First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

  From the living room, Scott’s stern voice soothes and reprimands. Sounds like he has everything under control. Thank God. I am not awake enough to handle a toddler fistfight.

  In a much better state after relieving my bladder and washing the taste of last night’s whatever-I-drank or ate out of my mouth, I head to the kitchen in search of water.

  “Hey,” Scott calls from the living room. I blink, amazed at the tame scene of Christopher and Jackson quietly sharing a box of crayons while they watch the pregame news. “Sorry to hear about Moor. Who do you have playing in his place?”

  I freeze. “What do you mean?”

  “Moor is out for the game.” Scott doesn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. “The pre-show guys just announced it.”

  “But I checked five minutes ago.” I plant a palm on the wall to hold myself steady. “The report said he was hurt but expected to play.”

  Scott shrugs. I don’t wait for any further explanation. I run back downstairs to find out how this terrible travesty happened in the time it took me to brush my teeth. I pull up my roster and find a new update.

  Tony Moor (knee) is inactive for this week.

  Shit. I scroll down to read the rest of the message.

  Advice: Moor will not be suiting up this week, which is surprising because he was expected to play despite his week of light practice. He has dealt with pain for two seasons without missing a game. His team is also without its No. 2 running back. With the opposing defense excelling at covering running offenses, the offense could be in real trouble without their star point scorers.

  This is bad. Instead of spending the week finding a replacement for Moor, I traded for a new tight end. That decision seems pretty stupid now, as my once promising Sunday is about to turn into a giant turd. And, in another excellent move, I already played my third-string running back as a flex player. With my second-string already scheduled to play and my fourth on a bye week, I’m still missing a player.

  In layman’s terms, I’m screwed.

  With less than an hour before kickoff, I hit the waiver wire. There has to be someone who can rescue my week. The list of available players looks like a “who’s who” of this year’s injured roster. The top candidates are nursing everything from strained hamstrings to broken hands. In a race against the clock, I settle on someone who hasn’t put up big numbers but will at least be on the field. I drop a running back who hasn’t done much this season. I hope he doesn’t have a break-out game.

  My hands shake as I set the phone back on the night stand. I take deep breaths, willing my heart to stop racing.

  “It’s only a game,” I repeat five or six times. My mantra doesn’t help. The more I say the words, the less I believe them.

  My pulse continues to race even as a weight settles on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. Remembering the advice I received from a counselor back in college, I focus on steadying my breathing while counting my blessings. I have a good job with benefits. And a couple of pain-in-the-ass co-workers.

  Nope. Pick another. I have great brothers. And I live in their basement.

  Gasp. Try again. I get to spend more time with my nephew now that I live here. I’ve rediscovered my love of crocheting. The Packers are on a winning streak.

  I’m still jittery, but in more control of my breathing when the phone buzzes with a new message.

  Brook: Moor is out. You might still have time to find a replacement.

  I reread the words a few times to let them sink in. No, this isn’t news, but the gesture is unexpected. It’s the sort of thing you’d do to help out a good friend, not a random acquaintance. Granted, Brook isn’t my competition this week, and I doubt J.J. would be pleased another league-mate offered me help. It’s still nice, and it’s the final blessing I need to fight my panic attack.

  Me: Thanks. I took care of it.

  Brook: Glad you’re on top of it.

  Brook: I’m making Phillies for lunch. I have a veggie version made out of mushrooms with your name on it.

  Me: I’ll be there.

  The stack of bricks is no longer weighing on my chest. I lean back against a pile of pillows and close my eyes, drained from the adrenaline rush. I need to hop in the shower. I need to thank Scott. I’ve been a bit of a jerk since he led my team to doom a few weeks ago, but he more than made up for that today. The least I can do is make amends. But first I need to relax a moment. Then sometime, when I’m not so close to going over the edge, I need to brainstorm a better “happy things” list in case this happens again.

