First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

  Round 3: Todd Northwood (QB)

  Round 4: Tony Moor (RB)

  Round 5: Gabriel Natz (WR)

  Round 6: Troy Westerman (TE)

  Round 7: Colton Tremain (WR)

  Round 8: Ryder James (WR)

  Round 9: Denver (DEF)

  Round 10: Andre Blackwell (QB)

  Round 11: Blake Lambert (RB)

  Round 12: Harley Hunter (TE)

  Round 13: Lorenzo Rossi (WR)

  Round 14: Jack Jacobsen (RB)

  Round 15: Collin Flaherty (K)

  Round 16: Tracker Warren (RB)

  Round 17: Ambrose “Rosie” Saltimbacca (RB)

  Round 18: Green Bay (DEF)

  Season Forecast

  Team Harper started the draft strong by snapping up John-Paul Massa with her first pick. He’ll be a key leader in her running back core, and she can expect to yield consistently high point values. Other top scorers on her roster include wide receiver Isaiah Dewey-Davis and running back Tony Moor.

  Team Harper took a risk for quarterbacks, picking up veteran QB Todd Northwood—who has already had his best days—and rookie Andre Blackwell—who hasn’t yet shown his ability to manage a game. Her tight end selections could also prove to be inconsistent, and several of the late-round picks will likely offer few to zero points from week-to-week.

  Based on the teams assembled by her counterpoints in the Mega Ballerz, Team Harper’s draft finishes around the bottom of the pack. She can expect to win about half of her games based on pre-season projections. Her bid for the playoffs is likely already in jeopardy.

  Chapter Four

  ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, while every other person in Nebraska is gathered in a stadium downtown or huddled in front of their TV screens watching the college football season opener, my brothers and I give the grill a final workout to mark the end of summer.

  The air is still warm, but you can feel the hint of the coming cold. Scott checks the steaks and salmon, which he’s making for me. Next to him, I roll sliced vegetables in olive oil and crushed pepper and wrap them in aluminum foil. Christopher appears with a bottle of beer for each of us.

  All would be right with the world if my brothers would stop analyzing my fantasy team’s chance at a spot in the playoffs. Like Gio, they seem to be under the impression they’ve missed their calling as analysts.

  “North was a risky choice for QB,” Christopher says.

  “You’re wrong.” Scott pokes the salmon and frowns, muttering under his breath about how he can never tell when fish is done. “Todd Northwood is going to prove the haters wrong.”

  Christopher shakes his head. “His glory days are behind him.”

  “He’s back. He’s healthy. He’s out to leave a mark.”

  “BK choked.”

  “Hey!” I cry out, though neither pays me any attention. I just asked Christopher to stop calling me that.

  “She was following your orders and taking a quarterback in the third round,” Scott says.

  “I told her to take a good quarterback.”

  “North is a future Hall of Famer.”

  “For work he did years ago.”

  Tired of their arguments about my team, I drop the foil-wrapped vegetables on the grill and retreat to the kitchen to grab the salad and garlic bread. They don’t care about any input I might have on my fantasy team.

  I rummage through the fridge and cupboards to grab everything I need for the salad. Arugula, gorgonzola, sliced almonds, dried cranberries, and on a whim I reach for a pear. While I’d never admit it to my brothers, who would turn all kitchen duties over to me, I like cooking for a small crowd. I love trying out new dishes, but it isn’t as much fun when I’m the only one eating the finished product.

  Cradling the bowl of salad and basket of bread, I rejoin my brothers, who are still arguing about my team. I step onto the patio in time to hear Scott say, “There’s no question she’ll make it to the playoffs. She has a lot of odds stacked in her favor.”

  “What odds?”

  “For one, Harper understands football better than you or she thinks. You don’t remember watching games with her growing up. She knows her stuff. Plus, she has rookie luck.”

  “Rookie luck doesn’t exist.”

  “Sure it does.” Scott slides a steak onto a plate and hands it Christopher. “I also figure her being a woman can only help her.”

