“The league dues are kind of expensive. A hundred dollars is a lot of money.”
“Which you’ll get back if you make it to the playoffs.”
Kelsey taps her fingers on the desk while chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Only four teams make it to the playoffs though, right?”
“We actually send six,” Wade corrects. “But only the final four team managers get money.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t. I need to save my money for rent.”
“We need you.” J.J. takes Kelsey’s hand, and her eyes go dewy. “Most of the other guys in the league work here. It’s not like you’re dealing with strangers.”
“You’d be our favorite person,” Wade says.
“We’ll be indebted to you forever,” Gio adds.
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Well, I guess we’re screwed.” J.J. drops her hand and swears under his breath. “Our draft is tonight. Where else can we find someone willing to pay the dues and play the game?”
“I’ll do it.” The words are out of my mouth before I’ve even had a chance to consider what I’m saying.
Four pairs of eyes fall on me. The expressions on their faces display a mix of emotions ranging from shock and intrigue to annoyance. Kelsey in particular looks like she might want to smack me for my unsolicited interruption.
Right now, I don’t care, because this is my chance. This is the way I can prove I’m a team player. That I’m not a completely uptight rule enforcer, and I can have fun. They’ll realize I’m not “Harper the harper.” I’m just me.
Wade is first to break his silence. “You like football?”
“I’m from Wisconsin,” I reply, hoping it’s enough of an explanation.
“Packers fan?” Gio asks.
I nod. “Go Pack Go.”
“Same as Brook.” Wade watches me closely, tapping a finger on the counter. “Who’s your favorite player?”
“Chad Baker. But I like Dickson and Mathena,” I add. “They were big playmakers last season.”
I overheard my brothers say something like that during Christmas dinner. I’ve admittedly fallen behind on my football watching during the past few years. And, okay, maybe I’m exaggerating my enthusiasm for football a little bit, but I am a fan. When I have time to watch.
“Have you ever played fantasy football before?”
“No.” I face J.J., who apparently is ready to speak again. “But I’ve followed both of my brothers’ teams for years. I’ve always wanted to join a league.”
I mentally cross my fingers, hoping the little fib doesn’t cost me too many karma points.
“You’d be ready to draft tonight?”
“Sure.”
“And you’re willing to pay the dues?”
“Definitely.” My cheeks ache from forcing the smile. “This sounds like a lot of fun. If you’ll have me, I’d love to be your twelfth league member.”
The men trade a few more glances, while the still-silent Kelsey’s chest rises up and down. Gio and Wade nod, and J.J. pushes away from the counter to offer his hand. “As the league commissioner, let me be the first to welcome you to the Mega Ballerz. We have a lot to discuss.”
Chapter Two
WADE FOLLOWS ME INTO my office with instructions to teach me how to sign up for the league. J.J. went back to his own desk to send the official league invitation. Once again, I have to fight the impulse to say we shouldn’t be doing this on company time. If I use the Internet for personal reasons even this once, won’t I be a hypocrite the next time I bring up inappropriate Internet usage at a staff meeting?
Still . . . Anderson ordered me to be more approachable and friendly. This seems approachable and friendly. While it goes against best workplace practices, doing the occasional personal activity—only when it’s slow—isn’t going to be a catalyst for Armageddon.
Wade watches me closely. “You don’t have to do this.”
“What?” I glance up from my computer screen, where I’m opening a web browser.
“You don’t have to join the league to be nice, or impress J.J., or whatever it is you’re doing.”
“It’ll be fun. I want to join the league.” Maybe if I keep saying it, I’ll believe it, too.
“No, you don’t.”
My eyebrows fly up. “I don’t?”
“No,” he repeats. “You don’t. And before you say you do again,” he rushes out, cutting off my protest, “I’ve been the top salesman for six months running. Want to guess my secret?”
“Okay . . .”