  I ALMOST BACKED OUT of the watch party at the last minute. Even with the promise of a special, home-cooked meal made by Brook, and my desire to watch him work in the kitchen, I nearly bailed. I was rinsing the soap out of my hair when I gave consideration to what was also at stake if I went to the watch party.

  For one, I’d probably once again watch my team fail, and it’s getting harder and harder for me to wait until I get to my car to let out my frustrated tears. For another, Brook and I won’t be alone. We’ll be sharing the TV with a whole group of people, including one person I’d much rather not spend time around if I can manage.

  Avoiding J.J. at work for the past two weeks was hard enough. I didn’t want to have to worry about it on my day off, too. At the office, I’d adjusted my schedule. I traded lunch times with Kelsey so she could go at the same time as J.J. She’d loved the change, which scored me points with her at long last. I started coming in earlier than usual to make coffee and distribute the morning reports before any of the salesmen arrived. I waited until he left every day before I grabbed my purse and also went home. The rest of the time, I hid out in my office using the website rehaul as an excuse for being anti-social.

  The only downside from my change in activity was the negative impact it had on others. Namely Wade. Anderson makes one of the guys stay with me, and it usually ends up being Wade. I’d argue that he was being old-fashioned or sexist, but I actually don’t like being there by myself at night. I like walking to my car alone even less. We once had a man strong-arm a salesman at the Schenectady lot. He hadn’t been seriously injured, thank goodness, but the fear stuck with me.

  At first, Wade didn’t seem to mind. He’d teased me about being so excited about getting my hands on the final instructions for the website. “You realize you’re a total dork, right?”

  Point taken, but I’ll make no apologies for liking everything in my life—websites included—well organized and aesthetically pleasing.

  By the end of this week he’d met his threshold for working late. “You can’t let J.J. beat you,” he’d said. “You can’t give him that power.”

  He echoed the sentiments again in a text today when I still wasn’t at the house ten minutes before kickoff.

  Wade: Don’t be a wuss. This is your week. Take him down.

  That paired with walking in on Christopher and Meg dry-humping on the basement couch had been motivation enough to get out the door. I’d much rather handle the inevitable awkward run-in with J.J. among friends than pretend I hadn’t seen Meg’s hand down my brother’s pants. I can’t believe they were going at it outside of my bedroom while my nephew was upstairs.

  I pull into the last empty spot on the street to discover I’m not the last straggler to arrive. Gio is swapping out a polo with his daughters’ school logo stitched over the heart for his Chiefs jersey.

  “Pulling daddy duty today?”

  “The band played in a parade. I had to cheer my girls on.”

  “Go team.”

  His eyes hone in on the plate of treats I’m balancing on top of my six-pack of hard cider, which is the only thing I’ve discovered J.J. won’t try to steal if I bring along. “Are those what you said you’d bring?”

  “They sure are.” I hold up the plate closer to his face. “Homemade pumpkin cheesecake brownies. I found the recipe on Pinterest, but I made a few modifications. There’s . . .” Realizing he doesn’t care that I added nutmeg and cloves, I peel back a co
rner of the plastic wrap. “Want first dibs?”

  “Yes, please.” He reaches for one, and when he gets my nod of approval, he snags a second. I hold my breath as he sinks a bite. He clenches his eyes shut and emits a garbled noise. “Oh man, I’d marry you for your ingenuity with desserts if I wasn’t already happy with Sue.”

  “My loss, I guess.”

  “As it stands, you’ll be able to have your way with Wade for sure. After he tries these puppies, he’ll be yours forever.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “What? Why would I want to ‘have my way’ with him?”

  “Oh, don’t play coy.” He nudges me with his elbow. “I’ve noticed the way the two of you are always huddled up in the break room over those crossword puzzles.” Gio finishes the first brownie and starts on the second. “Plus he’s been walking you to your car every night.”

  “Because Anderson makes him.”

