“By all means.”
“First,” he darts a glance at the doorway, “don’t start any of your tight ends as your flex player. They aren’t terrible, but your receivers and running backs are better.”
That’s a strange piece of advice. Has he memorized my roster? I’m not even sure I know my team well enough to name every player sitting on my bench, but it’s a legit suggestion.
“Second,” he continues, “don’t rush into any trade offers. They aren’t always fair, and they can raise some eyebrows—especially in this league.”
“Seriously?”
Brook nods. “J.J. scrutinizes just about every trade—except for the ones he proposes. So it’s best to make sure you’re willing to go to bat for any trade, so to speak.”
“Interesting.”
“Third, if you bring beer that good,” he points to my six-pack, “hide it in the vegetable crisper. Otherwise, J.J. will steal every one of them, and you’ll be out the eight bucks you spent.” Brook’s eyes darken. “Speaking of J.J., don’t let him buy you shots when we have watch parties at the bar. He will try to get you drunk, and things can get . . . weird.”
He leaves me to imagine what kind of awkwardness a drunken night out with J.J. might entail, but I don’t have to wonder. Based on our break room conversations this week, J.J. is a guy who likes to test and cross boundaries.
“And last,” he trails off.
“Yes?”
“Don’t take advice from any of us. We’re mostly full of shit.” He winks and picks up the towel again. “Except the part about hiding your good beer and avoiding taking shots with J.J. I can swear to you those pieces of advice are solid.”
I narrow my eyes, and he follows my lead, the humor leaves his face. Neither of us blinks or grins during perhaps the most epic staring contest of my life. My eyes dry, and the urge to waver grows, but I hold strong.
Fortunately, Blitz jumps in—literally—with the assist. Brook blinks and glances down at his cat, who is biting his toes. I fist pump with my spare arm to silently celebrate the victory. Letting out a sigh, Brook mournfully shakes his head. “You got me. I haven’t lost a staring match in years.”
“Better luck next time.” I grab one of my beers and set it on the counter. I hold up the rest of the case. “Where did you say I should hide the rest of these? I can’t afford to support J.J.’s drinking habit.”
The laughter returns to his eyes. “The vegetable crisper. It’s the bottom drawer of the fridge. Put them under the bag of spinach and you should be good. None of these guys will look there.”
I offer him one of the beers to thank him for the tip, and he graciously accepts. I lean over to hide the remaining beers. I’m about to ask Brook which roommate keeps the vegetable crisper stocked, when I notice him watching me closely. We make eye contact, and he turns away quickly to remove his tie.
Was Brook checking me out? If he was, I deserved it after my poor behavior last time.
Chapter Five
WITH SECONDS TO GO before kickoff, I settle into the empty seat on the sectional. Blitz follows me in and takes our relationship to the next level by jumping into my lap as soon as I’m settled. I’m still not quite sure what to do with him. (Does he expect me to scratch behind his ears or leave him alone?)
Regardless, it’s nice to have a friend on my side. Because a glance around this room tells me I might need one.
Of course I recognize Gio, Wade, J.J., and Paul from work—the latter barely nods at my greeting—along with Dylan, the unfriendly third roommate/landlord, and Vien. They’re all transfixed on their phones and the TV. I’d try to strike up a conversation with any of the guys but there seems to be an unspoken rule in place right now: Keep your mouth shut unless it’s to talk about football.
Hopefully the gravity of that mandate lessens as the season progresses. Following the lead of everyone else, I pull up the fantasy app on my cell phone to check out my lineup.
Determined to make it on my I own, I painstakingly selected each player without asking Christopher or Scott for help. It seems easy enough. Pick the players who are projected to score the most, and your chances of winning are good. Based on my projections and those of my opponent—the infamous Tyler from Houston—I should be fine today.
I started The Pope, obviously.
“When you have a player like John-Paul Massa on your team, you play him no matter what,” Scott had informed me casually during breakfast. “Screw the analysts’ projections.”
