First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

  “You better. Or we’ll be stuck with the predetermined musical selection that was thrown at us.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you.” He crosses his heart. “I promise.”

  Chapter Six

  THE MORNING GREETS me with a dry mouth and a minor case of the spins. “Hello, old friends,” I mumble, moistening my lips. The bitter taste of stale beer makes me flinch. “It’s been a while.”

  I can’t remember the last time I woke up with a hangover. It’s been months at least. New Year’s Day? In that instance, at least, my symptoms had been warranted. I’d stayed up until almost dawn downing a bottle of cheap champagne and shots of even cheaper tequila. The champagne had been to celebrate a new beginning. The tequila had been a desperate attempt to erase the memory of catching Dirk cheating on me with the clerk from the Dallas dealership’s maintenance department.

  I’d calmly walked out of his apartment—wearing a short, glittery dress intended for ringing in the new year—and straight into a bar down the street.

  Today’s baby hangover makes zero sense. At no point yesterday did I come close to being more than a little buzzed, let alone drunk. How much did I drink? Maybe five or six beers. That sounds like a lot, but if you factor in the time, it’s less than a beer an hour. I used to be able to put away twice as many beers in the same amount of time—not that I made a regular habit of it. And now that I think about it, I didn’t do much to hydrate otherwise. Dehydration would account for the dry mouth and headache.

  I try to swing my legs out of bed but decide I can take a few more minutes to rest in bed before I face the day. I grab a bottle of water and some ibuprofen from my nightstand. I just need a little hydration and rest, and I’ll be fine in a few minutes.

  Maybe this is what happens when you enter your late twenties. I’m two months shy of my twenty-seventh birthday, but my ability to drink like a twenty-one-year-old is gone. This is probably a sign. Maybe I should join a Zumba class. Eat a wider selection of organic and well-balanced meals.

  My phone vibrates. I groan, not sure I’m ready to face the day yet. It buzzes again, and I give in to the urge to investigate. Two Facebook notifications? Hardly anyone except my mom contacts me on Facebook. Lately it’s been more of a resource for keeping tabs on former classmates I envy than a source for interaction. My interest piqued, I swipe right to check.

  Friend request from J.J. Sanchez.

  Friend request from Wade Davis.

  So the boys from the dealership want to connect, do they? I bolt up in bed, forgetting about my case of the dizzies, and cross my legs. I accept both requests and immediately put my Facebook stalking skills to work. I start with J.J., clicking on his profile picture. My jaw drops as the bare-chested photo of him, standing on a beach, expands. A pair of aviators hide his eyes, and his straight white teeth pop out against his tanned face. The setting sun to his back highlights the well-defined muscles of his shoulders and arms. A light trail of hair runs from his belly button and disappears into a low-slung pair of swim trunks.

  My eyes linger on the “V” etched into his lower abdomen. I gulp and click out of the photo. If I stare much longer, I won’t be able to make eye contact with him at the office.

  I scroll down his wall noting a series of videos he has posted ranging from interviews with San Diego players—I had no idea he was a Chargers fan—to the latest series of Jaguar commercials. “Can’t wait to get this new model in,” he wrote in the comments. “I’ll definitely be taking this one for a test drive.” I’d assumed J.J. was in car sales for the money. Maybe I judged him too quickly. He seems passionate about high-end vehicles.

  Semi-recent photo albums show he made trips to Cabo and Vegas over the summer. I flip quickly through the Cabo album, focusing on his activities—drinking, boating, drinking, playing volleyball with an entourage of equally sexy topless men, and more drinking—rather than wondering what his skin tastes like.

  His Las Vegas album should come with a parental advisory label. I land on a photo of J.J. stuffing bills in a G-string. The Las Vegas skyline shines through a window at his back. Hmm. Looks like it’s a private showing in a hotel suite. But it wasn’t all visual fornication on his trip. He found ample time to race dirt bikes in the desert, eat sushi off a model’s body, and watch a couple of shows. And, big surprise, he drank.