  Christopher nearly drops his plate. “BK isn’t going to use her body to win.”

  “I didn’t say she was.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Scott’s face flushes. I’m about to step forward and slap him upside the head when he speaks up. “The guys in the league might underestimate her, because she’s a girl. It’s old-fashioned and sexist to assume a woman doesn’t understand football, and it will cost them.”

  Oh. Well, he’s actually trying to make a good point and a compliment. I think.

  Christopher shakes his head. “Those guys are going to give her hell.”

  “Want to bet on it?”

  “On whether or not Harper takes her team to the playoffs?” Christopher mulls over the idea. “Sure, why not.”

  “What are the terms of the wager?”

  “If Harper gets to the playoffs, you win. If she doesn’t, I win. Whoever loses mows the lawn once a week next summer.”

  Scott mulls over the terms while I’m still reeling from what’s happening. My little brother is a traitor.

  “Done,” Scott says at last. He shakes Christopher’s hand.

  I can’t keep quiet any longer. “You’re betting against me?”

  Christopher shrugs off my outrage. “I’m not exactly betting against you . . .”

  “Would you go grab us a few more beers while Harper and I set the table?” Scott asks.

  When we’re alone at last, Scott throws an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry. You’ve got this.”

  “Well, I’m glad one of us is confident.”

  “You don’t need confidence when you have natural talent.” He squeezes my shoulder. “No pressure, but don’t mess this up. I hate mowing the lawn.”

  MY BROTHERS AREN’T the only ones with mixed emotions about my newfound hobby. When I’d told my parents about the league during our weekly phone call, my dad laughed for a good two minutes. Even after he managed to get ahold of himself, he kept cracking up until I made up an excuse to get off the phone. Mom didn’t say anything but asked if I’d met any nice young men in Lincoln.

  And while Anderson appreciated my taking his advice to play nice with the boys, he seemed to question my approach. I can’t completely fault him. I realize how insane this seems, but at this point there’s no backing out.

  Fortunately, I don’t have any players in the Thursday night game, but my mind turns to fantasy football during work on Friday. More specifically, it turns to the league and the players.

  While I’d met the local guys at the draft, we didn’t actually have much of a chance to talk, aside from my kitchen run-in with Brook. When Wade sits down across from me in the break room, I’m able to contain my curiosity for about thirty seconds before I ask him to tell me more about the rest of the guys in the league.

  Taking a healthy bite of his turkey and provolone sandwich, he eyes me curiously. “What do you want to know?”

  I want to ask about Mr. Championship himself, Brook MacLaughlin. But I also don’t want to raise any suspicions. The longer I can play dumb about any of my interest in the league or its members the better.

  “I basically know you, J.J., and Gio, but who is everyone else?” When he still takes a moment to respond, I play to his sympathetic side. “I’m new to this—fantasy football, the dealership. Call me a snoop if you like, but I’m curious.”

  Buying my explanation, Wade runs through the list. “There’s Paul, who works in the maintenance department, and Vien, who used to work here but now owns a couple of hair salons with his wife. There’s you, our token girl.”

  I file that tidbit away, pre
tending not to be annoyed that Wade frequently refers to me as a “girl” in these league conversations. Though technically accurate, I’m almost twenty-seven, which should qualify me as a “woman.”

  “There’s my roommate, Dylan. We have my friend from high school, Tyler, and his buddy Jason down in Houston, which leaves Brook.”

  “The other roommate?”

  “Yep. He teaches high school history and is an assistant coach on the football team.”

  “Didn’t you boys worry he might have an unfair advantage?”

  Wade shrugs off the question and my word choice. “Half of us played football in high school, and Brook and J.J. played in college.” I open my mouth to ask for more details, but he continues on his own. “They both played here, actually. Brook was a walk-on, backup wide receiver, so he didn’t get a ton of action. J.J. was the starting quarterback for a couple of years.”