“I can read people.” He strides toward me. “I can tell when a person is on the brink of saying yes and needs a little nudge. I can tell when a person has no plans of buying and is wasting our time. I know when a person desperately does or doesn’t want to do something. And,” he stares at me pointedly, “I can tell when a person is lying.”
“I’m joining the league.”
“But why? What’s in it for you?”
We stare each other down while I consider my options. Do I fess up now? Tell him our boss basically ordered me to play nice with others or risk a letter home to my parents? Do I make up another lie? Swear I have never wanted anything so dearly in my life as to throw away a hundred bucks playing a stupid game based on another game? Or do I go with something in the middle? It’s where I’m most comfortable. Except geographically. Middle America—or at least the people I’m acquainted with there—has me reaching for the bottle of Tylenol I keep stashed in my desk.
“Here’s the deal.” I blink against the building headache and rest my arms on the desk. “I was telling the truth when I said my brothers play fantasy football. I’ve watched them for years, and I realize how much it matters.” To them, I want to add, but don’t. “I can only imagine how disappointing it would be for someone to get kicked out of a league, hours before the draft, because there weren’t enough people to even the numbers.” With a shrug, I finish. “I’m also new in town and new here. It’d be nice to make some friends.”
Wade’s lip twitches. For a moment I wonder if he’s going to accuse me of lying again. If he does, I’ll stop talking altogether. I can only fabricate so much in a day. But at last, after what seems like a full quarter of football, he nods and takes the empty seat across from me.
“J.J. should have sent you the invite link by now,” he says. “Open it. Let’s get you ready for the ball, Cinderella.”
ON MY WAY HOME FROM work, I run into a sporting goods store to buy a couple of shirts. If I’m going to sell myself as a devout football fan, I have to look the part. Even though I have a pile of Packers shirts stashed away somewhere, they won’t help me tonight. One, I have no clue where exactly to find them. And two, they all feature players who were big when I was in high school. There’s also a high probability none of the shirts will fit, which is a blow my ego doesn’t need after my day.
While I dig through piles of green and yellow shirts, I call my younger brother, Christopher. I need advice before the draft. I may not be in this for the glory of victory or the money, but I don’t want to embarrass myself by coming off as an idiot.
His sleepy voice answers a second before it goes to voicemail. “What’s going on?”
Not wasting any time, I explain the situation. After giving him a minute to get the laughter out of his system, I tell him what I need from him. “I need a crash course in drafting a team.”
“Why do you care if it isn’t about winning?”
“Pride?”
He snorts. “Fair enough. Do you have a pen and paper?”
My hands freeze on a long-sleeved green and yellow rugby style shirt. “Not on me. Should I grab some?”
He busts out laughing again. This time I struggle to stay patient while he pulls himself together. “Can we get through this?” I ask. “Today if possible?”
“Calm down, BK.”
I glare at the pile of shirts. “I told you not to call me . . . that.”
“Technically, you told me not to call you—”<
br />
“Don’t even say it. And don’t pretend saying BK is any different.” I walk over to a rack of jerseys. “Tell me your ‘rules.’”
Christopher clears his throat and begins. “Rule number one: Don’t draft a kicker or defense until the last few rounds.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t matter if they show up as the highest-rated available player or if someone else makes a grab for kickers and defenses early. It’s a wasted pick. The guys in your league will make fun of you for the rest of the season if you do something so amateurish.”
Noted. Saving myself humiliation is the primary objective.
“Number two,” Christopher continues. “Don’t try to draft every player from your favorite team.”
“Why not? The Packers are good.”
“Yeah, but what happens if they have a bad week?”
I feign mock outrage. “Are you actually suggesting our beloved Packers would have anything less than a perfect season? What would Dad say?”
“Trust me on this one, Harper. Your Sunday . . . or Thursday or Monday will be a million times worse if you’re dealing with a Packers and fantasy loss.”
“Okay, avoid drafting the entire Packers starting lineup. Got it.” I’m going to have to do some fast research to find out who else I might want on my team. Basically, all the players I know are in Green Bay. “What’s next?”
