“Uh . . . thank you.”
“We shoul’ ge’ in der,” J.J. mumbles, his mouth full of cereal and marshmallow. “Draft’s ’bou’ to star’.”
He walks off, followed soon by Wade, who also takes a bar. Left alone, I fill the silence by offering Brook a beer. He shakes his head. “I have to grade some papers and go over film tonight. I’m a teacher. And coach,” he adds quickly. “A football coach. I try not to drink when I have to work.”
“Makes sense to me. I had an English teacher in high school who I’m pretty sure graded our papers while drinking a bottle of wine. You could always tell whose paper she’d done last because the writing was illegible and the student almost always got an A.”
He chuckles. “Maybe I should try her method sometime. Essays about Colonial America can be a bit dry.”
“You’re a history teacher?”
He nods. “I have two sessions this semester—we do block scheduling—and this year’s freshman class is a doozy.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’ve already had to call four parents about excessive cell phone use.” He shakes his head and reaches a hand up to massage the back of his neck. “And I’m pretty sure some of the students started a meme of my ass with a photo someone snapped of me bent over to pick up papers.”
My eyes widen. Is he making a jab at me? “Have you figured out who did it?”
“No, and to be honest, I’d rather they poke fun at me than any of their classmates.” He drops his hand again. “I’m a grown-up. I can handle the teasing.”
My belly flips. I blindly fumble for the pan of Rice Krispies treats and thrust them under his nose. “Want one?”
“I . . . sure.” He takes a bar and bites into it. “Thank you.”
“We should probably get in there.”
He blinks but doesn’t say anything. He chews thoughtfully and nods. “Go ahead. I’ll be in shortly.” He points to his shirt. “I should take care of this and change into something more appropriate.”
I set the pan down and grab one of my beers. I keep my gait smooth on my way out the door. Part of me wishes I had the moves to try swaying my hips, but I’d better not. I have zero game and would only make a mess of it.
Besides, I shouldn’t be flirting with anyone here. They’re the competition. I also have a team to draft and talent to scout. There’s no time for hunky distractions.
Chapter Three
MY SWAGGER DOESN’T last long. When I log into my newly created fantasy football account, the full weight of what I’m doing hits. Out of the questionable decisions I’ve made—like moving to Dallas to follow a guy I probably didn’t love—this might be the dumbest one. Joining the league seemed like an easy way to make nice with the boys at work. But who am I kidding? They’ll probably keep calling me “Harper the harper” behind my back when this is all over. And if I make a complete idiot of myself, I’ll only give them more fodder for mocking me.
Maybe I should have tried bringing donuts to work before I jumped into this crazy mess.
The flashing neon green box on the computer screen isn’t helping. “FIVE MINUTES UNTIL DRAFT,” it screams. I’m in way over my head. I can’t manage a team. Not even a fake one. Yet I’ve committed to thirteen weeks—or sixteen if by some terrible chance I make it to the playoffs—of pitting my fake team against a bunch of other fake teams.
The orange tabby reappears, drawing my attention away from my self-imposed agony. Pausing at the entrance to the living room, he sets his sights on me. Tail straight up in the air, he saunters across the room. Pausing at my feet, he turns his amber eyes up to mine and meows.
“That’s Blitz,” Wade says. “He’s Brook’s cat. Don’t worry. He’s nice,” he adds when I eye the feline cautiously.
Nodding, I wave. I’m not entirely sure what else to do with a cat. We had a dog growing up, and the only cat I ever met lived at my piano teacher’s house. She used to attack my toes—claws out—when I slipped my shoes back on after lessons, so I avoided her.
Blitz makes figure eights between my legs before flopping onto his back. He rubs his face against my shoes. It appears I’ve made a friend. I bend over to try petting him, but he freezes, his face suspended mid-stroke. I follow his gaze to find Brook walking into the room. After a beat, he goes back to scratching his furry face. Brook grins at the cat’s indifference and settles on the floor with his computer.
