First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

  “Six across. It’s Casey Zimmerman.”

  “Obviously.” I narrowly avoid huffing at his stealing my puzzle-solving thunder. I’m half tempted to skip this one until he backs off, but I don’t want him thinking he’s frazzled me. I like Wade most of the time. But after losing the first two games of the season, I have to show strength to the competition. This week he’s the competition. There’s also the teeny, tiny fact that I’m a little mad at him.

  It’s totally irrational, and my brain knows he isn’t to blame for my disappointing loss last week, but my heart desperately wants to sucker-punch him in the groin. He’s the one who helped me sign up for the league.

  The best thing I can do for everyone is take a step back. I need to remind myself it’s only a game. It’s supposed to be fun. It isn’t supposed to be something that makes me dry sob in the middle of directing a customer to his newly serviced car.

  “If you knew it was Zimmerman, why haven’t you written it down?” he asks.

  I toss aside the pen and draw in a deep breath through my nose. “If you’d waited another five seconds to creep on me, it would have been.”

  “I’m not a creep,” he protests. I wave off his outrage, which only makes him more defensive. “I’m not,” he repeats.

  “I didn’t say you were a creep.”

  “You said I was creeping.”

  “Which doesn’t mean I’m calling you a creep.”

  “It’s basically the same thing.”

  “Whatever.” I tap my pen rapidly on the tablet after marking the answer. He still won’t budge from his spot, and he keeps trying to read the other clues. I flatten my hand on the paper to hide them. “Don’t you have a car to sell some sucker?”

  “Don’t you have a file cabinet to sort?”

  “Maybe you should be surfing the waiver wires for a wide receiver core.”

  “And you need a running back who won’t fumble every other play.”

  “Jerk.”

  “Brat.”

  “Boner.”

  “Whiner.”

  This could go on forever—or at least until close—unless one of us stops. Wade’s stance is every bit as hostile and ready for a fight as my glare. He’s not going to back down. Why does it have to fall on me to act like the grown-up? Wade is, like, way older than me. Okay. So he’s twenty-eight, and I’m twenty-six, but still. Be a grown-up, Wade.

  “Forget it.” I remove my hand from the puzzle, granting him better access to read the clues.

  “One across is the last part of ‘RICE.’”

  “That’s not enough letters.” Idiot.

  “Yeah it is,” Wade insists. “It’s an acronym for ‘rest, ice, compression, elevation.’ So the answer is ‘compression elevation’ without a space.”

  I frown at the page. He’s right. It fits. I was never going to figure that out on my own. What is he? A sports medicine professional? Medical wonder boy isn’t done.

  “And,” leaning farther over the counter to inspect the puzzle more closely, Wade adds, “the first two—rest ice—are the answer for thirty-seven down.”

  My jaw drops open. “You skipped.”

  “Everyone skips.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Yeah you do. You were working on six across.”

  My cheeks flush. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “I’m not!”

  “It sounded like it.”

  Before either of us has a stroke, maybe we need to take my brothers’ lead and set some ground rules. Wade and I are clearly too emotional to find the answer for fifteen across, which I actually know. Four letters. Clue: Scarlett’s home. Easy. I wonder if I can write “Tara” without him noticing.

  The front door swings open, saving me from having to make the decision to define or end the collaboration.

  “You have a customer.” I motion to the man taking a lap around our display of the latest models. “Better check in on him. You wouldn’t want to miss out on a potential commission.”

  “That’s not a commission check today,” Wade says without giving the man more than a cursory glance. He tries to read the clues around my hand.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I slip the puzzle into a folder and set it aside. “There’s someone here. Go help him.”

  “He’s one of our regulars.”

  “All the more reason to help him.”

  Wade rolls his eyes. I’m sure it sounds ridiculous for us to be discussing regulars. We’re a car dealership, not a bar. We sell luxury vehicles, not cocktails. But we actually do have regulars. They’re people who come in for every bit of maintenance and the occasional detail. Every couple of years they trade in their car for the newer model.

  “Who is he?” I ask.

  “That’s Dr. Patel.” Wade reaches for the crossword puzzle folder, and I slap his hand away. “He doesn’t need any help.”

  “Whether or not he’s here to make a purchase, it’s rude to ignore him. Someone should at least say hello or make a little conversation. If he’s a VIP, we want to keep him happy.” Wade makes no motion to do as I’ve suggested. With a sigh, I grab the folder and push myself away from the desk. “Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Knock yourself out.” Wade takes my vacated seat. He once again tries to snatch the puzzle from my hands, but I tuck it under my arm for protection.

  I keep a steady pace on my way across the showroom floor to give myself a few more seconds. I do most of my customer interactions by phone or from my desk. I need the time to pep myself up for a face-to-face meeting. For once I understand J.J.’s pre-sales floor push-up routine. I wish I had a similar way to ignite my adrenaline and confidence.

  Instead, I use the extra time to make a few observations about the man. He’s probably in his late forties or early fifties. He’s wearing a suit, but no tie, and his collar has been left open. He must be on his way home from work. His salt and pepper hair is slicked back, and his close shave, well-manicured nails, and polished shoes create the picture of a man who has his life together. And he’s a doctor. I’d guess plastic surgeon if that wasn’t a little out there for Lincoln.