  “Well, our boy doesn’t seem to mind. Who can blame him? You’re a catch. He’s a catch. It’s a match made in car dealership heaven.”

  Oh, if Gio only realized how far off the mark he is with this.

  “I recognize the signs of puppy love. I have teenage daughters.” I open my mouth to protest, but Gio holds up a chocolatey finger to stop me. “Go ahead and play oblivious if you like. I get why you two might want to keep things quiet.”

  Like the fact that we each have our eyes on the MacLaughlin siblings?

  My lack of response doesn’t stop Gio from continuing his monologue. “You have J.J. watching your every move, and he’s a crazy son of a bitch. If he found out you were dating one of the guys at the dealership, particularly someone in the league, he’d assume you were out to get him.”

  That catches my attention. “How so?”

  “Well . . . he’d imagine you were altering the sales figures in Wade’s favor every day, even though that kid outsells him without help from anyone else. He’d also assume you guys were sitting up in bed every night swapping football tips to try and edge him out of the league.”

  “Is he that paranoid?”

  “And then some.” Gio shakes his head and laughs. “You chose wisely between those two guys. J.J. might have the swagger and style some women like, but Wade has a good head and a heart.”

  I shake my head and go inside. Blitz is waiting. He rubs himself against my legs, and I pause to give him as much affection as I can with one hand. Once he’s finished with me, I head into the kitchen to drop off the goods.

  J.J. and Paul are loading up their plates with cheesesteak sandwiches and chips. I’m saved from an awkward moment by Paul who is seemingly oblivious to the tension between J.J. and me in his severe state of hero worship. J.J. catches a glimpse of my hard cider and lets out a sigh. Looks like I’ll be able to drink as much of my booze as I want this week without hiding it in the vegetable crisper.

  “Help yourself to the treats,” I call over my shoulder on my way to find Brook.

  “He’s outside,” Wade says before I even have a chance to ask.

  I find Brook in the backyard running through a few routes. I caught him doing that once before a few weeks ago. After I’d teased him about not having anyone to play with, he’d explained that he likes to run through the motions of the plays he writes. If it goes well during these solo drills, he’ll have his players try it during practice on Monday.

  Hanging back on the deck, I watch him do what I imagine is a fake before making a quick step right and letting the ball sail across the yard. He strokes his chin and picks up his iPad to make a few changes in the app he uses for writing plays and watching game tape. He runs the route again, this time faking once to the right, then again to the left, before stepping to the right to throw. The ball hits the garden gnome next to the shed, and he pumps his fists in the air.

  “Was that a touchdown?” I call out.

  He turns on his heel to find me leaning against the railing. He turns red. “It could’ve been.”

  “Well, it looked good from where I’m standing.”

  “Thanks.” He clears his throat, and he takes another step toward me. “Did you grab a sandwich?”

  “Not yet.” I walk down the stairs and cross the yard to narrow the gap between us. “Do you have a few minutes for another private lesson?”

  He frowns. “Is J.J. still in the kitchen? Did he say something?”

  I shrug off his remark and wait for him to hand me the ball, which he does eventually. “I’m determined to get that spiral right. Will you show me?”

  Brook nods, correcting the placement of my fingers on the ball. Then, instead of stepping away to offer advice like he has each time before, he moves behind me. Keeping one hand covering mine on the ball, he uses the other to gently adjust the position of my hips. If I moved back half an inch, my back would be flush with his chest. I barely breathe as he murmurs a few words of advice before helping me launch the ball across the yard.

  Like his last throw, we hit the gnome. “There you go.” He steps back. “How did that feel?”

  I can’t speak. My throat has closed up, so I nod.

  “Let’s try it again.” He jogs across the yard to retrieve the ball and takes position again. We go through the motions a few more times. I can’t tell if I’m getting any better. Honestly, I can’t tell anything. I’m afraid my heart will pop out of my chest at any moment.

  “That’s enough for now,” he says at last. “We should get in to check the games.”

