First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

  I wish the league required coaches to declare their starting lineups and benched players by ten every Sunday morning. It wouldn’t make sense for their real teams, but it would help a sister out with her fake one. Understanding the situation with Moor will make the difference between me scoring or getting nothing.

  Oh God. I hadn’t considered that possibility. Zero points from one player. I’m no fantasy football expert, but even I understand that scoring one or two points off either of those boys would be better than a big fat nothing from a benched Moor.

  Maybe I should ask Brook if I can tag along when he goes to church tomorrow morning because I’d better start praying.

  I’m still weighing the pros and cons of turning to organized religion or witchcraft when Scott starts boiling a pot of water to make macaroni and cheese for Jackson’s dinner. Catching me reviewing the roster, he asks, “How’s your team?”

  “They’re fine,” I answer a little too quickly. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Ohhh . . . Kaaayy . . .”

  “I mean, I can set a lineup.” I put my phone away and unload the dishwasher to keep my hands busy with something else. “I did it last week and it wasn’t a disaster. At least not completely. And I’ve been listening to podcasts and reading articles every day. I know my players better than anyone. That doesn’t mean I have to have my lineup set yet, does it? I can wait till the last minute like some real coaches do.”

  “Not all coaches wait—”

  “So now you’re an expert on coaches?”

  “I didn’t say that, but . . . I get where you’re coming from.”

  That gives me pause. “You do?”

  “Well, yeah. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

  I’m so caught up in taking everything literally, I nearly ask him what bulls and horses have to do with football. I’m already being ridiculous enough with my mini-meltdown. I don’t need to add to my stupidity.

  Scott pours the macaroni shells into the boiling water and tosses the powdered cheese packet aside. “It’s normal to worry about your lineup. Especially in fantasy when so many of the factors are out of your control.”

  “You never worry.”

  “Sure I do,” Scott says. “But I can also keep it together.”

  “Like the strong, silent man you are.”

  He smirks. “You said it.”

  “But how do you actually pick your team?” I ask, trying to bring the conversation back around to the real issue at hand: my inability to set a lineup. “Do you use insider intel? Do you go with your gut? Do you go completely on the matchups? What?”

  “It’s a mix of everything, I guess, except for the whole insider bit. That’s not a thing. But . . . I usually wait to worry about my lineup until Sunday morning.” He shrugs and wipes down Jackson’s booster seat with a ragged towel. “You ruin a perfectly good Saturday night otherwise. Fantasy football is supposed to be fun. Not agony. Don’t worry. Enjoy yourself.”

  “I can appreciate your Zen-like approach,” I lie, because it sounds like a bunch of crap. “And I’ll try my best to stop worrying right now. But what do I do tomorrow? How do I sift through the information to make the best decision?”

  Scott sighs, wiping his hands on the towel and draping it over his shoulder. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this . . .”

  “Say what?”

  He leans a hip against the counter. “I’ll help you with your lineup tomorrow morning. But—” He raises his palms to stop me from saying anything. “We need to establish some ground rules.”

  “Absolutely.” I nod, waiting for him to set the parameters so we can talk strategy and implementation. I’ll do just about anything to secure a victory this week. Well, anything short of being his accomplice for armed robbery or changing the nasty air filter in the air conditioner. I’m desperate, not insane. “Whatever you like.”

  “Rule number one: We don’t discuss lineups—including potential players—until after ten tomorrow morning.”

  My excitement takes a slight hit on that, but I agree. I can do my own research between now and then. And if I need a sounding board, I’ll message Brook. He’s always up for a little football talk. Always.

  “Number two,” Scott continues, “you agree to take Jackson for a couple of hours in the morning.”

  I frown. “But what about our lineups? Won’t we be busy?”

  “Before that. Like, from eight to ten.”

  It’s a pity both of my brothers are so obsessed with creating ridiculous rules before they’re willing to help me out. “Fine. What else?”

  “No yelling at me if you don’t win.”

  “I’d never do that.”

