First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

  For one, I didn’t take injuries into consideration. It’s not like I didn’t realize it was possible for a player to get hurt. I grew up watching football. It’s a tough game, and sometimes someone sprains an ankle or has to have surgery. I just figured it wouldn’t happen to my team.

  That was something beyond my control, but I can manage the way I prepare for future games. In my naïveté, I assumed the rankings and projections created by NFL experts would be enough to help me set a roster. But they’re not. You have to take dozens of other bits of information into consideration. Like, checking out the other players on their real team. Who their team is playing against. How they have performed in other games. What’s going on off the field. Basically everything except how much they’re getting paid and what charities they support can affect the outcome of the game, and I’m not totally sure those don’t contribute, too.

  It’s a lot. Way more than I imagined, but I’ll adjust. Now that I understand the game better and how to prepare, I’ll change my approach. It was only the first week. There is a lot of season left.

  So, random analyst, feel free to come after me for not setting a better roster. Make fun of me for playing someone who blew out his leg in his first play of the game.

  Don’t speak against my quarterback. I mean, how dare he. Todd Northwood is practically an American hero, and he played his heart out. He scored me some serious points, and I didn’t lose because of him. Don’t say he won’t have another good week.

  And isn’t it also a little premature to go around using phrases like “will need the power of prayer to get out of last place?” I should have as much of a chance as anyone at not only rising up the rankings, but earning a bid to the playoffs.

  The analyst is wrong. I’ll be fine.

  Despite the pep talk I’ve been giving myself in the few days since my first disappointment of the season, I have a hard time keeping my voice confident when I read Scott the previous week’s recap during breakfast on Thursday morning.

  “You have to take whatever those fantasy apps say with a grain of salt.” Scott pours a bowl of cereal for Jackson, who is spending the weekend with us. “You can’t completely disregard them, but, especially when it comes to recaps, remember it’s a generic statement. It’s not like they have a team of people sitting in a building somewhere writing a personalized message for every person with a fantasy team.”

  “When should I listen to the reports?”

  “They’ll be good when it comes to explaining injuries and individual player projections,” he says. “They’re written by actual sports reporters. Consider those an abridged version of the full article on their websites.”

  “Should I read the full articles?”

  Scott shrugs. “If you have time to sit around reading hundreds of reports a week, go for it. Otherwise, pick out the ones you find most helpful.”

  I jot down a note in my fantasy football notebook. Pick and choose your news.

  “You’ll drive yourself nuts if you try reading every word that’s published or listening to every podcast or broadcast,” Scott continues. “Everyone has a different opinion.”

  “What news sources do you follow?”

  “I check the player updates on my app daily. I wait until game day to do any real research. You’ll want to check whomever you have playing tonight.”

  “I only have North.”

  “Good.” Scott hands Jackson his bowl and sits down to eat his own breakfast. How can he be so laid-back about everything? I’m only a few days into my fantasy football season and I’m a mess.

  “While you’re being cautious about your news sources, I’d seriously question anything he tells you,” Christopher says, taking a seat on the other side of the table. “His ideas might sound good in theory, but he’s never won his league.”

  “I’ve made it to the championships twice.”

  “But you’ve never been able to clinch the victory when it counts.”

  “You’re one to talk.” Scott points his spoon at Christopher for emphasis. “You’ve only won once in nearly a decade of playing the game.”

  “That’s still better than you, old man.”

  “Old man!” Jackson repeats.

  “Don’t call your father an ‘old man,’” I say gently.

  “OLD MAN!” Jackson shouts, pounding his tiny fists on the table.

  “You’re making a dangerous enemy.” Scott leans over to buckle his son into the booster seat. “I won’t forget this.”

  Christopher rolls his eyes. “Is that a warning to Jackson or me?”

  Scott doesn’t say anything but raises an eyebrow. I sip coffee to hide my grin. Mealtime with my boys is quickly becoming one of my favorite pastimes.

  It’s definitely a welcome change from where I was a few months ago. Heck, even a year ago, when I was one of those people who shared a million photos of her seemingly perfect life all over Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter usually with some sort of brag accompanying it. But I wasn’t happy. Not truly.

  I haven’t been happy in a long time. It’s not even Dirk’s fault. He didn’t help a bad situation, but truthfully, the last time I was truly happy was in college.

  For the first time in my life, I left home. I majored in business administration because it was the sensible thing to do. I minored in history because it was something I enjoyed. That was the beauty of college. I could be perfectly reasonable on paper while indulging in a passion or two on the side.

  I took a job as a receptionist at a car dealership in nearby Schenectady my junior year. It paid more money than working in the student involvement office on campus. It was also less exhausting than my previous job waiting tables at one of those chain restaurants where they make you wear matching polos and sing happy birthday five times a night.

  Working at the dealership was liberating. It was easy. And after graduation, my boss recommended me for a job as an office manager in Kansas City. No farther from home, and closer to my brother, it seemed like a great opportunity. I could spend my days filing paperwork and my evenings doing whatever I liked. Maybe I’d get into craft-making or baking.

