Going for Two

by Laura Chapman

  Week Ten Recap: North’s Lady Goes for, Gets Two—Consecutive Wins

  The North’s Lady from earlier this season—fearlessly unflinching under pressure—seems to be back. She secured another win this week in another hotly contested matchup.

  With a last-minute lineup switcheroo, North’s Lady correctly chose to activate Tommy French over Matthew Prince. French’s impressive thirty-four-point performance was not only the best score for any wide receiver, but the most points earned overall. That stellar showing led her team to success with solid results from everyone else on her roster.

  There is zero question North’s Lady will be in the playoffs this year. It’s only a matter of which bracket spot she’ll land. If she continues this success, she’ll buy herself a week one bye with her number one place.

  Record: 9-1

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE WARRIORS AND THEIR family members gather in the high school gymnasium for the much-anticipated pre-state spaghetti dinner on Sunday night. The boosters did a great job decorating the gym to be more festive. It almost makes me feel guilty for being a few minutes late. Brook and I had been . . . otherwise engaged and lost track of time.

  Normally, I don’t make a habit of being late. But . . . Brook has been late to just about everything we’ve had this fall because of the team. I figure we could be a little late to football for a change.

  Despite my protests that the rest of the coaches and players should go first, Brook leads me to the buffet line to load up our plates.

  “It’ll look weird if I leave you alone at the table.” He tugs my hand. “Consider it a tiny payment for your work this season.”

  Well, when he puts it that way . . .

  A fantasy football update flashes on my cell phone screen.

  Touchdown! North throws a 20-yard pass down the field for six points.

  “Yes.” Forgetting I’m standing in line for a plate of pasta, I kiss my phone and do a happy dance. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  “Don’t tell me I’m going to find out you’re leaving me for another man right before State,” Brook says, his voice laced with humor. “If you could at least wait until after the game to tell me you’re running away with some guy who plays the saxophone in a jazz band, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’d never go for a man in jazz band. Not since I had my heart broken by a bassist in high school.”

  “You learned your lesson the hard way, I suppose.”

  “Absolutely. Brian, the bassist in the high school jazz band, asked someone else to the prom, which totally ruined my junior year.” I let out a sigh. “I had to go with a trombone player instead.”

  “Still a stud musician,” Brook says.

  “But not as cool as going with a bassist.”

  “Poor trombone guy. The lower brass section never gets respect.”

  I shrug. “He was fine with my lackluster feelings. He only went with me because it wasn’t politically correct for him to take his boyfriend.”

  “I guess your relationship was never destined to succeed.” Brook slips an arm around my waist. “So, who am I killing?”

  “What?”

  “They guy you were declaring your undying love for a second ago.” He nods toward the phone in my hands.

  “Oh, that’s just Todd.”

  His eyebrows fly up. “Todd Northwood?”

  “Yeah. He scored a touchdown.”

  “So you’re leaving me for North and you’re checking fantasy updates?” His jaw drops open. “I can’t decide which is worse. Have I told you this is a big night for me?”

  “I didn’t mean to do it.” I hand him my phone. “I can’t figure out how to turn off the notifications.”

  With a sigh, he punches in my passcode (he has it in case something terrible happens to me so he can wipe the selfies and portraits of Blitz before the police enter my phone as evidence) and pulls up the settings. He makes two quick swipes and nods.

  “There.” He hands the phone back. “Now we’re both in the dark about our teams for the rest of the night.”

  “I suppose that’s fair.” I frown at the phone, because it isn’t fair. It’s not like I’m watching the game, which would actually be against the rules.

  He shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder . . .”

  “About what?”

  “If you would leave me for North if the chance ever presented itself.”

  “Doesn’t wondering make everything so much more interesting?” I nudge him in the ribs, trying to ignore the panic settling in my stomach. If Wade told him about the sex dreams, I’m going to strangle him with his own tie at work tomorrow. “I’m sure it’s perfectly normal for a girl to kiss her cell phone when her fantasy boyfriend scores a touchdown.”

  “Fantasy boyfriend?”

  My heart flutters. “Did I say that out loud?”

  Brook drops his arm and narrows his eyes. “I knew it.”

  “What?”

  “You’d be out the door in under five seconds if Todd Northwood came calling.”

  “I would not.” Folding my arms, a frown settles on my face. “I’ll have you know that a few nights ago I had a dream where he asked, and I said no.”

  “Oh yeah? So now you’re dreaming about North, too?”

  Heat floods my cheeks. Shit. Now I’m the one who brought up the dreams. Even though I’m pretty sure this last one was my subconscious’s way of breaking things off with Todd after weeks of illicit encounters while I was asleep. Now it’s out there, and I’m about two questions away from confessing every single detail of those dreams.

  Even the one where Todd and I slip into the steam room during halftime. Oh sheesh. I can’t get into that right now. There are minors present.

  “It was bound to happen,” I offer lamely. “You don’t get to number one in a league without devoting a lot of your waking, and sleeping, hours to building a dynasty.”