J.J. stands to gain our attention. “Before we draft, let’s go over a couple of basics to refresh our memories. Houston, do you copy?”
The two faces on the TV screen in front of us nod. Those must be the out-of-town members. “Loud and clear, Lincoln.”
“Great. Then let’s begin.” J.J. folds his arms behind his back and begins pacing. In this moment, he’s less car salesman and more military general rallying the troops before battle. “Make sure to set your lineups every week. I’m talking about an active player in each position before the games start. We don’t want a repeat of last year.”
Laughter rumbles throughout the room. There must be a story there, but no one offers to fill me in on this piece of league history.
“Once we finish the draft you can add or drop anyone listed as a free agent on the wires on a first come, first serve basis. But only until the first game of the season, which is next Thursday. From then on you can pick up free agents and make trades based on your ranking in the league. The person in last place gets first choice and the person in first place gets last. Any questions?”
Tons. He might as well be speaking German. Words like “waiver” and “wire” mean nothing to me. Not in this context at least.
“Thank you, everyone, for paying your league dues before tonight,” J.J. continues. “As most of you are aware, the four teams in the semi-finals will each win a piece of the pool. First place gets four hundred bucks, second gets three hundred, third gets two hundred, and fourth gets their entry fee back. Everything this year should be business as usual.” J.J.’s arms fall to his side, and he drops to his seat in a recliner. “Let’s draft.”
The timer counts down the final few seconds, and the first team manager—interestingly enough, J.J.—takes his pick.
I focus on the screen. If one of my few preferred players goes, I need to be prepared with a backup. So far, my top choices are on the board. My fingers hover over the mouse, itching for the moment I get to make my first pick.
Ding. I’m up. Two minutes on the clock. I don’t even need two seconds. Click.
“The Pope.” Gio nods in approval. “Well done.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, admiring my first player with pride.
Welcome to Team Harper, John-Paul. May your grip be strong and your legs fast. Play your best on the field and behave off of it, and we won’t have any problems.
Wait. What if we have problems? There has been plenty of buzz the past couple of years about players failing drug tests or landing in jail. My team could suffer if someone violates league rules. I should probably check out their rap sheets—not just their statistics on the field. I pull up a search engine and start typing in the names of my dream players to make sure we won’t have any trouble. I’m so caught up in my new mission, I almost miss the notification.
Brook’s Bros has drafted Chad Baker.
I stare at the screen in horror. No. No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. It’s too soon for anyone to draft him. He’s not projected to go until late in the second round or even the third. He’s my player. Shaking my head, I struggle to contain my befuddlement and dismay. I have to keep my anger in check. I have to move on and find another quarterback to replace Baker. I have to—
“Are you eff-ing kidding me?” The words are out—loudly—before I can stop them. The stream of chatter around the room ends, and everyone turns to gape at me. Even Blitz pauses his ministrations to stare wide-eyed.
Wade is the first to speak up. “Everything okay, buddy?”
Settle down, Harper. Don’t freak out. Come up with an excuse.
Lie. You do it all the time. Make it legit.
“Uh, yeah,” I mumble sheepishly. “I spilled some of my beer. Sorry. It’s a little early for a party foul.”
Everyone is still staring, so I have to act fast. “Wade, you only have ten seconds left to pick.”
The distraction works. Wade swears under his breath, and everyone’s attention returns to the draft. I release a sigh and roll my shoulders to work out the tension. I only have a few minutes, maybe even seconds, to decide who I’ll take in Baker’s place.
The Vikings’ new quarterback is the next highest rated QB available, but . . . I’d rather not give myself a reason to cheer against the Packers. I could grab last year’s Super Bowl champ, but half of his starters are under investigation by the league.