I also made Todd Northwood my starting quarterback because, well, because. For my wide receivers, I went with the highest scorers. Each of my tight ends have the potential to suck, so I went with the one who seemed less sucky based on his average scores from last season.
Picking my second running back was harder. I have a few decent options, but most are rookies, which means they have a lot to prove. At least, that’s what I overheard on the pregame show my brothers were watching while I made the brownies. I have Ambrose Saltimbacca, who I drafted for his name more than anything, and Blake Lambert, an unreliable player who had the potential to make big plays or flop.
Ultimately I went with Tony Moor. A player in his second season who posted strong numbers throughout his rookie season. He might not be as exciting as gambling on The Lamb or as bold as picking Rosie, but he’s safe. Safe is good if I don’t want to look stupid.
“Ugh,” I mutter to myself. “I hate this.”
“What?” Wade asks, tearing his eyes away from the screen.
I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it.”
Brook joins the group with an iPad and clipboard tucked under one arm and a stack of stapled papers in his hands. He’s traded his dress shirt and khakis for a pair of jeans and a Packers jersey. My eyes zone in on the name emblazoned across the back: BAKER.
He scans the room and flashes a grin when he catches my stare. Jerk. Way to rub it in my face. It’s vain of me to assume I have anything to do with his choice of attire, but we just talked about Baker.
Not finding an empty spot, he shrugs and sprawls out on the floor. I probably took his seat. I open my mouth to offer to trade but shut it when the teams get in position for kickoff. Oh well. I missed my chance to be chivalrous. It’s only right in a way. He took my favorite player, and I stole his seat.
BY THE END OF THE AFTERNOON games, I feel even more like an outsider. While my players are performing well enough, it’s becoming more and more obvious I don’t belong in this league. It has been round after round of pervy jokes and wise-cracking comments from my co-workers at the dealership. The guys who went to school together are even worse. They have so much history—and countless inside jokes—I struggled to keep up.
It didn’t improve when we moved to a sports bar so the guys could order rounds of nachos and pitchers of beer.
Watching the bromances flourish and grow before my eyes, I can’t help but get caught up. And jealous. I may not have the proper equipment, but I wouldn’t mind being one of their bros. I’d settle for having that kind of relationship—one full of history and a million untold stories—with anyone. Outside of my family, I don’t have it.
The general bummer bug I’ve caught makes it hard to celebrate the victory within my grasp. I’m even struggling to enjoy the atmosphere and my beer, which maybe went a little flat and warm while I nursed it. I’ll have to admit defeat and order a new drink when I get back to the table.
I wash my hands in the restroom—which is actually clean, score!—and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are tired, like I’ve pulled a series of all-nighters. That’s not even close to true. I’m just bored with myself. This fantasy football league has been my first real bit of socializing I’ve done in longer than I can remember.
At least I’m out and trying. Who would have guessed trading Dallas for Lincoln would improve my social life? Even if that life involves me being the odd man out. I came to Lincoln to get away from Dirk. After six months of awkwardly working with my ex, I reque
sted the transfer.
A toilet flushes, dragging me out of my thoughts and back to the present. I dry my hands and leave before my fellow bathroom patron steps out of the stall. I’m not in the mood for making small talk with yet another stranger. I’ve been doing that all day.
My eyes take a few seconds to adjust to the bar. Someone must have dimmed the lights in the minutes I was away. I move toward our table and pause. It’s empty. Arching my neck, I check the room to make sure I didn’t forget our table, but sure enough that one is—was—ours.
Wait, is this some kind of hazing ritual to initiate the newbie? Invite her to a bar and ditch her with the bill while she’s in the bathroom? It’s childish, mean, and—oh the bill! What if they left me with the whole tab? Do I even have enough in my bank account to cover everything these animals have consumed? Still crunching the numbers when I reach the table, I’m given my second blow. My purse is gone too.
