Scott: HOLY SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
J.J.: Way to go! We should grab a drink after work to celebrate. My treat . . .
Gio: Mark my word, you’re going to win this whole season, and the lesser men in our league will cry themselves to sleep every night cursing your name to the fantasy gods. (I’ll try not to swear too loudly.)
Wade: Is this real life? I swear this happened in a movie, once, and it ended with everyone hoisting the world’s best fantasy football team owner on their shoulders shouting “Harper! Harper!”
Brook: Wow. I wish I had something more insightful to offer, but I’m at a loss. Wow. Plain and simple. I’m impressed, Team Harper.
This fantasy football business isn’t so tricky.
STILL RUNNING ON THE high of my victory, I accept J.J.’s offer to buy me a drink after work. I’m in the mood to celebrate Todd’s and my record-setting Thursday night performance. I doubt J.J. would be half as happy for me if I was playing him this week.
I’m still not sure I like J.J., but he’s a good person to have on my side. A lot of the guys at the dealership take their cues from him. If he says I’m okay, well, then I’m okay. Anderson will be able to sleep better at night if I’ve been accepted by my peers.
Before meeting J.J. at the bar, I had to promise Gio and Wade that I’d limit myself to one complimentary drink from the league commissioner. I also had to swear to refuse any offers J.J. might make that include the phrases “I’ll give you a ride home,” “You have to try this shot,” or “Wanna get high?”
Like that had to be said. I’m getting too old for shots, and I don’t touch the other stuff.
Wade also suggested I stop home to change out of my dress and into a pair of jeans. I told him that was sexist. I’m a woman who can say no. I’m also more than capable of kneeing a guy in the crotch if he gets too frisky.
I’m not worried about that anyways. J.J. isn’t exactly hard up for action. He picked up at least three new phone numbers last Sunday night without even trying. If he wants to get laid tonight, he can call one of them. I’ll be fine.
All the same, I meet him for the drink instead of carpooling. It’s one of the newish bars in downtown Lincoln’s newish Railyard district, which is bringing newish excitement and energy to the college town. It’s all new to me, but with how often the locals mention it, stressing the newness seems like a critical distinction.
While I wait for him to arrive, I make my way through the last remnants of the Friday night Happy Hour crowd and sit at the bar.
“What can I get ya?” the broad-shouldered college student behind the counter asks.
I blink hard twice. What is this? A linebacker working the night before a big game? Someone newly released from the team? That can be the only explanation for the giant hunk of man taking my drink order.
I clear my throat. “Any specials or suggestions? It’s my first time here.”
Mr. Bar Hunk leans toward me. “Are you in town for the game or just visiting?”
“I moved to Lincoln a couple of months ago.”
“New in town, hmm?” He sets his bar towel aside and leans forward. “Well, this round’s on me. What do you like?”
“Oh . . . everything. I’m pretty easy to please.”
“Do you trust me?”
I nod, and he turns to grab some liquor on the back wall, but not before I catch a glimpse of his name tag: Marshall. Funny. I had him pegged as more of a Colt or Rick. I prefer Mr. Bar Hunk to Marshall. Marshall would be my buddy, but Mr. Bar Hunk would be my . . .
Feeling a bit warm, I shrug out of the cardigan I threw on over the simple dress I wore to work. Resting an elbow on the bar top, I lean forward to watch his progress.
How old is Mr. Bar Hunk? I wonder, watching the thin material of his black T-shirt stretch over his shoulders as he reaches for a bottle of vodka on the top shelf. He has to be legal. You can’t serve liquor in Nebraska unless you’re at least nineteen. Nineteen would be pretty young for me to consider. I’m not ancient, but I’m not sure I can handle a seven- or eight-year gap at this point in my life.
Yet he moves with such comfort and ease. Maybe Mr. Bar Hunk is older than his baby-face suggests. He shakes the concoction, holding onto the glasses with firm hands that should be tossing me over those wide shoulders instead of making my drink.
And why am I even going there? Nine months is a long time to go without sex, but it’s not that long.