“Have you found out what pick you have?”
My eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Pick?”
“Where are you in the draft order?”
Oh. “Fourth.”
“The first three people have selected the top three running backs in my mock drafts.” I want to ask what he means by ‘mock draft,’ but there’s no time. “You can have a little fun with being fourth, but I say you should take the Pope. You’ll impress the guys in your league.”
“Who’s ‘the Pope?’”
“John-Paul Massa. An underrated but totally badass running back.”
“Massa it is.” I stare at the Chad Baker jersey in front of me. “When can I draft Baker?”
“No sooner than the second round, but try to hold off until the third. You want to make sure you get a solid wide receiver, and they tend to go fast after the top six running backs are off of the board.”
“But I want Baker.”
“He’ll be around,” Christopher assures me. “And if things get hairy during your draft, you can always text me.”
“Is there a fourth rule?”
“Yes.” He clears his throat again and hesitates. Content with my clothing selections, I walk toward the checkout line. “My fast and final rule: Don’t let the guys seduce you into giving them the best players.”
My gasp of outrage draws attention from the person standing in front of me. I dart an apologetic grin, before hissing at my brother. “Why would you even go there?”
“Harper, you’re smart and driven.”
“But . . .”
“You’re an idiot when it comes to men.” He releases a heavy sigh. “Maybe it’s because deep down you’re a sweet person or maybe you’re too trusting, but you have a talent for giving it up to douchebags.”
I want to argue back on principle. I am a strong, independent woman, who doesn’t need a man to succeed. But, a glance back at my dating track record gives Christopher’s commandment some weight. Maybe I should tell him I’m a new woman after what happened with the last guy. Instead, I thank him for his advice and pay for the new football gear.
HANDS LADEN WITH THE six-pack of beer J.J. instructed me to bring and a tray of quickly made Rice Krispies treats, I hesitate on the front porch. This is it. My first fantasy football draft. At Wade’s house. The house he shares with two other league members.
Taking a deep breath, I force my fears aside and press the doorbell with my elbow. I step back to survey the house. It’s pretty cute, actually, for a trio of bachelors. The green lawn is mowed, the bushes are cut back. Beds of orange and purple mums line both sides of the porch. A red and white plastic tricycle is parked in front of the garage.
Am I at the right house? This doesn’t look like any bachelor pad I’ve seen.
Wade gave me the directions at the office. I’m pretty sure I entered them into my GPS correctly. I could double-check my phone, but it’s in my purse. There’s no way I can dig around in there when I’m already in danger of dropping everything else in my hands. If I can just lodge the beer between my elbow and waist and balance the bars in one hand, I might be able to reach it.
The door swings open, and I freeze mid-juggle. A lean man in a Bears jersey—poor thing—stands on the other side of the screen door. Neither of us moves. We stare at each other like we’re each daring the other to speak. He breaks first. “You must be Harper.”
“I am.”
“Wade told us about you.” He pulls the door open wider. “Come on in. Everyone’s setting up.”
I reshift my cargo and step inside. An orange tabby cat races up the stairs and turns a corner. I follow the still-unknown man up the stairs from the landing. He must be one of the roommates. Is this Dylan, the homeowner, or perhaps the infamous Brook MacLaughlin?
At the top of the stairs he gestures straight ahead. “You can drop your stuff off in the kitchen if you want.”
“Oh, sure. Thank—” He turns left and walks into a room with a giant screen plastered on the wall before I can finish. Hmm. Aren’t Nebraskans supposed to be famously nice? Rather than follow him into the living room, I go to the kitchen as directed. I’ll put the beer in the fridge, assuming there’s room, unwrap the treats, and . . .
What do we have here? I pause in the doorway to admire the tall, broad-shouldered man standing at the kitchen sink. My gaze travels down the back of his blue polo shirt, which is tucked into a pair of khakis. I gulp and close my mouth to keep my tongue from rolling out. This could be my self-imposed dry spell talking, but I never realized a man’s back could be so appealing in a polo. And the khakis . . .