  Instead, I buried myself in work until I started dating Dirk, one of the top salesmen at the location. A couple of years older than me, he was handsome, charming, and maybe a little whimsical. But like my business degree, he was also good on paper. He impressed my parents, made nice with my brothers, and I could imagine a future of sorts with him. Maybe I didn’t love him as strongly as I would have liked. And our imagined future was sometimes hard to read, but I reasoned that it didn’t matter.

  When he was offered a job working in the bigger Dallas market—with the understanding that they’d find a position for me, too—I never questioned going.

  I suspected he was cheating within a few months of our move. Part of me assumed I was being paranoid, but there were signs I couldn’t ignore. Late nights. Fake appointments. When you work together, it’s easy to figure out when he’s lying about both. Once I discovered he was cheating, it was almost a relief. At least I hadn’t been crazy.

  Even after we broke up, it was hard. We still worked together. I tried dating other people, but a string of bad dates and a one-night stand didn’t help. They’d only made everything seem worse. Particularly because a few of those flings had been with our co-workers. Those weren’t my proudest moments. I came off like a jealous ex, which wasn’t a totally unfair assessment.

  Again, I found myself with plenty of downtime at night. I hadn’t made my own friends, and I grew more and more disappointed in the state of my life.

  The job opening in Lincoln had been my saving grace. My lifeline. My chance to start over while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. It hasn’t been that long. Only a couple of months. But I’m growing more and more impatient of waiting to figure out what’s next. There has to be something more.

  I’M STARTING TODD NORTHWOOD tonight. I have no doubts about his performance abilities. North will show up. He’ll strive for big
plays. He won’t let me down. He’s my number one quarterback.

  There’s more to North than his track record, which speaks for itself. A second-generation quarterback, he led his college football team to a national title twice. He went during the first round of the NFL draft. He has two Super Bowl titles and an embarrassingly long list of professional accolades. Throw in his various charitable organizations, excellent interview skills, and devoted father status, and he’s more than a superhuman force to be reckoned with.

  He’s practically the perfect man.

  Maybe he would be if he didn’t make that constipated face every time he sends a pass down field. Not that I’m paying that much attention to his facial expressions. Or the way his hands grip a football. Or the loud boom that echoes in my chest when he calls a play on the field.

  No. I need to stop obsessing. But it’s hard not to when he plays such an important role in my life. Or rather, on my team. Only a week ago, I hadn’t believed I’d be able to care for another quarterback the way I did—do—for Chad Baker.

  But after a week, and a considerable amount of studying archived copies of newspaper articles, I’ve opened myself up to new possibilities.

  His trials from the last year—including a season-ending injury and lengthy rehabilitation—and the way he’s overcome them make him seem strong. But also wounded. There are few things hotter than a wounded hero waiting to make a comeback.

  Tonight I wish I was home parked in front of the TV supporting my quarterback, but I have a standing Thursday night engagement. If I canceled now for a football game I wouldn’t have been interested in two weeks ago, I’d feel like a jerk.

  For the past few weeks, I’ve been meeting Christopher’s girlfriend, Meg, for crocheting lessons. They’ve been dating a year now, and he asked me to spend more time with her. Based on how desperately he wants me to be friends with her, he must have decided she could be a permanent fixture in our lives. I’m not sure yet how I feel about Meg, or my little brother getting married before I do, so I’m trying to get to know her better.

  While my own heart is in a football stadium in Atlanta, I meet Meg at a craft shop after work. She signed us up for beginning crocheting classes because my brother told her stories about our grandmother crocheting when we were little. Meg now has it in her head that she’d like to make him a new Packers sweater for Christmas.

  I don’t have the heart to tell her that something as elaborate as a sweater probably isn’t a project in her near future, but I keep my mouth shut and go to class.

  Besides, I enjoy them. They remind me of my grandma, and it’s nice to be good at something. By week two, I was working the yarn like a seasoned veteran. Meg hasn’t taken to crocheting quite as easily. She fumbles and fights with the yard. She pulls the yarn too tightly and drops stitches.

  While my scarf came out in a perfect elongated rectangle, hers resembled a misshaped triangle. Our instructor said my matching hat was the best she’d ever seen. Meg’s never made it from concept to development. She won’t say it, but I know it frustrates her.

  For her sake, I pretended to struggle with the patterns for the first half of the past couple of classes. But then making each stitch and watching my work shape into a completed project gives me a sense of completion I never had from school or any of my jobs. The yarn wrapped around my fingers and the cool metal of the crochet hook gives me calm. I’m in control of something.

  I’d like to be in control tonight. I spent part of my afternoon listening to a fantasy football podcast with J.J. He’d clucked his tongue more than once when the experts gave dismal projections for North.

  “It’s no secret I want to take the top prize from Mac this year,” he’d said. “But I wanted to take you to the playoffs with me. Our league needs a good shake-up from fresh blood.”

  “It’s still early in the season,” I’d muttered, even as I flipped through a few different blogs, despite being on the clock. It’s amazing how quickly my aversion to Internet abuse passed once I started spending more time with the guys on staff.