I wonder how long his—nope. Shut it down, Harper. Shut. It. Down.
Focus on something else. Focus on . . . the TV. Game footage from one of the local high schools flashes across the screen. Oh, good. Sports. With minors. There’s zero chance I’ll be able to lust over that.
Mr. Bar Hunk slides over the drink—something pink with a saber of orange, pineapple, and cherry plopped in it for garnish—and I flash a quick smile of thanks, keeping my attention on the screen.
He follows my line of sight. “You follow the local teams?”
“I’m trying.” I sip on the cocktail, pleasantly surprised by the tangy, but not overly sweet, froufrou drink. “When in Rome.”
He nods. “We’ve got a couple of solid teams in town. At least two of them are on the fast track to the playoffs, and I’d be surprised if one of them doesn’t take State.”
I’m about to ask for more details when a familiar face pops up on screen. “I know him.”
Mr. Bar Hunk narrows his eyes to read the screen. “You know Brook MacLaughlin?”
I nod. “He’s in my fantasy league.”
“She watches sports coverage and plays fantasy football?” He covers his heart. “We’re damn proud to have you in our state.”
Together we watch the rest of the interview, even though we can’t hear what Brook is saying over the loud music echoing through the bar.
“He used to play for the Huskers,” Mr. Bar Hunk says off-handedly. “He started most of his senior year.”
“Oh yeah?” None of the guys at work mentioned that.
“We were plagued by a bunch of injuries and had to dig into our bench. MacLaughlin was solid. He didn’t set records or play with a lot of flash, but he helped us win our bowl game. He was one of the guys who worked in the mentoring programs and such. He’s a big reason Lincoln West is headed for State. Give him another year or two, and he’ll be a head coach somewhere.”
“Do you—”
I’m interrupted by J.J. stepping up to the bar. “Sorry I’m late.”
He’s changed out of his black suit and into a pair of jeans. The sleeves on his red flannel shirt are rolled up to reveal a hint of tanned skin and dark hair. I take a deep gulp of my cocktail. This was such a bad idea because my libido is in overdrive. I’m lusting after everyone from Todd Northwood to Mr. Bar Hunk, and now J.J. Maybe I should increase my daily workouts to burn off some of this energy.
Awareness lights Mr. Bar Hunk’s eyes. With wonder in his voice, he says, “J.J. Sanchez. The Heisman candidate.”
“You were a Heisman candidate?”
J.J. releases a short laugh. “I didn’t make the final cut, but not because the best fans in college football didn’t try their best to campaign for me.” He reaches across the bar to shake Mr. Bar Hunk’s hand. “Thanks for taking care of my friend. I’m chronically late.”
“Of course.”
I frown at the bartender. Two minutes ago he was putting his best moves on me—or at least I thought he was—but now he’s starry-eyed for J.J. Ditched for J.J.? I can’t believe it.
Also seemingly sensing the serious case of man-crush on the other side of the counter, J.J. pushes away. “Let’s grab a table.”
“Thanks, Marshall.” I leave a couple of bills on the bar as a tip. “It was nice meeting you.”
“Yeah.” His eyes are still wide, his expression awestruck “You’re hanging out with J.J. Sanchez and you play in a league with Brook MacLaughlin? You’re a badass.”
J.J. saves me from having to come up with a response
by ushering me to a small booth. “Only in Nebraska.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Almost daily.” He slides into the seat across from me, shaking his head. “That’s the reason I came back to Lincoln, even though my family is out in California. Back home, I’m another former athlete, but here, I’m a hero.”
“Sounds like you don’t mind the celebrity.” Or feel the need to be humble.
“That ‘fame’ helps me sell cars and covers more than a few of my bar tabs.” He slides a menu out from behind the salt and pepper shakers. “Let’s order food. I’m buying.”
LATER, AFTER A SHARED appetizer, two oversized entrees, and a few more drinks than the one I’d planned on having, J.J. and I lounge comfortably in our tiny corner booth. We’ve relived North’s big moments from last night’s game. We’ve gone over J.J.’s college highlights reel, which he had saved on his phone. We’ve discussed his brief post-collegiate career, which included a short stint in the NFL followed by a slightly longer tenure in arena football.