  I probably should have asked Wade for a few details, but at least I’ll have a way of making conversation. I’ll ask a few questions and let him take the lead. Most of the customers I’ve encountered here like talking about themselves.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Is there anything I can help you with, today?”

  Dr. Patel glances up and flashes a mouthful of straight teeth that nearly blind me. Maybe he’s a dentist. His teeth are perfect. I blink fast to speed up my recovery. I’m still seeing spots when I return the grin.

  “Did they finally add a woman to the sales team?”

  “No, that’s still an old boys’ club. I’m Harper.” I offer him my hand. “I’m the new office manager.”

  “How do you like it here?” He smiles again, and I avert my gaze to avoid losing my vision. Maybe I should go on a clear liquid diet to improve my own teeth. They’re practically yellow compared to his. I’d have to give up coffee and swear off red wine and blueberries. Even then, his teeth are a shade of white I’d have to spend top dollar to get.

  “It’s great,” I reply. “Everyone is nice. The hours are convenient. The cars are beautiful.”

  “They sure are. Do you have one?”

  Yeah, right. Not on my salary. I don’t suppose that’s a politically correct statement to make, though. “Not yet. But someday, maybe.”

  “You keep working hard. I have no doubts you’ll get there.”

  That’s nice of him to say, but I won’t hold my breath. Somehow, I doubt answering phones and filing paperwork at a car dealership—even one as fancy as this—will set me up for anything fancier than my used sedan.

  “I spent years living on peanut butter sandwiches and macaroni and cheese before finishing med school,” he says. “Hard work pays off.”

  I can’t help but grin at the picture he’s painted. “Were you hoping to check out anythi
ng specific today, or are you here to take in the view?”

  He glances around the room, and a slow grin spreads across his face. “It is a gorgeous view.”

  THE NEXT DAY I SETTLE onto the couch at Dylan’s house. I pick up the scarf we started during our final night of beginner’s crocheting class. I hope that by using it as a distraction I’ll keep myself from acting out too badly if my players under-perform yet again. Wade wished me luck at the beginning of the day, and he seemed to sincerely mean it. No matter how this game goes, I should extend him the same courtesy of being polite.

  “You’re pretty good at that.” Brook points to the infinity scarf I’m close to finishing as he takes a seat next to me. Blitz follows his lead and settles on my feet, where he’s in prime position in case I drop the ball of yarn. “Do you knit, too?”

  He recognizes the difference between knitting and crocheting? Does Brook have a hidden talent?

  “Yeah, but not as well.” I flip the scarf over to start another row. “My grandma taught me. As far as I’m concerned, the woman was a saint for having the patience to teach me.”

  “My sister crochets, too. Similar story—Grandma taught her how when we went to spend a summer with her.”

  “You didn’t try to learn, too?” I tease. Brook grins and shakes his head. “Why not?”

  “I hate to admit it, but I figured it was women’s work, so I wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, I spent my afternoons outside playing pick-up football games with the neighborhood boys. In hindsight, I should’ve stayed inside and learned how to do it.”

  “Have you become that much more progressive?”

  “Something like that.” He toasts me with his glass of water. “But it probably would’ve kept me from getting a couple of scrapes and bruises. And now that my grandma’s gone, I wish I would’ve spent more time with her.”

  I nod, completely understanding what he means. “My grandma passed away when I was in high school. But every time I pull out my crochet hook and yarn, I go back to those afternoons I spent sitting on the couch with her. Maybe that’s why it relaxes me.”

  “Is that why you brought along that scarf? To help you keep your calm?”

  We exchange a look. He’s figured me out. I must be easier for him to read than he is for me.

  “I got a little tense during the games the last couple of weeks. I can use all of the help I can get to chill out.”

  “Plus you’ll have something to show for it.” He eyes the scarf more closely. “We have a craft fair coming up at school. It’s a fundraiser for the team. We could use a couple more vendors.”

  It takes me a moment to realize what he’s suggesting. I shake my head. “I doubt any of my work is good enough.”

  “You’re selling yourself short.” He shrugs and turns his attention back to the TV screen. “No pressure, but if you change your mind, I can get a booth. I might have a connection to get you in.”

  It’s hard not to stare at Brook. He’s something. Handsome, smart, intuitive, polite. How is a guy like him still single? He catches me watching him. His grin is fast, like a strike of lightning to my gut.

  “Want to go outside and play catch with the guys during halftime?” Brook asks.

  And come off looking like an idiot? When we were kids, my brothers always told me I threw like a girl, which was pretty sexist of them, but that was probably the point. My situation with the league guys is still too precarious for me to give them more ammunition to use against me.

  “Thanks, but I’ll sit this one out.”

  “Why? Chicken?”

  I drop the ball of yarn, rewarding Blitz’s patience at last. Before I can move to rescue my materials, the cat is already building himself a cocoon. Brook sighs and bends over to intervene. Blitz whines his displeasure to no avail. Brook untangles the mess and shoos the cat away.