  His eyebrows raise giving me pause. Okay, I probably would, but it won’t be an issue because I’m going to win. I offer my hand. “I agree to the terms.”

  WHILE SCOTT DOES WHATEVER he has planned for his free Sunday morning, I load Jackson into the stroller and head for the park. It’s a little early for an outing like this, but I’m not sure what else to do. The museums, libraries, and stores are still closed, which rules out culture, learning, and window shopping. We’ve already had breakfast. This is basically our only choice.

  I skip the first park we pass because we have time to kill. By the time I get to the second, Jackson has lost his patience with waiting for his promised chance to go “shwinging” and I’ve lost my ability to drown out his whining.

  We have the place to ourselves, save for a handful of joggers with their dogs. Watching them pass by, their feet pounding the pavement, burning more calories with every minute than I have all week, I try to remember the last time I put in a good workout. It was when mornings were still chilly and on the brink of humid. It must have been April or May. No wonder my jeans are snugger than they were last fall.

  I unhook the strap on the stroller. Jackson stumbles out and races to snag a swing before anyone can beat him to it, because that could totally happen when there is no one else around for competition.

  Jackson tries but comes nowhere close to climbing into the booster swing. With a sigh, I pick up the pace to help him before I have a tantrum on my hands.

  “Push me,” he shouts once I have him securely in the seat.

  I’ve taken position when a small stampede of feet thunders behind me. I cast a glance over my shoulder and freeze. What the—

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Brook says, flashing a quick grin. I choke on my greeting, barely able to hear over the pounding in my ears. He and a duo of blonde girls in matching lavender and peach plaid dresses pause a few feet away. “It seems we’re both on kid duty today.”

  “Who are you?” Jackson asks, turning in his seat.

  Crouching down to my nephew’s eye-level, Brook extends his hand. “I’m Brook.”

  “Jackson,” my nephew replies, thrusting his chubby hand into Brook’s like he does this all the time. “What’s up, man?”

  Brook flashes a quick glance my way, laughter in his eyes. I’m glad he finds Jackson’s imitation of Christopher amusing. At least he hasn’t picked up on any of his uncle’s favorite swear words yet. “Jackson, I’d like you to meet my nieces.” He waves them forward. “This is Marley and Ellery.”

  The girls offer shy grins before staring up at me expectantly. Taking a cue from Brook, I awkwardly kneel and introduce myself and Jackson.

  “Can we join you?” Brook asks.

  I nod, still not able to muster up much conversation. This is weird. I’m not upset he’s here. I just have him compartmentalized in the league part of my brain. Running into him outside of Facebook or a fantasy football-related function feels strange, like the first time you try on shorts in the spring.

  Brook places his nieces in their swings and positions himself between them to push. He calls out a few words of encouragement and praise while pushing them gently with his solid, former wide receiver hands. The girls giggle and preen under his attention. I can’t help but stare. He’s so sweet and tender with them. It’s beyond adorable.<
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  He catches me mid-stare, and his brow wrinkles. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” Don’t mind me. I’m only ovulating. Before he can question me, I ask hurriedly, “Do you guys come here often? Before church?”

  “No, but my sister wasn’t feeling the best this morning, and the girls and I figured we’d give her a little bit of time to herself get ready.” He steals a quick glance at his nieces. “What about you?”

  “Basically the same. My brother needed some alone time.”

  We fall silent, turning our attention back to the kids. Noticing the height the girls are getting from their uncle’s efforts, Jackson grows more demanding, insisting he wants to go higher, and faster. My arms already ache and beads of sweat are dripping off my forehead.

  “Want me to take over for a couple of pushes?” Brook asks.

  Much as I’d like to take him up on the offer, I shake my head. If my nephew wants to keep up with the girls, well, I’ll help him. After a while, the pain in my biceps dulls. Either I’m getting used to it, or I’m numb.

  Casting a sideways glance at Brook, I say, “So.”

  “So,” he repeats with another one of his signature grins.

