First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

“We’ll make a football player out of you yet.” He gives my hand a final squeezing before releasing it. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Of course.” I scan the field, which is starting to empty. “You guys are amazing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I wish I had something more brilliant or insightful to offer, but I’m still in awe.

  Brook’s mom appears at his side, clearing her throat. Taking the hint, Brook gently ushers me forward. “Harper, I’d like you to meet my folks. Mom and Dad, this is Harper.”

  BROOK’S PARENTS AND sister decline the invitation to join us for a late dinner. The MacLaughlin elders have tickets to tomorrow’s Huskers game and they want to rest up. Not even Wade’s promise that we’ll go someplace with an open-door policy for toddlers will change Amelia’s mind about coming.

  “But I’ll call you,” I caught her mouthing to him when she thought no one was watching.

  Interesting. I wonder how long that’s been going on, but I’m not going to say anything. Yet. Brook doesn’t seem to notice the sexual tension oozing between his sister and best friend, and I’m not going to be the one to bring it to his attention.

  Gio and Dylan and his son also say their good-byes in the parking lot. J.J. drags us to a semi-trendy bar on the south side of town. “Some of us aren’t dressed for the Railyard,” he says, referring to the sweatshirts most of us are wearing.

  I scan the limited dinner menu and am mulling over ordering a whole mushroom pizza for myself—their pizzas only come in on size: large—or a side salad. My appetite is somewhere in between, but those are my options.

  “Want to split the mushroom pizza?” Brook asks. “It’s pretty good.”

  “Sure, I’d like that.” I set aside the menu. “But I’m buying.”

  “No—”

  “We’re celebrating your victory, and unlike our friends, I don’t think the coach should be the one springing for the beers.” When I catch Wade eavesdropping on our conversation, I elevate my voice to a stage whisper. “Maybe if they were better salesmen, they wouldn’t have to be so cheap.”

  “Hey!”

  Playing along, Brook darts a fake scowl at Wade. “I’m sorry, but this is a private conversation.”

  “Then try being a little quieter.” Wade folds his arms. “You’re shouting.”

  “Am not,” I say.

  “Are too.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Am—”

  “Oh shut up.” There’s enough laughter in Wade’s voice to suggest he’s kidding.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t pretend I didn’t notice. “How dare you! I’m a lady—”

  “That’s not what the Dallas boys said.” J.J.’s sudden interruption draws everyone’s attention. Slowly, everyone turns, waiting for him to explain what he means. Everyone but me. I’m frozen because I can only guess what he’s heard from my former co-workers.

  “What did they say?” Kelsey asks.

  “Apparently, Little Miss Perfect isn’t as good as she’d like the rest of us to believe. She can get down and dirty. The guys from the Dallas dealership had a few stories to tell.” The mocking in J.J.’s voice churns my stomach.

  “Like what?” Kelsey asks.

  “I guess she only got that job because she was sleeping with their head salesman. When he dumped her, she started messing around with some of the other salesmen. It got complicated for everyone. That’s why she came here.”

  I can feel everyone’s stares piercing me. I should say something, but won’t a denial only add more weight to his comments? He may not be completely accurate with his accusations, but he isn’t entirely wrong either. I did get the job in Dallas because of Dirk. At the time, I figured we were a package deal. Technically he didn’t dump me, but he cheated, which isn’t something I want to broadcast.

  And I did go out on a few dates with a couple of the other salesmen. I even slept with one. That had been my “I need to change” moment. While I had nothing to be ashamed of, I didn’t like the way I was substituting intimacy after the breakup. I wanted more than random sex and one-night stands. I can’t say any of this, but I have to come up with some sort of a response. Something that shows J.J.’s remarks aren’t getting to me. “I take it you met Dirk. How is he?”

  “Good.” J.J. smirks. “He’s getting married.”

  “I heard.” Even though I don’t mean it, I add, “I’m glad he’s well.”