I pause on the fifth-ranked quarterback. Todd Northwood. He’s back after sitting out last year to recover from surgery. He’s working with a new offense, and he’s one of the oldest players in the league. But . . . he’s a legend. The records he set during his rookie season haven’t been touched by anyone else. And he’s a good guy. He might not be Chad Baker, but I still wouldn’t mind rooting for him once a week.
The fantasy experts are split on whether or not he’ll make a good QB.
To be safe, I grab wide receiver Isaiah Dewey-Davis with my second pick. It’s too early in the draft to take North. Not with his rank.
“Double D,” Gio says after my selection goes through. “Nice pick.”
“Thanks. Again.” Does Gio plan to comment on every player I add? I don’t need a play-by-play. We’re in our co-worker’s living room drafting fantasy teams, not sitting in a network studio analyzing a real game. I’m sure he’s trying to be supportive, but I kind of want to punch him.
Despite my reservations, I add North to my wish list. Depending on what everyone else does, I’ll take him in the third or fourth round. In the meantime, I peruse the rest of the available players, checking for any red flags. Those who pass my list of demands get added to the list of potential draft picks. Another top quarterback goes away. My top choices for running backs, tight ends, and wide receivers disappear.
Ding. My turn again. Lips pursed, I hover over a top-rated tight end. He’s the smartest pick based on rankings. No question, I should take him. Instead of going with what I know to be best, I open up Todd Northwood’s profile for the dozenth time.
The positive comments from fantasy experts are impressive.
He’s one of the best players to ever take the field. Years from now, people will remember North the way baseball fans have immortalized Hank Aaron, Jackie Robinson, or the Babe.
The negatives are hard to ignore:
North hasn’t thrown the pigskin in competition in more than eighteen months. Even if he’s physically recovered from his injury and surgery, you can’t ignore the mental hit he’s taken from the bad press, failed team negotiations, and a general loss of faith. North will never come close to recapturing the glory of his former days. Put him out to pasture before he takes others down with him.
The good contradicts the bad and vice versa, but I’m fixated on one comment from a pundit whose name I don’t recognize.
There’s no guarantee managers can expect North to produce at the same level he did back in his glory days. Still, I wouldn’t put it past one of the hardest working men to ever play the game to prove himself to the naysayers. He’s a risky choice, no doubt, but he might be worth it.
He’s a “risky choice,” but if I don’t take him now, someone else probably will before the draft comes back to me. What happens if I take him and he fails me? What if I let him slip and he makes the greatest comeback in sports history? Which outcome can I live with?
“Ten more seconds,” J.J. reminds me, interrupting my contemplation. “Make your selection.”
The computer timer rings a chime in warning, and with a shaky hand, I go with my heart.
“Hmm,” Gio says while the next team manager quickly snaps up the tight end I’d been contemplating. “Todd Northwood. That’s a . . . bold choice.”
“It’s the right one,” I say more confidently than I feel. “North is back.”
“If you say so.”
My fingers tingle, and I clench my fist shut. There’s no point in being overly sensitive. Why bother? There’s no going back now. I have to have faith in North. I have to not worry so much because none of this really matters.
IT TAKES MORE THAN an hour for us to complete the draft.
Honestly, I lost enough steam by the end; I started picking players based almost entirely on their name. A kicker named Collin Flaherty? Drafted. A wide receiver named Lorenzo Rossi? Drafted. A running back called Ambrose “Rosie” Saltimbacca? You’d better believe he’s drafted.
Except for my kicker—and you apparently can’t count on them for putting big points on the board—the other guys only have to fill space on my roster. Why agonize about their stats when I won’t need them to play? I might as well pick Kicky McKickerson.
When the draft is over, I’m surprised by how drained I feel. I wonder if real football team owners and managers experience a similar rush of nerves and adrenaline that leaves them crashing in the end.
J.J. makes a few final announcements before we call it a night. It’s Wednesday and we all have work in the morning. “We’ll have a watch party at a yet-to-be-determined bar next Thursday night to celebrate the season opener. These guys,” he carelessly gestures at Wade, Brook, and Dylan, “have agreed to host us for the games on Sunday, and we’ll probably do our own things on Monday night. Harper, you’re welcome to join us.”
