my hand. He raises it to his lips and plants a light kiss on my knuckles. Then, almost as quickly, he releases his hold and winks. My head is spinning when I step back inside the apartment and close the door behind me.

  What just happened?

  Though I’d prefer to stay close to the action unfolding on the balcony, I head back to the kitchen to busy myself. Brook apparently wants privacy to talk with Wade—and I sincerely hope it’s a quick talk where he offers his friend a few pieces of advice and maybe his blessing. I should respect that.

  All the same, I keep them within my peripheral view while I stack a pile of Rice Krispies bars on a plate next to the brownies I baked yesterday. It appears Brook is doing most of the talking. I wouldn’t be able to read his lips even if his back wasn’t turned to me. Instead, I watch Wade’s expression. If this talk turns sour, I might be able to make it back out to the balcony before either man throws the other over the side.

  No, that would never happen. They’d never hurt each other. They’re like brothers.

  Actually, my brothers used to fight constantly when we were kids. Even though Scott was five years older than Christopher, the two wrestled and swapped fists like they were trying out for ultimate fighter.

  Wade raises an arm, and I drop the last bar on the plate, preparing to race across the apartment. I pause when he pats Brook on the back.

  Well then. I guess I don’t have to worry about any kind of misunderstandings between Brook and Wade. I can only imagine how much it means to Wade to have Brook’s support. I only hope Brook isn’t too disappointed Wade didn’t come to him first. I’m sure he understands, but it might still sting a little.

  Then again, maybe it doesn’t. Brook is in touch with his emotions, but he doesn’t necessarily wear them on his sleeve the way I do.

  I pretend to be preoccupied with the task of arranging condiments on the table when the boys come inside. One of them turns on the TV, so I don’t hear Brook sneak up behind me until he wraps his arms around me. I flinch a little, but order myself to calm down. It’s not like he jumped out from behind the couch.

  “You’ve done a very nice thing for Wade,” he murmurs in my ear, resting his cheek against my hair. “And my sister. He told me about what you guys have planned. You’re right. She’ll love it.”

  I shrug. “They would do the same for us.”

  I’m so engrossed with organizing the treats I nearly miss Brook freezing behind me. Great. Now I’ve done it. I’ve gone and insinuated that I might have expectations. I mean, it’s no secret I want to marry him. We’ve discussed it before. And I wouldn’t mind if he asked in a cute
way. Then again, I’d be equally pleased with a serious, grown-up conversation about marriage. I don’t care how it happens.

  How do I tell him all of this without actually bringing up the subject of us getting married? I suppose I can always tell him, but . . . I could also pretend not to notice the giant elephant in the room.

  Turning in his arms, I link my hands behind his neck. “How was your meeting?”

  He blinks twice, taking a moment to shift gears mentally. “It was good.” His body relaxes, exactly as I’d hoped. “We have a lot of tape to review this week, but I think we’ll be ready for our matchup next week.”

  “Of course you will.” I move my hands to lightly rub his shoulders. “We’re basically ready for the craft fair, too. I hope we raise enough money.”

  “Every bit helps,” he assures me. He hesitates a moment and opens his mouth to speak again, but we’re interrupted by a knock at our front door.

  “We should go greet our guests,” I say, though I make no motion to go.

  “We should,” he agrees. Instead of releasing his hold, he pulls me in closer. “I love you,” he whispers.

  My heart twists. Maybe I was too quick to judge Wade’s original proposal. There is something pretty wonderful about hearing the man who has your heart say those three little words. Simple, sweet, and everything.

  AFTER A PARTICULARLY grueling meeting with the sales team members—who are still in the dark about the franchise’s possible liquidation, which could mean our elimination—I grab my cell phone and sneak outside for a few minutes of privacy.

  I can’t have an audience, because of what I’m about to do. If anyone found out, particularly the guys in the fantasy league, it would spell trouble. I’d be ridiculed, teased mercilessly, or at the very least, bothered. None of that works into my plan of attack for this football season. I can’t give them any fodder to distract me from the prize.

  Once I’m a safe distance from the front door, near a row of previously owned cars, I open the wrestling app on my phone. Based on the notification that popped up during the meeting, there’s new footage from one of the fights in last night’s Pay Per View show. I had to miss it because we were watching football. Not that I actually wanted to watch the matches over the game, but I wouldn’t have minded flipping back and forth.

  I realize I said watching professional wrestling was a one-time thing. And I still plan to stop once the high school football season is over, and Brook is around more. But until then, what’s the harm in being a well-informed fan?

  And, okay, maybe I got a little caught up with it during the past week. It’s hard not to with the story lines. It’s like watching a soap opera. Only instead of solving problems with dramatic music and petty slaps, the wrestlers throw it down. Like seriously, men and women throw each other down on the mats, or into the stands if things get particularly heated.

  After spending most of my life cheering for people to do what’s right, it’s fun to cheer for mayhem. Not that violence is the answer, but it’s entertaining.

  Much as I hate to admit it, I am bored. Sure, there’s Brook’s high school games on Friday nights and fantasy football most other nights. But—and this is going to sound weird—it’s not that exciting. The Warriors and North’s Lady always win. I didn’t like losing last year, and I wouldn’t care for it this year, but there’s almost never any doubt that our teams will win. What’s the fun in watching a blowout week after week?

  Sometimes a girl needs a thrill.

  It’s the need for my thrill fix that has me huddled next to a used car, waiting for a video to load. It finishes buffering in time for me to watch a hulking man stopped in his tracks by another man—half his size—with a well-timed clothesline.

  “Ouch,” I groan as the big guy hits the mat hard, coiling in pain. “That had to hurt.”