We even made it through dinner without him making too much fun of my pescetarian diet. Only a little.
“Is that one of those new, weird religious sects? Or is it an off-shoot of Catholicism or Presbyterianism? I can’t keep up with this shit.”
“It’s actually a diet. Mostly vegetarian with dairy, eggs, and a bit of fish.”
“Vegetarian? I had no idea you were a hippie.”
“That’s not exactly it, but I have my reasons.” I would’ve explained them if he cared more.
It’s on my third—and what should be final—drink that I ask what I’ve wondered for weeks.
“Why did you stop playing football? I mean, you still seem healthy. You said you were never injured. You went to the NFL drafting combine. You were picked up as a free agent. What happened?”
His jaw twitches, and his fingers tighten around his glass. For a split second, I wonder if he wants to smack me. It would serve my tipsy self right for being so impertinent when the man is buying me dinner. (I tried to object on that front, but he was insistent.) In ten seconds of hindsight, it was pretty ballsy and rude of me to ask.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer out. “Forget I brought it up.”
“No, it’s a fair question. And one you’d probably find a few blog posts and articles about if you searched online. Not that any of it’s true,” he adds in a rush. Running a hand through his thick black hair, he sighs. “I got invited to the combine a couple of months after the regular season.”
This piques my interest. I’ve never met anyone who went to the NFL Combine. “What’s it like?”
“A lot of work. Drills, speed and strength testing, team interviews, measurements, even a bit of modeling.”
“Seriously?” I lean forward, captivated. “Like on how to do sport drink commercials and sock ads?”
“No.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Nothing like that. But you basically strip down to your skivvies and walk on a platform while someone reads your stats and a bunch of strangers eyeball you. It’s humiliating.”
And disappointing, I imagine.
“But even before the combine, I spent months preparing,” he continues. “I worked out every day. I ate rabbit food. I bulked up and slimmed down. I even went to a trainer in Tampa who specialized in getting guys ready for the combine and draft.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
“It was,” he agrees, jabbing the little bits of whiskey-covered ice with a black, stubby straw. “Then the draft rolls around. I wasn’t dumb enough to believe I’d get picked up in the first round, so we had a draft party at my parents’ house instead. The first night rolls by, then the second.” He crushes the last piece of ice. “By the end of the third day, my phone hadn’t rang. Except for the one consolation call from my agent telling me to ‘be patient.’ Nothing.”
I moisten my lips. “Then what happened?”
“In between the draft and training camp, my agent came through. He got me a spot on the practice squad for Cincinnati. I rented an apartment, threw a few things in a couple of duffel bags, and got myself there the next day.”
He pauses again and signals to the bartender across the room for one more. He turns to me, silently asking if I want another vodka soda, but I shake my head. I’m still only buzzed not drunk, and I have no desire to cross over to drunk.
“I get to practice, and the coach has me running drills with a couple of safeties. At first it seemed weird that he didn’t want me throwing around the ball or hanging out with the first and second string quarterbacks, but I didn’t worry about it.” He stares into his fresh drink for a beat, before taking a gulp. “My agent called that night and told me Coach wanted me in as a safety.”
I frown. “That seems weird. Does that happen often? Quarterbacks being asked to play something different?”
“It happens enough. Not always to quarterbacks. A cornerback might go onto the offense as a tight end, or a receiver might be on special teams. But it wasn’t supposed to happen to me.” He takes another gulp of whiskey. “Me. A fucking safety. It was beyond insulting. I was a Heisman contender. People wrote about me on message boards. I’m a leader. It’s what I was born to do. I wasn’t going to stick around for that bullshit.”
“So you left the team?”
“Yeah, I left the team. It was early enough I got out without raising much of a stink, but I wasn’t about to throw my life away on a position that didn’t suit me.”