  I dart a glance to the showroom floor, where J.J. is shaking hands with a proud new car owner. I catch the near reverence on the customer’s face. The local fans take their football team and players seriously.

  “You probably get used to having a celebrity in your midst all the time.”

  “I guess.” Wade follows my gaze and lets out a short laugh. “Brook and J.J. are good friends, but there’s a lot of competition between the two of them. Brook is the reigning league champion, which pisses off J.J.” Wade wiggles his eyebrows. “Like him drafting Baker upset you.”

  Rather than agree with the statement, I shrug it off. “I wasn’t upset.”

  “You’re a Packers fan, who was born and raised in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.” When I stare at him, he quickly adds, “I’m not a stalker. I paid attention to your answers when we interviewed you.”

  Interesting. I didn’t realize anyone here listened to my back story when I came in for my pre-transfer interview. They hadn’t seemed that engaged. “But why would I have my heart set on Baker? People don’t usually fill their rosters with players from their favorite teams.”

  At least not according to my brother.

  “Because you dropped an f-bomb seconds after he did.”

  “No—”

  “It was close enough,” Wade interrupts. “But don’t worry about it. We’ve all said worse. And I laughed my ass off for a good hour or two after the draft remembering it.”

  “Gee thanks.”

  “Oh, don’t act all butt-hurt.” He grins again, probably remembering my undignified outburst. “Brook felt pretty bad about taking your guy. Not bad enough to trade you,” he adds, reading my mind. “He’s a big Packers fan, too, and he’s no dummy.”

  I shrug, not wanting to give away any more of my feelings on the matter. “So, what’s his story anyway?”

  “Brook’s?”

  I nod. Wade lets out a breath and kneads the back of his neck. Either he’s struggling to come up with an answer, or the heavy workload from earlier today is catching up.

  “I’ve been friends with Brook most of my life,” he says at last. “We went to church together in South Sioux City. Played on the same team in high school. We co-founded the league with J.J.”

  I stay silent, willing Wade to continue without me having to prod. My patience is rewarded before long.

  “I already told you about his job, but he does a lot of extra stuff. He’s the school’s faculty sponsor for the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. He helps out at basketball games and swim meets in the off-season.” Wade runs his hands through his hair. “And he still finds time to spend with his little sister and her kids.”

  “He sounds too good to be true.”

  “You’ll have to decide for yourself, but I doubt you’ll find a nicer guy than Brook MacLaughlin.”

  “Mac is a Boy Scout,” J.J. says, stepping into the break room. He gives my dress a once over and grins. “Do you want to know the truth about Boy Scouts, Harper?”

  “Sure.”

  “They’re not as interesting as the ones who were kicked out.”

  I smother a laugh when Wade frowns at the other salesman. “Brook’s a good guy.”

  J.J. holds up his hands. “I never said he wasn’t, but you have to admit, the guy is a little much.”

  “I wouldn’t—”

  “He’s a Jesus freak, too.” J.J. shoots me a meaningful glance. “He takes his sister and nieces to church every week. Never misses a Sunday. And he helps out with youth group on Wednesdays.”

  My eyebrows draw together. I’m not sure why J.J. is trashing his friend. Or why he’s saying any of this like it’s bad.

  “You should hear what he does with his league winnings every year,” J.J. says.

  My mind races through the options in seconds. I quickly cross off “buy shots,” “hire a stripper,” and “gamble at the boats” because those don’t match the person Wade and J.J. are describing. I’m drawing a blank on the other options. In my experience, that’s what most of guys would want. Well, aside from the men in my family. They seem to be the exception to male douchery. “What does he do with his winnings?”

  “He gives it away.”

  “Where?”

  “Last year, he put it toward renting a van to take the youth group to some church camp somewhere out west. The year before he bought replacement flags for the school’s intramural football team.” J.J. shakes his head. “Get what I mean about him being a Boy Scout?”