  “I noticed the tricycle at your house. Do you take it out often?”

  His eyes crinkle, and he gives each of the girls another big shove. “Not much lately. School and coaching keeps me pretty busy these days.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Plus, Dylan’s son, Hayden, would probably freak since it’s his.”

  “Dylan has a son?” I feign ignorance like I haven’t read through my league-mates’ Facebook profiles with a keen attention to detail.

  “Yeah. He shares custody with his ex-wife. You’ll meet him at the watch party this afternoon.”

  “Is that a warning to mind my language?”

  “Trust me, you won’t say anything that kid hasn’t heard before.” Brook winks, and I nearly get smacked in the face with Jackson’s butt. “That poor kid’s going to grow up talking like a sailor already thanks to his Uncle J.J.”

  “J.J. has a potty mouth?”

  “One of the worst.”

  “I haven’t noticed.”

  “Wait for week three or four.” Brook wiggles his eyebrows. “That’s when his fangs come out.”

  Without warning, he grabs both sides of Marley’s swing and runs under, sending her soaring high into the air much to her shrieking delight. He laps the swing step and repeats the gesture with Ellery. She shrieks in delight. Catching Jackson’s wistful gaze, he silently awaits my permission. Giving a quick nod, I step aside, and he carefully holds onto the booster swing. Seat barely raised, he ducks low and runs under. Jackson squeals.

  Slightly out of breath, Brook returns to his spot behind the girls. For some reason instead of my arms hurting, or even my feet from standing longer than I’m used to, my face hurts. It takes me a few seconds to realize it’s from smiling. Thanks to Brook, my morning of paying a debt to Scott has given my attitude a big boost.

  Even if I lose—which won’t happen because I’m so far ahead it’s ridiculous—this deal was worth it.

  WELL THAT DIDN’T TURN out as expected. Not even a little. I gave up a whole Sunday morning of my life—which, okay, was a lot of fun because I spent it with Jackson and Brook—but I didn’t get the results I was promised.

  And, okay, Scott made me no promises, but I did worse with his help than if I’d gone with my first instincts.

  I can’t even look at him on the drive home from watching the Monday night game at a sports bar. He feels badly—and he should—about leading me astray with his adamant push to start Tony Moor. Despite his questionable status on Sunday morning, Scott was certain he’d play in the game. But he didn’t. By the time we realized he was out, it was too late to trade him for anyone else, and I lost the projected fifteen points he’d score.

  As a result, I lost this week’s matchup. By one and a half points.

  Week two, and my team has already gone to crap. I want to scream at Scott and the injustice of the whole situation, but I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t.

  Scott finally breaks the silence about five minutes from home. “Are you okay?” His voice holds a hint of nervousness. Why wouldn’t he be worried? I’m his bratty, somewhat melodramatic little sister. He naturally expects me to come unhinged.

  “I’m fine.” The words come out harsher than I mean, but I’m trying so hard not to scream or cry. I soften my tone a little more. “Thank you for asking. I hope you had fun watching the game.”

  He sends another sidelong glance my way. “You can call me a few bad names if it makes you feel better.”

  I give a short laugh. I want to hold a grudge against my brother, but it’s too hard when he’s being nice. Still, his offer intrigues me. “How bad?”

  “Pretty bad.”

  “Rated R bad?”

  “I’m prepared for HBO nasty.” He fakes a worried face. “Come on. Show me what you’ve got. You had to learn something from those used car salesmen you work around.”

  “They sell new vehicles, too,” I correct. “But you’re right. Some of them have dirty fucking mouths.”

  “Ooh, you dropped an f-bomb.” He whistles. “I’m scared of you.”

  And despite my annoyance and frustration, I laugh.

  Week Two Recap: Team Harper Botches Massive Lead with Questionable Lineup

  Never let it be said that anyone is ever a shoo-in to win. Not even a record-setting performance from Todd Northwood (tallying up more than 40 points in one night of play is more than the stuff of legends, but rather gods) could secure Team Harper a likely expected victory. Not when she put all her eggs in the Tony Moor basket. It was a gutsy call that would have paid off if Moor had more action in Sunday night’s game.