I want to ask why but don’t. If it happens to a lot of players, if it meant having a chance to spend time on a professional football team, it doesn’t make sense that he wouldn’t give it a shot. His pride must’ve been hurt—and it’s obvious his ego took a bruising—but it seems like such a waste. Maybe that’s judgmental of me to say, but . . .
He might have a point. Looking back at some of my decisions—leaving a job I enjoyed in Kansas City to follow a boyfriend to Dallas where he’d promptly cheated on me—maybe I’d be in a better place if I’d followed my own my heart. Then again, maybe I’d be somewhere worse.
J.J. covers my hand with his, bringing me back to the moment. I glance up and let out a gasp of surprise as his lips crush against mine. Strong and smooth, his mouth works with a skill and expertise I’ve seldom encountered before. Desire stirs in my belly. But even in my slightly buzzed state, it doesn’t grow stronger than my resolve not to jump into bed with another smooth-talking salesman. Especially not one who would consider me little more than a conquest.
He pulls back at last and straightens his shoulders. “I’ve got a guy who can score us some weed. We can go to my place. It’s down the street. Wanna get high?”
There’s my cue to close out the tab. While tonight has been interesting, I’m more than a little determined not to let my attraction—if you can even call it that—for J.J. go anywhere.
Maybe a year or two ago I wouldn’t have minded risking an uncomfortable workplace for the thrill of spending a few hours, or even minutes, getting hot and sweaty with a good-looking man with impressive forearms. Only a short time ago, I would’ve been fine diving into a physical affair with next to no emotional or intellectual connection to have those lips—the ones that left mine bruised—move all over my body.
Now, I want something else. Giving in to purely carnal instincts for so little in return seems like taking a step back. And a huge step back from zero isn’t anywhere I’d like to go.
Chapter Nine
BY THE NEXT DAY, MY excitement from North’s success fades. I mean, I have a ton of points thanks to his performance, but what if I blow the lead now? It’d be a level of humiliation I haven’t faced since the day everyone at the Dallas dealership realized Dirk was cheating on me. I can’t handle the pity.
But enough of that. I’ve delayed the inevitable long enough. Checking to make sure my nephew is still down for his afternoon nap, I log in to the fantasy football app to review the latest projections.
Scrolling through post after post,
I try to find a consensus on who should play tomorrow. Nothing adds up. One site claims Tony Moor will after having a good week of rest and light practice. Another says he’s doubtful until at least week four.
My wide receiver camp is even worse. Aside from Isaiah Dewey-Davis—who may or may not be the best thing to ever happen to football, based on the rave reviews he’s received across the board—I’m clueless. They might as well be the same player based on the nonsensical updates the “experts” are reporting.
There’s my first choice for second choice, Gabriel Natz.
Natz was clicking with his quarterback all week in practice. He’s a definite starter as long as he keeps possession of the ball instead of turning it over, like he did in week one.
Or the second runner-up.
Ryder James looked great in practice this week. He’ll put plenty of points on the board as long as he starts, which isn’t a sure thing. Especially given his coach’s history of shaking up the lineup at last minute.
There’s the hot and cold review for my other bench warmer, Jack Jacobsen.
Jack Jacobsen is a sure bet to start, assuming he wins his appeal for an off-season substance abuse policy. The league has been slow to make a ruling. While you can’t count on Jacobsen yet, don’t disregard him either.
Apparently Jacobsen, who I chose based on name and looks alone, tested positive for weed in the off-season despite my best effort to draft Boy Scouts. He was out last week while the league reviewed his appeal, but it could still be week five before he is eligible to play. Christopher assures me Jacobsen will be great once he’s on the field, but so far he’s a bust. Plus, I’m not sure I can trust Christopher. Not with him betting on my failure and lawn duty on the line.
Nope. No clue what to do there. I return to the list of running backs, which suddenly seems more decipherable. Tony Moor is my best option. If he plays.
Is this the week I give Blake Lambert or even Jack Jacobson a chance to play? If Moor is out for the game, yes, absolutely. But there’s a good chance I won’t find out if he’s in or out until either of those guys play.
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