  I do. Only, J.J.’s story isn’t having the effect he’d intended. Brook MacLaughlin is the full package. I wish that wasn’t so appealing. This whole situation has the potential to be completely awkward if I end up crushing on my co-workers’ friend.

  THE PREGAME JITTERS hit on Sunday while I’m standing on the front porch steps. Again. Only this time, instead of worrying about being at the wrong house, I’m worried about saying something that will make me come off like a total idiot.

  What if I mistake a penalty on the field and yell “face mask” when it should be “roughing the passer?” That’s not a good example because I understand one involves gripping a player’s face mask while the other is a late hit on the quarterback. But I’ve mistaken football terminology before. Despite his confidence in me, Scott still laughs about the time I asked him the difference between a spread and a West Coast offense. How was I supposed to know? I was only nine.

  I admit I’m a little rusty when it comes to football. I followed it most of my life and through college but stopped sometime after. It was hard to find Packers games when I was living in Albany. They were only on TV if they happened to be playing the Jets, Giants, or Bills, which wasn’t too often. By the time I moved to Kansas City for my second assignment, I’d broken the habit. I didn’t even consider getting into football down in Dallas. My mind was otherwise engaged.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have come today. I doubt J.J. figured I’d say yes when he invited me to the watch party on his way out the door on Friday. But I’ve already rang the doorbell, and I made brownies to share.

  Once again, Dylan answers the door. This time he grunts a “hello” before ushering me inside. Blitz races down the stairs and meows loudly, rubbing his face against my leg. Well, at least someone is happy I’m here.

  He follows me to the kitchen where again (deja vu anyone?) Brook is at the kitchen sink blotting a stain on his tie. I set the brownies on the counter. “Another wardrobe casualty?”

  Turning around, tie still in hand, he grins. “Syrup. I’m not sure if my nieces managed to get any on their pancakes.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Ew. Syrup is so sticky.”

  “Tell me about it.” He tosses the towel aside and turns to face me. “I should probably stop giving them food. But, it’s the only way I’ve been able to bribe them into behaving themselves during church.”

  “What a trouper.”

  He grins. “Maybe someone should give me a medal.”

  “You’ve already won three league championships. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I guess I don’t want people thinking I’m greedy.” Brook gives a li
ght chuckle. I doubt anyone would ever accuse him of being anything remotely close to greedy after hearing his list of good deeds. “So the guys filled you in on our league history?”

  I shrug, crossing my arms. “It pays to scope out the competition when you’re the new kid in town.”

  “Find out anything interesting?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Such as . . .”

  “Why would I reveal any secrets to my rival?”

  “Because they’re my secrets?”

  I can’t resist laughing. “I’m not one to kiss and tell, but . . . after reviewing your league history, your brief bio, your draft selections, and picking your friends’ brains . . . I have a decent picture of you painted in my mind.”

  Which is a lie. All I’ve been able to piece together is that Brook MacLaughlin is a fantasy football juggernaut who, according to Wade and J.J., might be the nicest guy in the world. Based on our brief exchange last time, I can also confirm that he fills out khakis well and has a pair of eyes I’d like to swim in.

  “Come on,” he prods. “Give me something.”

  “Well . . .” I hesitate, trying to come up with a fact that won’t make me sound like a stalker or creep. “You have excellent taste in quarterbacks.”

  He grimaces. “Sorry about that. Wade told me you had your heart set on Baker.” He nods toward my shirt, a green knit top with gold stripes on the sides and the signature Green Bay “G” emblazoned across the front. “I’m glad to have another Packers fan in the league, even if it’s a point of contention between us.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a point of contention.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  I flash a bright grin. “You could always give me Baker.”

  “The rest of the league would never approve the trade.”

  “Not with that kind of attitude.”

  This time he busts out a full laugh that starts in his stomach and shines in his eyes. Despite my determination to appear fierce, I find myself grinning with him.

  “I won’t give you Baker,” he says at last, finding his breath. “But I will offer you some advice if you’d like to succeed in this league.”