  J.J.’s mother must cry every time she logs onto Facebook.

  I’ve barely clicked on Wade’s profile photo, him holding up a giant fish on a line, when another notification pops up.

  Friend request from Gio Brambatti.

  Friend request from Paul Fischer.

  I accept, and before I have a chance to snoop into either of their lives, the frenzy of notifications continues.

  Friend request from Dylan Little.

  His profile features tons of pictures of himself with a little boy. That must be his son. Wade mentioned he had one. I’d bet he’s the owner of the little red tricycle I spotted at the house.

  Friend request from Vien Duong.

  I can barely keep up with the barrage of notices. No sooner do I hit “accept” and view their profile, then someone else sends a request. Even the Houston contingent jumps on board.

  Friend request from Jason Beaumont.

  His girlfriend—wife, actually, based on the tuxedo and wedding dress they’re wearing in his profile picture—is pretty.

  Friend request from Tyler Taylor.

  In a matter of minutes, eight of the nine other fantasy team owners, and one wife, have added me as their friends. I’m either the belle of the ball, or I’m about to become the most scrutinized member of the league. Unfortunately for them, they won’t have much to glean from my carefully curated profile.

  One friend remains noticeably unrequested. Of course it’s one of the profiles I most want to snoop. But it’s early on a Monday morning. Mr. MacLaughlin probably has a lecture to prepare on the Boston Tea Party. Or maybe Coach Brook is reviewing game footage or wrapping up morning conditioning with the team. He actually showed me a quick clip from their Friday night game on his cell phone during halftime last night.

  “This kid is going to be a real force in another year,” he’d said about the wide receiver who made a daring catch and took the ball into the end zone in the final minutes of the game. “He has a bit of a chip on his shoulder, but we’ll work on that.”

  I have no doubt. Brook strikes me as the type of man who is willing to work. Which only makes me long to dive deep into his personal history with the help of geniuses in Silicon Valley. I mean, does he have a girlfriend? Does he share more inspirational quotes from a TV show about coaching football? What are his favorite movies? Bands? Does he have topless photos on the beach?

  Maybe we have enough mutual friends now for me to peek at his profile to glean a few answers. I’m not going to be the one who instigates an online friendship—I didn’t with anyone else in the league, and I won’t single him out for special treatment—but it wouldn’t hurt to check. For research purposes. He’s already secured his victory this week, which means he’s my biggest competitor.

  Plus, I like the way he wears a pair of khakis.

  Before I talk myself out of it, I punch in B-R-O . . . “Brook MacLaughlin, eleven mutual friends” pops up. I doubt I’ll get much from this viewing. He’s a teacher and a coach. He probably keeps his privacy settings high to save himself from crazy students or overly involved parents.

  Sure enough, his page is limited. Aside from his profile picture—a photo of him on a golf course with three other men wearing matching polo shirts—there’s his cover photo. Taken at a lake, Brook’s legs dangle off the edge of the dock, a fishing pole in his hands. On either side, a little girl sits with her own line waiting for a bite. Those must be his nieces.

  The image stirs something inside of me, but in a different way than the ones from J.J.’s summer beach session. Both make me tingly, but this leaves me . . . yearning.

  His “About” section doesn’t share much for a
non-friend. It lists his job, his hometown, current town, and birthday, which happens to be in November, the day after mine. He’ll be twenty-eight. That’s strange. He seems like he’d be older. Maybe it’s because he has his life so together.

  No relationship status, either. If he had a girlfriend, there’s no way she wouldn’t link their profiles to publicly tag him as hers.

  With that well of information dried up, I check his wall. He’s tagged in about a dozen photos with our mutual acquaintances. Fishing and hunting with Wade. Standing at the finish line of a 10K with Dylan. Holding last year’s league championship trophy—there’s a trophy!—with the rest of the Lincoln crew and a young man I don’t recognize.