  J.J. opens his mouth to continue, but Wade turns the conversation. “When did our beers get here? We should drink to tonight’s big winner.” He picks up his glass, shooting me a nervous glance. I comply and raise mine, too. “To Brook. May your team win many more games.”

  “To Brook,” Paul says, staring at me like I have a giant scarlet letter on my chest.

  “Cheers.”

  After the toast, Brook and Wade keep the conversation focused on football. I hate to imagine what they’re thinking. It doesn’t matter. If I was a man they wouldn’t care that I’d slept with a couple of former co-workers. If they have a problem with my history, well, that’s a double standard. I tug at my sweatshirt collar. Even though the weather is growing cooler, it’s hot and stuffy in here. I need to get out of here for a moment, if only to catch my breath.

  While the rest of the table is embroiled in a debate about who this year’s fantasy football champion will be—I choose to ignore Kelsey’s she would’ve been it if “Harper the harper” hadn’t stolen her spot—I slip out into the beer garden for fresh air.

  I’m not alone a minute before J.J. follows me out the door. I try to ignore him, but he won’t let me. “Oh, come on. Don’t be mad.” He grabs my shoulders. “I was only kidding.”

  I shrug his hands away. “It didn’t sound like you were kidding when you started spouting out rumors about me.”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “Mad doesn’t even cover it. Why would you do that to me?” I ask. A tear slips down my cheek. Damn it. I can’t cry. Not in front of him. “Did you ever stop to consider that what happened in Dallas with Dirk and the other guys might be a part of my past I don’t want to revisit? Or that maybe what they told you wasn’t completely true. Did you even consider that I might have a side to the story?”

  “True or not, I’m glad you’re not a prude after all.” He reaches for me again. “You have a smokin’ bod.”

  I push him away. “I’m more than tits and ass.”

  “But your tits and ass are . . .”

  “Stop.” I’m ready to knee him in the crotch if he moves any closer, but before it becomes necessary, J.J. is pushed aside. He stumbles and grabs onto the wall to keep from falling.

  Brook steps between J.J. and me. His expression is hard, and the scar on his chin is white. My heart jolts. His light blue eyes scan my face, and his voice is controlled but clipped when he asks, “Are you okay?”

  I nod.

  “Good.” He turns his attention to J.J., holding the other man against the wall with one arm. “What is your problem?”

  “I was only having a little chat with Harper.”

  “That didn’t look like a little chat,” Brook snarls. “From where I’m standing, you were forcing—”

  “I wasn’t forcing—”

  “She said stop.”

  “She didn’t say no a couple of weeks ago.” I gasp at the implication he’s making about our one kiss after a few too many drinks.

  Brook doesn’t blink. “Do you want to end up in jail?”

  “It wouldn’t have come to that. We were just talking.”

  Brook turns his attention to me, his expression unreadable.

  J.J. takes the opportunity to slip out of Brook’s grasp. “I told you I wouldn’t have forced her.” He faces me, his tone contrite. “I’m sorry, Harper. I misread the signals. It won’t happen again.”

  “It’s—”

  “Don’t say it’s okay, because it’s not.” J.J. glares at Brook. “He’s right on this one. I was a d
ick.”

  “But—”

  “I’m going inside,” J.J. interrupts. He meets my gaze. “I’m sorry, Harper.” He shifts from one foot to the other. “Congrats on the win, Coach.”

  Brook says nothing but watches J.J. walk inside.

  My knees suddenly weak, I drop to sit on a bench. “Thank you.”

  “You had it under control.” He sits next to me on the bench. “It doesn’t make it any better, but I’m sorry, too. J.J. has never understood when to shut up or that any woman in the world might possibly not be interested in him.”

  I let out a shaky breath. “It’s okay.”

  “It isn’t.” Brook pauses, seeming to consider his next words carefully. He rubs his hands on his jeans. “Do you want to talk about what happened in there? I understand if you don’t, but if you do, well . . .”

  The invitation is all it takes. I tell him everything. About Dirk and the cheating. How I’d retaliated. How I’d come to Lincoln to start over. My momentary lapse of judgment with J.J.