They stiffed me with the bill and stole my purse. What kind of assholes do I work with? And what about the rest of the league? Even men have to understand my attachment to a purse. Not only does it have everything I need to survive in it, but it’s from Michael Kors. It’s my one and only vanity splurge since college.
Now it’s gone, along with my ability to pay for the bill. I’ll need to take care of it somehow. I’ll simply swallow my pride and call Scott or Christopher to beg for a loan, and a ride home because my keys are in the purse.
Once that’s taken care of, and I have a night to sleep on it, tomorrow I’ll go to work and strangle everyone I can get my hands on. I’m sure I’ll be carted off to jail before I have a chance to hunt down Brook, Dylan, and Vien, but I can live with taking down the guys from the dealership.
Before I can do any of that, I’m going to need a phone. I turn to ask the guys at the neighboring table but change my mind. I don’t want any of them having either of my brothers’ numbers stored in their phone. Maybe the bar has a payphone I can use. Are those even a thing anymore? Even if they have one, I’d have to borrow money to use it.
Stepping up to the bar, I lean forward to get the bartender’s attention. The man to my right clears his throat. Angling my body away from him, I hope he gets the point and leaves me alone. I’m not in the mood for whatever he wants. He clears his throat again, but I continue to ignore him. He doesn’t take the hint and elbows me.
Squaring my shoulders, I turn ready to fight but freeze. “Oh. It’s you.”
Brook raises his hands, which are gripping two glasses. “I grabbed us a couple of refills. You’re drinking Oktoberfest, right?”
I nod, noting the frothy beer in one hand and a water in the other. “Water?”
“I have tests to grade when I get home tonight. I—”
“You don’t overdo it when you have work to do. I remember.” It takes me a couple of moments to regain my bearings. I was so ready to pick a fight. “I thought you guys had ditched me.”
His face sobers. “Do we strike you as the kind of guys to dine and dash?”
“I don’t know any of you well enough to say. It could have been a hazing ritual.”
“That’s fair.” He glances at our empty table and flushes. “Vien had to get home and the other guys stepped outside for a minute.”
He hands me the beer and lifts his arm. I gape at him. “You have my bag!”
“Yeah, my sister says you should never leave a woman’s purse unattended, so . . .” He frowns and runs a hand through his cropped hair. “You probably thought one of us made off with it, too.”
“I did,” I admit. “But I’m glad I was wrong.” The purse securely slung over my shoulder, the last pangs of fear and anger leave my body. “Thanks for looking out for it. And thanks for the beer. You didn’t have to . . .”
“I know,” he says, when I don’t finish the sentence. “Despite my advice earlier, this is a decent group of people. We’re more likely to buy our fellow league members a beer than leave them high and dry in a bar.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He takes the spot across from me at the table. “How about this: I promise not to let any of the guys screw with you. Unless it’s related to fantasy football and doesn’t break any of the league rules. There’s not much I can do about that.”
That’s a good offer. One I’d be foolish to refuse. His next move makes my decision. Leaning across the table, he extends his pinky and repeats, “I promise.”
I link my finger with his, unable to hide my grin. “Thank you.”
Releasing my little finger, Brook reclines back in his chair. Clutching his chin, he taps his finger while he mulls over a new idea. “But now that you’ve mentioned hazing, I’m wondering if we haven’t gone about this whole league initiation the wrong way. There are a lot of possibilities.”
“So many ways you can ruin a person’s life,” I say, playing along.
“We could sign J.J. up for an online dating account on one of those super specific sites.”
“Like Christian Mingle or Grinder?”
“Exactly.” Brook flashes a grin. “And we could hide Dylan’s favorite Bears jersey.”
“We’d be doing him a favor.”
“You could stick a fish in Paul’s work locker. Or tie Wade’s shoelaces together while he’s passed out on the couch.”
“Or push Gio in front of a bus.”