  “That’s true.” He gives my waist a quick squeeze before picking up two plates and handing me one. “Last time I won the championship game, I had a dream that my quarterback and I were solving murders together. I’d been watching a lot of Law & Order re-runs at the time,” he adds hastily.

  “Maybe it’s a sign we should branch out our interests,” I say dryly.

  “Maybe. What else would we do?”

  “Buy and flip houses.”

  “I don’t know the first thing about power tools.” He strokes his chin and taps his lips. “We could join a gambling league.”

  My nose wrinkles. “You don’t have much of a poker face.”

  “That’s true.” He sighs. “I guess that only leaves us one option, really.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We become swingers.”

  I smack him in the stomach, and he lets out an “uff.” My fierce glare doesn’t keep him from laughing.

  “It’s not funny,” I say through my teeth, which only makes him laugh harder. I roll my eyes, and mutter under my breath, “Some kind of role model.”

  “There are people who would actually consider me a god among men if I could actually talk you into it. Not that I’d ever try.” He winks at me. “We don’t need the help.”

  “That’s a sad reflection of our society.” I plaster a grin on my face and thank the woman who ladles marinara sauce over half of the spaghetti. I hope no one is eavesdropping on this conversation. Even if he’s joking, it’s too embarrassing. “If only people found the arts and sciences as impressive.”

  “Hey, you’re preaching to the choir there, missy. I’m not just a pretty face who coaches football,” Brook says. “I’m a struggling history teacher who desperately wants his students to find the Louisiana Purchase and the rise of the Soviet Union half as interesting as I do.”

  “I suppose I can give you a pass on the swingers comment.” I accept some alfredo sauce on the other half of my plate. “You’ve clearly lost your mind in the pursuit of educating the leaders of tomorrow.”

  “Hey, I’m ju
st one guy. I’m nobody’s hero. I suppose you’re welcome to worship me like one if you like.” He steps out of my way before I can punch him in the gut again. And this time when he laughs, I join in.

  WITH EVERYTHING GOING on, I’ve kind of forgotten about my fantasy football team. I suppose I’ve taken for granted that we would win every game this season (except the planned week eight bomb). I trust my players. Aside from the fluke week with Matthew Prince earlier this season, my players have been consistent.

  Until this week. I’m staring at my roster in disbelief. With only Todd Northwood left—and if you want to talk consistency, that’s his middle name—I’m behind going into the Monday night game. Seriously, fantasy football gods? Haven’t I been through enough this year? Haven’t I paid my dues—even if they haven’t, strictly speaking, been fantasy related? I’m sorry I didn’t spend my whole Saturday fretting about my Sunday lineup. I was neck deep in Rice Krispies and cocoa powder. But it was in the name of football.

  Please, fantasy gods. Don’t take this from me. Fantasy goddesses, help a sister out. You know I’m good for giving you the attention you need and deserve. Just cut me some slack until the end of the high school season, which will hopefully go on for another week. Please, fantasy gods and goddesses, consider this an “I owe you.” You know I’m good for the proper obsession.

  I hope they hear my prayer. And I hope Brook never gets an inkling of it. I’m not worried he’ll accuse me of being a heathen or sacrilegious, but no one wants their boyfriend to think she’s crazy.

  The fantasy app goes blank and my cell rings in my hands. I frown at the number on the display. It’s not one I recognize, which suggests telemarketer. But it’s also an Albany area code, which screams, “Donaldsons.” Why would one of them be calling me at home on a Sunday night? Still, I’d better answer. They do pay my salary, which I desperately need to finance my recent baking efforts.

  “Hello.”

  “Harper, darling, it’s Mrs. Donaldson. How are you?”

  I frown at her cheery voice. “I’m fine. How can I help you?”

  “I just wanted to call and chat.” She pauses long enough for me to wonder why. The weekday calls make sense at least. I’m in my office, and I can actually pull up the information she’s calling for under the guise of “chatting.” But on a Sunday night, she has to realize I’m not sitting at home surrounded by stacks of reports. “How was your weekend?”

  Why won’t she come out with what she wants? “Good. I spent most of it baking dozens of brownies and treats for the football booster dinner.”

  “That’s nice—wait,” she interrupts herself. Her interest piqued. “You spent your weekend baking?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Why didn’t you hire someone to do it?”

  Because not all of us have budgets for that kind of thing, I want to say. “Because my boyfriend’s team is in the State playoffs, and I wanted to do something to help them out. They’re actually playing in the semi-finals this week.”

  “So you did this for your boyfriend?”

  “I did.” I pinch the bridge of my nose in a makeshift attempt to massage the pain building between my eyes. “He’s the interim head coach of his high school football team. I’ve mentioned that a few times before. Anyway, I’m doing whatever I can to help the team out. I’ve made and sold piles of scarves, co-coordinated the annual craft fair, chaperoned bus trips, made cookies—”

  “How domestic.”

  “Yeah,” I say, because I can’t very well hiss at my boss’s boss. “We do what we can to help.”

  “But why?” She sounds truly perplexed when she clarifies her question. “What’s in it for you?”