  “Maybe you should check out the waiver wire,” he’d suggested. “You never know who you might find. You may need another running back after that injury Moor had the other night."

  “I’m going to give my players a little more time.”

  I didn’t tell him I’d already spent three hours shopping for other players on the wire without finding anyone I liked enough to add to my lineup. It’s still too early in the season to tell. All the same, I flagged a few players to watch during this week’s games.

  I slip into my seat next to Meg a few minutes before the instructor. “Hey,” I murmur, removing the three skeins of yarn, two crochet hooks, and water bottle I’ll need to complete the project. Well, I only need the yarn and hooks for the project, but I take hydration seriously.

  “Maybe we should sign up for the advanced crocheting class that starts after this one finishes,” Meg replies, already making knots out of her yarn. “We’ll learn how to read patterns.”

  She means she’ll learn how to read patterns. I figured that out with our instructor Joleen in a private five-minute session one night. “Sure. When is the class?”

  “On Tuesday nights.” She eyes me closely. “You’re sure you don’t mind? I know you’re pretty busy with this new fantasy business.”

  Based on her tone, I can tell she finds fantasy football as ridiculous as I did two weeks ago. Choosing to ignore it, I freeze a grin on my face. “I’m in.”

  We go back to sorting our supplies while a dull ache forms behind my eyes. Meg seems like a nice enough girl, but I’m not sure I have enough energy or patience to devote another six weeks to having so much alone time with her.

  LATER, WHILE MEG ASKS Joleen about the proper way to add in stitches, I sneak a quick peek at my phone. North has been on the field for almost an hour now, and I can’t quite shake the notion that I’ve abandoned my man. How can I call myself a proper fantasy team owner, or even a fan, if I don’t regularly check in on him? I’m desperate to discover whether or not he’s earned me any fantasy points.

  I pull up the fantasy app, glancing quickly over my shoulder while the figures slowly load. Meg is still properly distracted, which means I have a few more moments of privacy before I’m discovered doing anything other than the pre-approved activity.

  Ideally, I’ll have between six and twelve points on the board. That would put me on target to get between twenty and thirty points from North this week. That’s a solid return on a quarterback.

  The page freezes on my screen.

  “Damn.” I tense, worrying I may have given myself away.

  Fortunately, Meg doesn’t notice. She is now asking Joleen about when the next classes start. I refresh the page, silently willing it to move more quickly. The green progress bar inches along. One bar. Two bars. Three bars. Each bringing me closer to my results.

  “What are you doing?” Meg asks.

  I freeze, thumbs poised over the screen as the last bar fills. Racing to come up with a plausible excuse, I spurt out, “I wanted to research something.” Which isn’t a full lie. “About making a triple crochet stitch,” I add. Okay, now it’s a lie.

  “Let me see.”

  I don’t move fast enough. Meg grabs the phone out of my hands and stares at the screen. I hold my breath, a knot of panic forming in my belly, while I wait for her to react. Recognition lights her eyes, and her cheeks turn a bright shade of purple.

  “Fantasy football? Seriously?”

  I shrug like it isn’t a big deal because it isn’t in the grand scheme of things. “I wanted to find out the score of the game.”

  Joleen arches her neck to read the screen. “You did a good job.”

  “On the scarf?” Despite my growing trepidation about how much hell I’m about to get from Meg, I can’t resist lifting my project to admire the progress. I’ll never get used to the praise our instructor so graciously bestows on me. It’s nice to have someone recognize me for doing someth
ing right.

  “Yes, on that, too. You’re a natural,” Joleen agrees. “But you made North your QB. That was smart.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s already made three passing touchdowns, and it isn’t even halftime.”

  I snatch the phone back from Meg and stare in bewildered delight. Three passing touchdowns at six points each, which makes eighteen. Add in his passing yardage, and North already has twenty-nine points for this game.

  That’s twenty-nine points in the first half of my first fantasy football game this week. I’d spike my phone and do a touchdown dance right here if Meg wasn’t glaring like she wants to throttle me. Instead, I tuck the phone back in my purse and pick up the crochet hook. Only now, instead of seeing rows of even stitches, I’m imagining North sending another touchdown pass down the field.

  My heart still pounding in my ears, I go through the motions of making even stitches. I’ll never look at that scrunched up throwing face of his the same way again.

  Chapter Eight

  AFTER A SERIES OF BAD calls on my part, I was due for making a good one. And starting Todd Northwood as my quarterback may go down as one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

  Hot Toddy—and I feel like I can call him that after everything we’ve been through in the past twelve hours—proved to every naysayer he’s not only back, but he’s better than ever. He’d led his team to victory and—most importantly from where I’m standing—scored more than forty points for Team Harper.

  I’ve had serious boyfriends do less for me. This must be love.

  A stream of Facebook messages and texts from league members and friends alike keeps the afterglow shining through breakfast Friday morning.

  While Christopher pouts about his team’s poor performance last night—he has the opposing defense, which means he went negative points—I re-skim the messages starting with the one he sent me last night.

  Christopher: I can’t believe I released Todd Northwood from my keeper league last season. I’m never going to live this down.