  He grips his chin and taps it three times with his index finger. “I guess that explains why you decided to join the league.”

  “How so?”

  “You wanted to make nice with the guys from work, which wasn’t going to be easy.” He grabs hold of my hand and squeezes. “Not because you’re not nice. You are. But they’re tough guys to break. Trust me, I get it. They’re my friends.”

  I wipe at my eyes with my free hand to fight the tears that are threatening to spill over. “Well, now you’ve heard my sad story. What’s yours?”

  “There’s not much to say.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “No, seriously.”

  Brook releases my hand. “I don’t have one. No love of my life who died tragically while I was at a bowl game. No woman who left me for the quarterback and broke my heart. I’m not damaged goods, and neither are you.” He adds quickly, “At least you put yourself out there. I spend most of my life at work. And I work at a high school. It’s not exactly a place to pick up women. All I have is football and teaching.”

  This time, I cover his hand with mine. “Why did you stay in Nebraska? J.J. said you could’ve been a starter at another school.”

  “For the love of the game and the chance to be part of my favorite team.” He shrugs it off. “But my heart wasn’t in being a player. I’m doing what I wanted to do.”

  “Coaching?”

  He nods, and I find myself fixated on the narrow scar on his chin again. I wonder where he got it.

  “I wasn’t the fastest or strongest player,” he says. “But I was always good at bringing out the best in my teammates. You might not believe it after that exchange.” He gestures to where we were standing moments earlier with J.J. “But I’m usually patient. I can explain how things work—whether it’s a play on the field or a history lesson. I’m a coach and teacher. I have a good life.”

  “And J.J.?”

  “He’d tell you the best moments in his life happened in high school and college. He spent years being a star. People practically worshiped him. But the cheering stopped. So did his life, according to him. It doesn’t have to be over,” Brook clarifies. “Unless he’s willing to accept that football is his past, and there’s something else in his future, J.J. is stuck.”

  There’s something about the way Brook speaks that has me spellbound. I could listen to him give a lecture for hours. I’ve watched him coach, and he’s good. I’d bet he’s an amazing teacher, too.

  “When the cheering stops for a star athlete, they can become lost.” Brook kicks at a bottle cap on the ground. “J.J.’s still nursing an old knee injury. He self-medicates with what he can get his hands on. Mostly booze and weed. Occasionally he’ll blow his commission on something . . . more serious.”

  My eyes widen, and I tap the side of my nose. Brook nods. Oh. That’s a lot more serious.

  “I had no idea.” My stomach churns. Here I am judging J.J., and I haven’t even considered the full story.

  “J.J. has his problems. That doesn’t give him a free pass to be a jerk,” Brook says. “Not to you, me, or anyone. Everyone carries baggage from the past. We choose how to carry it.”

  “That’s pretty deep, Coach.”

  He lets out a short laugh. “Maybe. Fact is, J.J. isn’t all good or bad. He’s human. He’s someone who hasn’t figured out what to do now that his dream hasn’t gone as planned.”

  I want to tell Brook I can relate. To tell him about how I’ve been the kind of person who was so mad, I’d intentionally do something to hurt someone else. That I haven’t even figured out what my dream is supposed to be. But I can’t right now. I can’t make this conversation any darker when we should be celebrating his team’s victory.

  “Hey, I have an idea!” Brook says cheerily.

  “What?” I ask.

  “How about we listen to this week’s Sunday Night Football music early?”

  I give a wry grin. “It’s only Friday.”

  “Okay, so it’s really, really early.” Brook pulls out his phone and plugs in the headphones. “And according to my watch, it’s almost Saturday. We’re only a little early.”

  Laughing, I take the offered headphone. A guitar rift strums and Jon Bon Jovi’s voice floods my head singing, “Someday I’ll be Saturday Night.”

  “The universe chose well,” I remark.

  “When the Bon Jovi playlist speaks, it usually gets it right.”