“I’ll be there on Sunday. I have a . . . thing on Thursday.”
“Great.” J.J. winks, and the unexpected gesture sends a shiver down my spine. “See you at work tomorrow.”
I giggle—I didn’t realize I still giggled about boys—and say good-night to everyone. My first day of trying to impress the guys from work was . . . interesting, but I made some progress. Wade and Gio were courteous—even if the latter’s commentary drove me crazy—and I’m pretty sure J.J. was flirting with me. With a parting wave to the league, and a farewell scratch behind the ears for my new furry friend, I leave. I hope this pays off at work.
On the drive home, I contemplate my team. Not bad. Not the greatest team, but not bad. I may have to do some shuffling and trading, but I can work with this team. Sure, I don’t recognize most of the names toward the bottom of my roster, but chances are good I’ll never have to play them.
My team’s future rests squarely on a legend. I have to believe Todd Northwood has some magic left in him. I have to be prepared for the worst though. He could re-injure his throwing shoulder and leave me in a quandary.
Losing Chad Baker still stings. Wade’s roommate stole my man, and I won’t easily forget the slight.
I sneak into my room at home. My older brother, Scott, is out of town for work tonight, and Christopher is already in his room. I could go knock on his door, but I’d rather not rehash the draft. While I appreciate his almost certain interest in my team, I can’t talk about it yet. I’m already in too real of danger of caring more than I should about a team I joined purely for appearances.
I moved into Scott’s house about six weeks ago, right before I started at the dealership. He’s the reason I came to Lincoln. When I was looking for job opportunities outside of Dallas, I chose it instead of a bigger market because I wanted the comfort of family without actually moving back to Wisconsin to live with our parents.
Scott moved to Lincoln about five years ago to manage accounts for an athletic software company. A few months later, he met a girl. Within a couple of years she was pregnant, and they had a quickie wedding eventually followed by a divorce. Scott shares custody of Jackson with her, and he stayed in their house.
Christopher moved to Lincoln shortly after the divorce. He claimed he wanted to pursue job opportunities in a new market. I suspect he actually came to give Scott some support. Whether or not he wanted it.
/> As for me, I needed a temporary place to live after my transfer. Scott had room to spare, so here I am. We never set a limit for how long I’d stay, but I’d like to have my own place eventually. In the meantime, it’s been nice spending time with my brothers.
There are perks to living with Scott and Christopher—cheap rent, split cost in utilities, and someone to have dinner with a few nights a week. The drawbacks, of course, are the total lack of privacy and constant fear I may one day walk in on one of them with a hand down his pants.
Out of curiosity, I log into my fantasy football account and take a look at the league teams. I click on Brook’s Bros. Instead of a photo of himself, he has a picture of Dan Aykroyd in a black suit and fedora. It’s clever enough.
His profile gives away a few more clues about my new fantasy football enemy.
Brook’s Bros
Owner: Brook M.
Slogan: Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.
Trophies: Mega Ballerz Champion (three years), First Runner-Up (two years)
Well, well, well. Three league championships. Gio meant it when he said Brook was good. He is the competition. If I cared about winning.
Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose. Sounds familiar. I punch the phrase into Google. A series of Friday Night Lights fan art and photos flood the search results. So basically his profile is a celebration of the film and TV shows he likes. I’m dealing with a nerd.
A nerd who can manage a fake football team better than anyone else apparently. I better keep my eyes on him. Remembering the way his steady gaze met mine sends my heart racing. Or maybe I should focus my energy on winning over my co-workers. If only our exchange was that easy to forget.
Team Harper’s Draft
Round 1: John-Paul “The Pope” Massa (RB)
Round 2: Isaiah Dewey-Davis (WR)
First & Goal Page 3