  The last two photos are of Brook and J.J. suited up in pads and jerseys on their college football field. In one, the men stand shoulder-to-shoulder, tall and stoic. Their backs are straight, legs spread a hip’s width apart, and each has a white helmet with a red stripe down the center tucked under their arm. In the other, likely taken moments later, J.J. has Brook in a headlock, and Brook has his fist shoved into J.J.’s gut. Both are wearing bright youthful grins.

  J.J. has captioned the photos, “We didn’t choose this life . . .” and “It chose us” respectively.

  I click back and forth between the two photos, like a miniature flipbook, watching Brook and J.J. go from strong and proud to goofy and fun. From the way they talk about each other, I don’t feel the brotherly love captured in these pictures. It’s been almost a decade since they were taken. A lot can happen. A lot can change.

  During my hundredth rotation of the Brook and J.J. picture show, another notification bubble pops up on my screen. I freeze. Hand shaking, I click.

  Friend request from Brook MacLaughlin.

  I fight against the quick jolt of panic or excitement, I can’t quite tell them apart. I whisper, “Get a grip, Harper.”

  It’s not like he can tell I’ve been scrutinizing every inch of his public profile for the better part of ten minutes. Or can he? No, only people with superhuman hacking abilities can figure a way to monitor another person’s online activity. Brook is a lot of things: strong, handsome, considerate, and a football mastermind. He isn’t a genius computer whiz, and he doesn’t strike me as a creeper.

  I accept the request and wait a few seconds for the confirmation to go through, granting me access to more of his history and secrets. I click refresh, and the stream of information grows. Eureka. His latest wall post is a status update from Friday night. “Super proud of the team. That’s how you finish a game. Go Warriors!”

  What a dork. A totally adorable dork.

  A message bubble pops up.

  Brook: Thanks for accepting the request. Hope you had fun hanging out with us yesterday.

  My heart pounds in my chest. I punch in a quick response.

  Me: I did. It’s always nice to find someone who shares my affinity for the Packers and Bon Jovi.

  Re-moistening my lips, I type in a few more words.

  Me: Shouldn’t you be getting ready for class?

  Brook: I have first block free. You’re not going to tell the teacher on me and get my phone taken away, are you???

  Me: Aren’t you the teacher?

  Brook: I am, and I hear he’s a bit of a pushover. I should be good.

  Me: Enough of a pushover to reconsider trading me Chad Baker?

  Brook: Not happening. Besides, you don’t need him. As long as Tony Moor shows up to play tonight, this week’s game is yours.

  My face hurts from smiling and the last remnants of my baby hangover go away. Maybe this won’t be such a bad day.

  AFTER WORK I RACE HOME to watch the final games of the week with Scott and Christopher. Tyler and I each have a player in this game. Right now, I am slightly ahead of him. I need Tony Moor to have a good game, or I’ll start this season tied for last place in the league. I’d like to start the season well.

  Work wasn’t as awkward as it might have been considering that every time I saw J.J. I imagined him without a shirt. When I walked in on him doing a round of twenty fast push-ups in the break room—a ritual he has before going out onto the salesroom floor—I went a little weak in the knees. In lieu of taking a cold shower, I splashed some water on my face in the bathroom.

  Running downstairs to ditch my black slacks and blouse for a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I make it to the couch in time to watch the end of the pregame show.

  “How’s your team doing?” Scott asks. I fill him in on the details. He nods approvingly. “You know . . .” He pauses, carefully considering his next words. “It won’t be the end of the world if you lose today.”

  “I’ll be in last place.”

  “So will half the teams in your league.”

  “I don’t want to be in the bottom half.”

  “Neither do the other teams, but it’s a given. Statistically speaking, half of the teams will lose every week, which means half of the teams will start the league in first place and the other half will be in last.”

  To prevent me from arguing, he hands over the bowl of chips.

  The pregame show comes to an end, and the Monday Night Football music plays. My running back’s team will have the ball to start the first half. Based on opinions voiced by several experts, Moor is expected to get a lot of carries tonight. The opposing team’s defense—who happen to be playing for my opponent this week—doesn’t do well against running backs. It’s like we truly are pitted against each other with this game.