  My temper soothed, and my heartbeat back to a normal rate, I’m ready to go back inside. “How about I buy you another drink to celebrate that win?”

  “Sure,” he agrees. “But I’m buying.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “Seems like the right thing to do.”

  And Brook, I’m discovering, is the kind of man who usually does what’s right. It’s either impressive or annoying. Or it’s all for show. Can any person be that good all the time? If so, maybe I need him as my life coach rather than my crush.

  Week Four Recap: Should Team Harper Throw in the Towel?

  Another week, another loss for Team Harper. At this point her 0-4 record makes us wonder if she even likes the game. Or knows the one she’s following.

  Football. Bunch of guys go out on a grassy field. Throw around a ball. Try to score, or stop touchdowns—which may or may not be too technical of a term for Team Harper given her dismal results week in and out. Because there’s no other excuse for what happens to this team every Sunday (not to mention Thursday and Monday nights).

  For some reason, Team Harper seems committed to long-term failure by playing Collin Flaherty every week. Kickers might not account for much in the grand scheme of things, but come on. This guy is actually costing her points.

  My advice for Team Harper is simple. Retire from fantasy football at the end of this season and find a new hobby.

  Record: O-4

  Chapter Thirteen

  I DIDN’T STAY AT THE bar much longer on Friday night. After Brook and I returned to our seats, we split our pizza and finished our second round of drinks. He generously offered me a ride home. We barely spoke after that. He asked if I was warm enough, and I told him when to turn left or right. I was too exhausted to make polite conversation.

  When I’d reached for the door to slip out of the car, he’d once again promised to keep my story a secret. There’d been no judgment in those clear blue eyes, but after our talk I felt exposed.

  And while Brook had promised me none of the guys in the league gave any credence to J.J.’s revelations, I still opted out of attending the watch party on Sunday. It was the cowardly path to take, but I needed a break from playing nice.

  Skipping the games was probably for the best. My team lost by more than thirty points. Even with an audience, I wouldn’t have kept it together when two of my wide receivers scored a combined three points during the day. I actually cried when it happened, though I swore my witnesses to secrecy. I’ve gathered way too much leverage over Scott and Christopher over
the years for either of them to betray me now.

  Oh, how I cried, and not a tear or two. No, I put every reject on The Bachelor to shame and full-out ugly cried. Maybe I should put together an audition tape for the show. I’d be a natural.

  It was tempting to call in sick Monday morning. Between the inevitable awkwardness after J.J. unleashed my secret past—not to mention his attempt to come onto me in the beer garden—and my disappointment over the loss, I really didn’t want to be around anyone from the league.

  But I forced myself out of bed and into a pair of black slacks and a hot pink blazer. I add a silver cuff bracelet, chunky turquoise necklace, and my favorite pair of heels.

  I stare at my reflection in the mirror and some of the trepidation slips away. No matter what’s going on inside of me, no one in the world would be able to guess. Somehow that helps. Maybe it’s the bright pink or the extra height, but I can get through today.

  Some of my empowerment slips when Anderson calls me into his office for another one-on-one mid-morning meeting.

  “Close the door,” he commands. The nausea I’d worried about hours earlier is back. Shakily, I obey and slip into the chair across from him.

  Anderson rests his folded hands on a pile of papers—still too many by our going green policy, but fewer than a month ago—and clears his throat. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve made strides to be more social with our employees. You’ve been spending more time with them outside of work and having water cooler chat.”

  “I have.”

  He blinks. “How’s that going?”

  “Fine.” Which is a bit of a stretch, today, but in general it has been. Until Friday night, I was making positive progress with the guys in the fantasy crew.

  “Gio was in here this morning.” Anderson unfolds his hands to shuffle the papers. “He was singing your praises.”

  “Oh?” Have I forged an unexpected alliance by inadvertently giving him a week four victory? If only that approach worked on everyone. We’ll all be best friends in no time given my team’s failure rate.

  “He mentioned that you helped him reorganize his online sales system. Said it’s saving him a lot of time and a massive headache every day.”