He leans forward, and I can’t help watching the way the material stretches across his butt.
“Harper, you made it.” My back, and the one I’m ogling, stiffen in response to Wade’s greeting. Oblivious to the tension in the room, he steps around me to reach into the fridge. The man at the sink turns slowly. Refusing to make eye contact, I stare at his hands, which are blotting a dark red smudge off his shirt. I wonder if my cheeks are the same shade. They feel like it.
Raising a beer to his lips, Wade nods at the other person in the room. “Brook, have you met our newest league member?” He nudges me in the ribs, hard enough I almost drop the tray. Steadying myself, I set the beer and treats on the counter and face the source of my shame.
Wiping my sweaty palms on the sides of my jeans, I pull my shoulders back, straighten my spine, and step forward. “I’m Harper Duquaine,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster. “Thanks for having me. Over for the draft,” I hurriedly add because I can’t seem to keep myself quiet. “And in the league, in general.”
Slinging the towel over his shoulder, he takes my offered hand. “Brook MacLaughlin.”
I gain the courage to meet his gaze. Light blue eyes pop from his suntanned face. A loose lock of gold-streaked hair falls across his forehead, and a light smattering of day-old whiskers covers his chiseled chin. I’m not sure if I gasp, but I’ve definitely lost my breath. He may not have J.J.’s striking GQ handsomeness, but the effect is similar. Like someone’s punched me in the gut.
He opens his mouth to speak but lets out a short breath, almost like a laugh. His lips pull into a tight, brief grin instead. Like me, he’s seemingly at a loss for words. Only, based on the flush darkening his high cheekbones, I’d guess he’s embarrassed for me.
The reminder of my bad manners moments earlier forces me to release his hand and step back. “Sorry to interrupt you. The other guy—your roommate—told me to bring the food here. To the kitchen.”
“Oh, no problem.” The side of his mouth
curves up shyly. “I was trying to save my shirt.” He gestures at the dark smudge bleeding into the fabric. “It’s probably a lost cause, but I figured . . .”
“What did the little monsters get on you today?” J.J. asks, stepping into the kitchen to grab a beer. Seeing me, he winks, sending another jolt to my belly. At this rate, I might spontaneously combust here in the kitchen. “Jelly or juice?”
“Strawberry jam.” For my benefit Brook adds, “My nieces brought me lunch today. They tend to get a little enthusiastic about peanut butter and jelly. My clothes sometimes get in the way.”
“How old are they? Your nieces?”
“Marley is four and Ellery is two.” His eyes crinkle around the edges. “They’re a handful, but they’re worth the extra laundry.”
“I bet.” I take a shaky breath to calm my still fluttering stomach. “My nephew is three. He usually leaves a path of destruction behind him. I figured I was safe taking him to Burger King last week . . .”
He winces in sympathy. “It’s amazing what kids can do with french fries and ketchup.”
“Tell me about it. I was in shock.” Which is an understatement. I’d nearly cried when he’d created his own version of Starry Night on one of the tables. “I tried to clean up, but the fifteen-year-old running the register told me it’d be better if we left.”
“Humiliating.”
“Mortifying.”
“You know . . .” Brook strokes his chin, tapping his lips three times with his index finger. “We probably shouldn’t ever put the three of them in a room together. They’d probably launch World War III.”
“Or at least cause an incident with international repercussions.”
“Can you imagine the headlines?”
“The press would have a field day.”
Apparently done with kid talk, J.J. clears his throat. “Did you say you brought food? Someone specifically mentioned treats.”
I blink, thrown off by the abrupt change in subject. “Yes, I—”
“Nice,” he interrupts, peeling back the plastic wrap on the platter, snagging two bars. “I love these things. My mom used to make them for me.” Eyeing the beer, he grabs one and tucks it under his arm with the other bottle. “This is one of my favorite brews. Nicely done, Harper.”
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