  Christopher arrives with pizza during kickoff. I give a quick hello but ignore the contents of the cardboard box. My stomach is twisting itself into knots. I couldn’t possibly eat right now.

  Moor runs out on the field with his team. After a quick huddle, he takes a pitch from the quarterback and runs for four yards before he’s tackled. Ouch. That had to hurt. He doesn’t get up immediately and clutches his right leg.

  “That didn’t look good,” Christopher says. He nudges a plate of pizza at me again. “Eat something.”

  “I need to watch the replay.”

  The camera zooms in, showing Tony Moor’s leg catch under a defender, while his body twists in another direction. My stomach lurches, and I cover my mouth.

  Christopher pulls the box away, which is for the best. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to eat again after watching that injury. I stare at the screen in dumb silence when the game comes back on and a team of trainers carry my running back off the field on a gurney.

  I barely speak for the rest of the first half. I can’t process what’s happening. Moor, my sure bet to stay alive this week, was knocked out of the game in the first series. And while I may not be a trained medical professional, even I can tell he won’t be back in in the second half.

  During the next three hours, the opposing defense, the one Tyler is using to play against me, has a stronger-than-projected week. They hold Moor’s team to ten points and picked off a pass from the quarterback, which they ran back for a touchdown.

  As predicted, Moor never made it back out for the game. Based on the updates coming out of the locker room, he’ll likely miss a few more games.

  Both factors yield the same result for me: my first loss of the season.

  “Harper . . .”

  “Don’t,” I interrupt Scott. “Don’t tell me I have a whole season. I get it.” And I do, but right now, I need a moment.

  I need time to grieve. I need time to figure out if my losing record is a result of poor judgment with player selection, bad luck, or a combination of both. I’m almost scared to check my bench. If any of those players did better than the ones I selected this week, then my loss is on me, not Moor’s injury.

  I should wait until tomorrow. But I’m already upset now. Do I want to drudge up anger and disappointment again in the morning? I open the roster and scroll down to inspect the bench.

  Well damn.

  Week One Recap: Team Harper Falls in Crushing Week One Loss

  Team Harper sustained a devastating
“L” even after going into Monday’s game as the leading forerunner.

  Quarterback Todd Northwood was the league’s second-highest scoring quarterback for the week. With the exception of North, no players on the roster met their projections. This loss was particularly felt with John-Paul Massa (running back) and Isaiah Dewey-Davis (wide receiver). Massa produced a disappointing six points with only four carries. Dewey-Davis scored one touchdown but fumbled the ball during the second quarter and missed action the rest of his game. Kicker Collin Flaherty missed two field goals, which cost the team seven points.

  A Monday night injury from running back Tony Moor resulted in zero points scored in this position, which was the final nail in the coffin for this over-ranked team.

  Team Harper also left some high-scoring talent on the bench. Wide receiver Lorenzo Rossi earned an unprecedented twenty-seven points with three touchdowns, more than one hundred yards, and several carries. Ambrose Saltimbacca (running back) had two touchdowns, one hundred and twenty rushing yards, and twelve carries.

  The loss paired with a low-scoring point total puts Team Harper in a tie for last place. Without Moor on her team, and with a highly improbable repeat performance from North, Team Harper will need the power of prayer to get out of last place.

  Record: 0-1

  Chapter Seven

  I’M TRYING NOT TO TAKE it too personally, but the guy who wrote my week one recap is a dick.

  For the most part I ignored the negative commentary on my draft, but this crosses a line. Whoever writes these recaps is probably an unhappy jerk with a small penis, who hates puppies and loves frightening small children. No, I don’t know this for a fact, but based on his harsh assessment of my beautiful—if a bit ragtag—team, I have no choice but to deduce that he—and yes, I assume this idiot is a man—is full of crap and compensating with his reviews.

  I’ll concede he made a few valid points. I did lose. But there were several factors that went into my loss.