His eyebrows fly up. “Attempted murder might not fall under the category of friendly fun.”
“I guess not.” I shrug and take the first cool sip of beer. “I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with doing things your way and playing it safe.”
“What makes you think I’m a play-it-safe kind of guy?”
Gesturing to the cup of water in his hand, I start my list. “You don’t drink much during football season. You understand the importance of early treatment for potential clothing stains. You—”
“That’s common sense, not being safe,” he interrupts. “You’d change your mind if you saw the plays I call on the field.”
His words, articulated in a low voice, inexplicably send a shiver down my spine before settling into my belly. “I should catch one of your games sometime.”
“You should. You’ll see that when it comes to some things—”
“Like being an offensive coordinator?”
“Exactly.” He grins over his glass, taking a slow drink before setting it back down. “When it comes to some things, I’m all about taking risks to get the best results.”
“What kinds of risks?”
“I’m a big fan of going for two.”
“Ooh pretty risky. Doesn’t that sometimes set you up for failure?”
“You only fail if you don’t try,” he says offhandedly, turning his attention to the wall of TVs playing the final minutes of pregame coverage.
I open my mouth to say something, but stop. Smoke fills the screen and stage lights cast bright flashes of color across the massive stage. Who, I wonder, will this year’s Sunday night songstress be? The smoke clears, and this year’s singer—another bombshell—steps forward. No surprise. I roll my eyes and catch Brook doing the same.
“I’m glad I’m not the only person who finds this annoying.”
“It’s not that I’m saying she isn’t talented,” Brook replies.
“Because she is.”
“Right. It’s . . .” he trails off.
“She’s not the best fit for the occasion.”
“Exactly.” He casts another glance at the screen and shrugs. “It seems like they should go in another direction. Maybe someone who is more of a universal crowd pleaser.”
“Someone who gets your blood pumping,” I say. “Like Van Halen or the Red Hot Chili Peppers or Bon Jovi—”
“Bon Jovi!” Brook slaps his hands together. “I love Bon Jovi. They’re traditional, and basically universal. They’re a band that screams, ‘Let’s start a football game.’ That’s our Sunday Night Football band.”
He raises his palm and
waits for me to high-five him. A pinky swear and a high five all within a few minutes. Is this guy a high school teacher or what?
“Does it make us sexist that we’re picking a group of men?” I ask. “Because that’s not it at all.”
“It’s kind of the opposite. We’re picking some red-blooded, football-loving performers—because you know Jon Bon Jovi is a fan.”
“The man loves his football.”
“Which is why we need him as our football front man,” Brook says. “We can’t let the networks objectify women year after year.”
“Don’t let the man bring you down,” I say dryly.
“Let’s make this official.” He grabs a pair of headphones from his pocket and plugs them into his phone. Handing me one earbud, he keeps the other. “I happen to have a Bon Jovi playlist. I’ll throw it on random and let my phone pick us a new football anthem.”
I adjust the headphone in my ear as Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine” comes on.
He watches me closely. “Better?”
“Much.” No, the song doesn’t have anything to do with football, but neither does the regularly scheduled programming when you get right down to it. Aside from the lyrics repeatedly asking if the audience is ready to watch football. We are, obviously. We’ve tuned in for a reason.
This, at least, gets me going. It reminds me that maybe this football season will be fun, despite my countless reservations. By the time our pre-show song wraps up, the rest of our group returns to fill the other empty spaces at the table.
“Thanks.” I hand back the earbud.
“No problem.” He carefully wraps the cord in a tidy bundle. He hesitates a moment before adding, “Maybe we should let the Bon Jovi playlist be our theme music for the season. We can hit random every week and go wherever it takes us.”
“I love it!”
He flashes a grin at my enthusiastic response. I’m drawn to the dimple on his cheek and the narrow line on his chin. Is that a scar? I blink to pull myself away from staring at his face.
“I’ll make sure I remember my phone each week,” he promises.
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