  “Brook and I are a team. I want him to succeed, because I’m on his team. And he’s on mine,” I add quickly. “When you’re in a committed relationship, you do whatever you can to support the other person in his or her goals. Brook has been my biggest supporter the past year.” As I say the words out loud, I realize how many times I’ve forgotten that fact in the past couple of months. He’s been a little MIA lately, but it’s only because his whole world has been turned upside down. I clear my throat and finish my explanation. “Now it’s my turn to be his biggest supporter.”

  Mrs. Donaldson doesn’t say anything else for a moment. I nearly ask if she’s still there, but her voice pipes up. “That’s lovely, dear. You make it sound so easy.”

  “It hasn’t been easy.” She’s been married for longer than I’ve been alive—she probably knows that already. I suppose there’s a reason she filed for divorced. “But when you love someone, when you want a life with them, you want to work at it to make that life the best it can be.”

  She doesn’t say anything, and for a second I wonder if the call has been disconnected. But then she speaks. “You’re awfully wise for someone so young. And a little gutsy to say something like that to a woman who pays your salary and is going through a major life change.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have been more considerate with my words.” I rub my eyes, already sensing the onslaught of a headache. “I’m tired. And I guess I’m confused about why you’re calling me. You have the paperwork. Your lawyers have everything they need. Is there something else I can help you with?”

  Mrs. Donaldson’s voice breaks, and a steady stream of sobs echoes over the phone. Oh crap. We are so getting shut down now. I offer words of consolation, which go unanswered. I apologize again for my careless remarks and promise to be more considerate. After what feels like hours, but was more like a minute or two, she regains her composure enough.

  “Harper, I’m so alone.” Her words come out weak, still laced with tears. “My children won’t speak to me, because they say they don’t want to take sides. My lover left me—he said something about needing to create professional boundaries before we go to court. But I don’t think it was that.”

  I almost hate to ask, but can’t resist. “Why do you think he left?”

  “Because I’m old.” The last word comes out in a wail. I soothe and comfort again. She finally lets out a shaky breath. “I keep calling because you answer. And sometimes you just need to feel like someone cares about you. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “I do.” And I suddenly feel like an idiot for not realizing sooner that Mrs. Donaldson’s calls haven’t been a request for more information to use in court or to wield her power over me. They’ve been a cry for help on a most basic and human level. Clearing my throat, I let out my own shaky breath. “I was lost when I came to Lincoln last year. I felt alone, like I didn’t deserve to have love.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Honestly, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, I joined a fantasy football league.” My hand drops to my lap, and I stare at a spot on the wall. “My life changed almost the second I joined the league. The guys at work were suddenly speaking to me. And now they’re some of my best friends. I met my boyfriend through the league, and his sister through him. My brothers and I had something to talk about. In a matter of a few days, I went from being completely alone to having a whole life.”

  “Fantasy football?”

  I shake my head, not sure whether to laugh or shout, because that was her takeaway. “I’m not an expert at any of this. I’m still getting my own life together. But maybe you can find your own fantasy football and people who make your life better. When you have them, they’re worth more than anything else.”

  Week Eleven Recap: North’s Lady Dominates Once Again

  North’s Lady didn’t need a big win to secure her destiny as the most dominant team in the league. And this week, she didn’t win big. She defeated the opposition with a handful of points, one of her smallest margins of the year. It didn’t matter, it still gave North’s Lady her third straight win and tenth overall.

  Sometimes, a win is just a win.

  North’s Lady owes a lot of credit to her namesake, Todd Northwood. The veteran quarterback hasn’t let her down this season. His superior skill on the field
, and her cunning off, has ensured their team can’t be beat.

  There’s little doubt North’s Lady is taking plenty of pleasure in being a dominant force capable of getting those wins week after week.

  Record: 10-1

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE WARRIORS ARE GOING to State! After sailing past the competition in the semi-finals last night, Brook and his boys are heading back to Memorial Stadium to play for the title. After narrowly missing out on the chance to hoist the trophy over their heads last year—and the personal struggle of having their head coach leave after the first game—they want it bad.

  I don’t expect to see much of Brook during the next few days, but I understand. I’ll spend my weekend working on more crochet products to put on the Team Stitch website. I’ve even been mulling over some ideas for how we can produce more original content for our website. Maybe we can sell patterns or have a blog or podcast.

  I’ll have no problems keeping busy this weekend while I’m on my own while Brook is busy.

  Which is why I’m surprised to pull up to our building on Friday night to find his SUV in the lot.

  Brook is already in the kitchen making dinner when I step inside. A quick sniff tells me we’re having spaghetti with his homemade mushroom marinara. And unless I’m wrong, he has garlic bread in the oven.

  Even as my stomach grumbles in hunger, I double-check the time on my phone. Just to make sure I didn’t somehow transport to nine o’clock. Or January. But according to the universal clock on my phone, I haven’t.

  All the same, I may hold onto my jacket and shoes for a few more minutes in case we’re about to face a zombie apocalypse or alien abduction. You can never be too prepared in either of those situations.

  Brook, dressed in a button-up shirt and dark slacks, pokes his head around the corner and grins. “You’re home.”

  “I am. So are you.”

  I hope nothing is wrong.