  “Thanks for the lesson,” I whisper, annoyed that my voice keeps cracking.

  “Any time.” He hesitates for a moment. His eyes meet mine for a moment before falling to our feet. “Would you want to go out sometime?”

  My already pounding heart beats even faster. “I—” The short, instinctive answer is yes. Of course I do. But I care about him. In seemingly no time, he’s come to matter a lot. Am I ready to test our friendship just because I want to kiss his chin?

  “Wait, don’t answer yet.” Brook steps back to give me a little room. “Think about it and let me know later.”

  I nod because I’m sure his question will be on my mind until I have an answer. I want to say yes, but I should probably say no. For now. It’s the easier path, even if it’s not what I want.

  “And while you’re at it, I hope you’ll reconsider having a booth at the team’s fall craft fair.” Brook’s lips curve so briefly I almost miss it. “Our team would appreciate your support, and my sister would like the company.”

  That should be easier to decide. I doubt my pile of hats and scarves would garner much of a profit. But he asked me to give it some thought, and I will.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I DON’T WANT TO GO to the bar. I’ve spent way too much money on crappy beer and even crappier food this fall. And each time I’m left with a hefty bar tab, an upset stomach, and a defeated fantasy football team. All I want now is to finish this miserable season without an audience.

  But Wade won’t leave me in peace. “Come on, it’s Monday Night Football. Everyone else is going.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Well, everyone in the league from the dealership,” he clarifies. “You have to come.” He leans his hip against the desk. “You’re one game away from beating J.J. Don’t you want to witness his perfect season come to a crushing end?”

  I do. I’d love nothing more than to watch the smug smirk fall from his face, made sweeter with the knowledge I’d been the one to do it.

  But I’ve been this close to victory before. Five times in a row, I’ve gone into the Monday night game projected to win. And five times, I’ve played the good-natured loser. I’m not sure I can be gracious when I lose this time. Not to J.J.

  “I’m tired,” I lie. “I reorganized the August sales reports this afternoon. My head still hurts from number crunching.”

  “You’re fine. You finished the reports hours ago. You’ve been working on a crossword puzzle for the past two hours.”

  I slide the book of puzzles under a pile of paper. I almo
st have this one solved, and I don’t want his help. “I’m not dressed for watching football.”

  “We’re wearing suits to the bar,” he argues. “Except for Paul, but he’s not even stopping at home to shower after working in the shop all day.”

  “My brother needs a babysitter.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “I’m having my period. I’m in pain.”

  “Liar.” He cocks an eyebrow. “And if you were I’d tell you the booze would dull your cramps.”

  What seventh grade health video did he pull that tidbit of information from? I’m tempted to run a Google search for “alcohol and menstrual cramps” but stop myself. We’re both known liars, and he probably made that up. Pity. It’d be nice to use my time of the month as an excuse to order top-shelf liquor.

  I shake my head. There’s no point in making up another excuse. He’ll only come back with an equally ridiculous and inarguable resolution. Maybe reason will work. “I’ll be the only girl.”

  “We can invite Kelsey if you want. Besides, you’re almost always the only girl.”

  Wade pushes away from the desk and folds his arms across his chest. “What’s actually going on here, Harper? Is J.J. teasing you again? Brook and I—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “He hasn’t bothered me since last week.”

  “Did any of the other guys do something to upset you? Because I’ll—”

  “Everyone has been nice to me,” I assure him.

  Actually, with the exception of Brook and my co-workers, the other guys in the league barely acknowledge me. Who can blame them? No one should waste energy worrying about going up against a team of such a dismal record.

  “What’s the deal?” Wade asks. “No more stories.”

  I buckle under the concern on his face. “I can’t handle everyone being around when I lose again,” I admit. “I’m already in last place. That’s enough shame.”

  “No one will make fun of you.” Almost too late, Wade adds, “I’ll punch J.J. if he does.”