  He grins sheepishly, handing over the burgundy glob. “Sorry.”

  “It’s my fault.” I set the pile of knots aside. I don’t have the patience to deal with the knots right now. That might be a nice way to relieve some of my tension during the second half of the game. “I’ll play catch with you guys on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Promise you won’t make fun of me.”

  Brook’s eyes crinkle. I once again notice the faint scar on his chin and wonder where it came from. “Why would we make fun of you?”

  “I’m pretty bad.”

  “Says who?”

  “My brothers.”

  “Are your brothers experts?”

  I open my mouth but can’t come up with a suitable answer. Brook raises an interesting point. Since when did Scott and Christopher become experts on football-throwing technique?

  “If it makes you feel better, I can give you a little one-on-one coaching for a few minutes before the break.”

  “What if I’m ‘uncoachable?’” I wiggle my eyebrows. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but one of the sports pundits said Rossi was uncoachable. It’s why I left him on my bench for a third straight week.

  “No one is uncoachable.” Brook starts working on the knots in the pile of yarn. “People only say that when they’ve failed at coaching.”

  “But what if I am?”

  “You aren’t.” He manages to undo the rest of the mess with a few more tugs and hands the neat pile back over. “And I like a challenge.”

  Apparently. I stare at the repaired skein of yarn in amazement. Maybe I should give Brook a shot at teaching me how to throw a football before I write myself off as doomed. “Okay. Can we listen to this week’s Bon Jovi Night Football song first?”

  Last week’s song, “Dead or Alive,” kind of left me feeling creeped out about my fantasy team. I need something else to cleanse my auditory palate.

  Brook laughs and shakes his head. “Not until later. You know the rules.”

  Yes, I do. There are lots of them. But I’m starting to question some of them. Like, why did I listen to Christopher’s rule about not dating any of the guys in the league? Not that Brook would want to date me or anything. But if I was going to break one of the rules, he might be worth it.

  Week Three Recap: Team Harper’s Streak Continues

  Team Harper fell to her opponent by the widest margin of any game in the league—thirty points.

  There hardly seems to be any point analyzing the team’s performance this week. If Team Harper isn’t going to take the game more seriously, why should we take this recap seriously? But alas, duty calls, and sometimes you have to rise above the adversity some people seem content to live with.

  Aside from QB Todd Northwood, who could still flake out at any moment, the rest of Team Harper’s roster was an embarrassment to the game. Her running backs and wide receivers were the worst scoring in the league.

  If this trend continues, Team Harper stands poised to finish the season in last place. Cheers to the losers, I guess.

  Record: O-3

  Chapter Eleven

  OH MAN. NOT EVEN THE memory of Brook tugging at his chin in growing annoyance—he’s either OCD or has some latent anger issues—as he tried to teach me proper stance during our private passing lesson can soothe my own temper after reading my week three fantasy recap.

  “There hardly seems to be any point analyzing the team’s performance this week. If Team Harper isn’t going to take the game more seriously, why should we take this recap seriously?”

  There’s no need to be nasty, random recap writer. Just do your job and analyze my team without being a jerk. If I said something like that to any of our customers at the dealership, I’d be looking for a new job.

  I’d hoped J.J.’s multi-day absence from work would improve my mood. But I’m too irritated by the recap—and my inability to get even one win—to take any joy in the freedom from his nonstop flirting. In hindsight, going out to celebrate with him hadn’t been one of my best moves.

  And, okay, if you want to get into it, I’ve had a lot of questionable choices in the past few
years. First with Dirk, then with my reaction to the breakup, now this. What was I thinking when I agreed to get involved with something so testosterone-based? I never even had a chance.

  No men. Ever. That should be my new policy for living, dating, working, and socializing. I should get my own place, accept a spinster lifestyle, apply for a job in a female-dominated workforce, and only hang out with women. If only I knew any.

  After years of working at car dealerships and hanging out with my co-workers or alone, it’s like I’ve forgotten how to forge friendships with women.

  Despite my new resolve to purge my life of the Y-chromosome, I find myself commiserating with Christopher one evening after work. He also lost last week, and I need an ear more than I need new companionship.

  “My running backs keep messing me up,” I whine. “It’s like whoever I play does nothing while the guys I bench decide to have the game of their lives. It’s not fair.”

  “At least you have North.” Christopher’s jaw clenches. “My QB is a disgrace to the game. Who throws four interceptions in one game?”

  “What good is a killer quarterback when my defense and kicker actually score negative points?”

  “Drop them. Find replacements. There should be plenty of them.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  This is going to be hard because it’ll prove I disregarded one of his rules for drafting. I can’t make eye contact while I say, “I have Flaherty and the Packers D.”

  Silence. I dare a peek at his face. It’s red. Oh, he’s pissed. And that does it. My foul mood is gone because his reaction is too funny. I doubt he would’ve reacted any worse if I’d told him I was quitting my job to live in the desert with a crystal meth warlord.

  He swallows hard. “What did I tell you before your draft?”

  In an effort to dodge the real issue, I turn his attention by confessing another broken rule. “Not to let any of my league-mates seduce me. And then I went out with one.”

  He frowns. “You did?”