  Team Harper would have won this week by a decent margin had she played any of her other running backs. Perhaps this is a lesson for the future: go for the sure points instead of betting on a bigger reward that might not pan out.

  Record: 0-2

  Chapter Ten

  TO TRY AND MAKE AMENDS with Kelsey, who’s been giving me the stink-eye since I took her not-so-coveted spot in the league, I volunteer to work for her the following Saturday afternoon. It’s homecoming at the university, and she wanted to go to the game with her friends. I don’t have anything better to do, and Saturday afternoons aren’t jam-packed with business during football season.

  The only problem is filling the time. I finished filing paperwork and making customer calls an hour ago. I’ve worked on the website changes but stopped before I made too many. Anderson did tell me to slow down.

  Beyond bored, I do something I haven’t done since I was a punk college student trying to fill her own weekend shifts. I pull out the crossword puzzle from the morning newspaper. It’s not like anyone is around to witness my blatant abuse of company time. And, as a salaried employee, I’m covering this extra shift for free.

  If anyone asks, I’ll say I’m keeping my brain mentally prepared for when a customer does need assistance. Not that anyone would believe that excuse.

  Sheesh, look at the bad employee I’ve become. First signing up for fantasy football leagues and listening to podcasts on the clock and now this. I wonder if Anderson realized what he was unleashing when he told me to play nice and cut back on my productivity.

  Starting from the top of the puzzle, I skip one across because there’s no way I can figure out a twenty-letter word or phrase for “second half of homeopathic sprain care” off the top of my head.

  The next clue is fitting. Six across. Fourteen letters. Clue: “Kicker for a devout NFL team.” That’s a dead giveaway for the team—the Saints!—but who is their kicker? It’s tempting to run a Google search, but that would be cheating.

  My phone flashes with a notification from my fantasy football app. It’s a reminder to set a lineup before the games tomorrow. I will, I will. Even after my loss last week, I’m fairly confident I’ve recovered enough to
pick out a decent team.

  I won’t be playing Tony Moor. That’s for sure. And I won’t ask Scott for any advice. Not because I blame him, but because he refuses to help me ever again. Wuss. Still . . . it wouldn’t hurt to do a little shopping on the waiver wire. If I happen to stumble upon the kicker for the Saints, well, what a coincidence.

  My kicker has a bye week coming up, and I don’t have backup. Everyone told me to only draft one and pick up a substitute when I needed him because they’re not that crucial of a player on the team. I should still have a contingency plan, though, right?

  To be fair, I’ll only pull up the available kickers on my fantasy app. For team research. The guy’s team doesn’t suck. Chances are better than good one of my wonderful league-mates will have already snapped him up. So it’s not cheating. If he does turn out to be available, well, then my luck has turned. I skim through the list of free agents. He’s not there.

  Well . . . it wouldn’t hurt to research my competition. I click on the option to include all players. Halfway through the list, I happen upon Mr. Six Across.

  “Awesome.”

  Hmm. He actually had a decent game last week. His ranking isn’t particularly high, but he’s fairly new to the NFL. Of course he’s on Brook’s team. As if the guy didn’t have enough luck and momentum going into this season, he had to snap up a kicker who scores more points every week than my running backs.

  Pity he has a bye in week four, or I’d be tempted to beg Brook to let me add him to the Team Harper roster in lieu of my near-zero scoring player. I can only imagine how much grief the guys would give me if I traded for a kicker. Plus it’s only week three. I should probably wait at least another week before I tinker too much with my bench.

  I double check the number of letters in his name to be sure. Fourteen. That’s my boy.

  “Casey Zimmerman,” Wade says from over my shoulder. I nearly drop my pen and glare at him as he leans over the counter to read my puzzle without asking. “Excuse me?”