  “He actually bruised a rib,” Gio says, leaning over my shoulder.

  I let out shout—part gasp, part cry—and jump, nearly knocking Gio out in the process.

  “Woah.” He holds up his hands and takes a step back. Eyes wide, he observes me closely. “Are you okay there, buddy? You seem a bit jumpy.”

  “You scared me.” My free hand covers my still-racing heart. The other, which is gripping the phone, mutes the video. “I didn’t realize you were there.”

  “Obviously.” Gio pats my shoulder, the father in him offering me comfort while the cautious co-worker waits to find out if I’ll come unhinged. “I didn’t realize you were a wrestling fanatic.” His face brightens. “Which is awesome, by the way. I don’t have many friends who are. Especially not women.”

  “I’m not,” I start to say, but stop when he rolls his eyes heavenward. “Okay, maybe I am, but it’s a new thing. No one else knows.”

  “Why not?”

  How am I supposed to tell someone who is clearly crazy about professional wrestling that I find it embarrassing? So I shrug it off. “A lady likes to have her secrets.”

  He snorts. “Brook thinks it’s dumb, huh?”

  “He does.” I latch onto the excuse, even though I’ve never broached the subject with him. I shake my head with a mock sigh of despair. “So I’m stuck having to hide it.”

  Gio frowns. “You really shouldn’t keep secrets in a relationship. It could come back to bite you.”

  “It’s not—”

  “Honesty,” he interrupts, “is always the best way to go.”

  Normally, I’d agree without question. In this instance, I’m willing to take a risk. Sometimes a little mystery is necessary.

  Week Five Recap: No One Else but North’s Lady Will Ever Be Royal

  We asked, and we received. North’s Lady once again proved she has what it takes to go the distance.

  If you don’t believe us, just ask her quarterback, Todd Northwood. He scored a cool twenty-four points for her team in a hostile away game environment. Even when his real team loses, like they did today, he’s a golden asset as long as that throwing arm of his keeps working.

  Drafting royalty also seems to be paying off for North’s Lady in a big way. Running back Duke Smith was once again the top performer in his position in the league, and Matthew Prince was a top three wide receiver. Considering North’s Lady is the queen of the Mega Ballerz, would we expect any other results from the men on her team?

  At this point, there is zero doubt North’s Lady will earn herself a spot in the playoffs. Even if she was to lose half of her upcoming games—which is highly improbable—she’d be guaranteed one of the six spots.

  Record: 5-0

  Chapter Twelve

  THE DONALDSONS—ALONG with an entourage of lawyers, financial advisers, and even a therapist—are making an official visit. Today. I received word of the surprise visit from Anderson while I was shipping out a few hats before I headed into the office. His series of texts became increasingly panicked.

  Anderson: The brass and their crew will be in at 10.

  We’ll need fresh flowers.

  Also cucumber water.

  Can you get those danishes you brought in last time they were in town? They went nuts for them.

  Send out a message to everyone to dress their best. No jeans or wrinkled shirts.

  Will you put together a few menus for them to choose lunch from?

  Damn it. I hate my life.

  In his excitement to meet their needs, Anderson forgot to mention anything about the figures and paperwork the suits would want to review upon arrival. Fortunately, I anticipated their requests, and I have ten copies of the basic information they’ll need. I have Kelsey on standby to make copies of additional documents and files I pulled just in case.

  Despite Anderson’s nerves, I’m ready. Between the two of us, we’ve anticipated nearly everything that may or may not come up today. With everything else going on, it’s hard to get too worked up about the visit. Even if they liquidate our location, I’ll be okay.

  I watch a series of black cars pull up in front of the building. They’re here. A few of t
he salesmen have gathered on the floor to watch the activity. Though none of them understands the full extent and meaning of the visit, their suspicions are surely heightened. The Donaldsons usually only visit once a year. They were here in March, which has to heighten the sales team’s suspicions. I can’t decide whether to be glad I have the background or to wish I was oblivious like them for a little while longer.

  Normally, I’d find some amusement with the scene. All the local employees, including the maintenance team, are flanking the entrance. With politely neutral expressions and near-perfect posture, we’re like a scene in a British period drama. We’re more like the servants and family members standing at attention in front of a grand house rather than a team of scared employees waiting to learn our fates.

  J.J. darts a worried glance over his shoulder at me. My stomach pitches. Don’t look like that, I want to scream. I thought for sure he’d be the one I could count on to greet today with ambivalence. He’s usually unnervingly cool about work. The only time I’ve ever seen him lose that smooth confidence or show any real emotion is during anything related to football. Then it’s typical anger or defiance, never fear or concern like now.

  When he discovers what’s on the line, and that I’ve been aware of it for weeks, he’ll . . . Well, I’m not sure what he’ll do. I’m also not sure I want to find out. Historically, I haven’t enjoyed his outbursts. I only hope he will forgive me and understand I had no choice.

  Mr. Donaldson, the patriarch of the franchise group, enters first with his legal team. Both men, dressed in impeccably tailored suits, are undoubtedly charging top dollar for their presence in Lincoln. The oldest of the two is tall and lean with gray streaks over his ears that only make him seem more distinguished. The other is equally tall and broad-shouldered enough to make me wonder how he finds time to lift weights and earn top dollar at a prestigious law firm. Maybe he has a trainer who visits him in the office during lunch. He probably slips out of that suit and hops on the treadmill for a thirty-minute cardio session followed by toning with the free weights he keeps in the corner of his office. I wonder if they have a shower in the office for him to use so he can be fresh for his afternoon appointments. Maybe he keeps a pile of freshly starched shirts in his desk drawer or brings them from home every day.