Christopher: Talked to your buddy. Meg and I are on our way. Don’t move.
Wade: Note to Sober Harper: You told me to call your brother. Please don’t be mad at me.
Meg: Christopher and I are on our way. He’ll drive you and your car home. We have ice for your ankle.
Forget about having my boss tell me my co-workers hated me or having my ex-boyfriend cheat. My baby brother had to rescue his big, dumb sister in the middle of the night. This is my new low.
Finished with my self-pity for now, I go back to my messages. This one is from J.J. Always the gentleman, he sent a picture of me sprawled out on the sidewalk. My stomach lurches again at the sight of my ankle. It’s not like Tony Moor’s knee injury from week one, but it’s still gross.
J.J.: I’ve seen London, I’ve seen France, I see Harper’s underpants.
What? I expand the photo and gape. Oh my God. How did I manage to pull my pants down during the fall? Please, God. Please tell me he hasn’t posted the picture on Facebook for the viewing pleasure of my parents, family, and prospective future employers.
I push the comforter aside once more and find my pants at the end of the bed. They’re torn. And my knee. The one on the leg I didn’t twist. It’s covered in a scab. I haven’t skinned my knee since elementary school.
My knee begins to throb. It’s almost like I had to see the injury sober before it hurt. So do my hands. I flip them over for inspection. They’re skinned like my knee. I have to take a break from the text messages. They’re too much. Maybe the phone calls will be easier to handle.
Three missed calls from Scott, two from Meg, one from Christopher, and one from Brook. My jaw drops. Oh, God, what have I done? His call came in at 12:30, which means I forced Coach Brook to miss out on what precious little rest he gets during football season.
Please tell me I didn’t call him first. I check the call history and release a deep breath. I didn’t. That means someone else did. I can’t decide if that’s good or bad. It kind of depends on who tattled on me.
I start with the calls from Scott again.
“Where are you? You said you’re hurt. Listen to me. Stay where you are and call Christopher. He’ll help you. I promise, he won’t be pissed.”
Sure, it’s easy for Scott to say that.
“Are you at a Chinese restaurant? Or maybe somewhere that serves teriyaki or Indian food? Is that what you mean about needing rice? It might not be such a bad idea. Get something to eat—something with carbs and grease. Stay in one place. Christopher will find you.”
I need to call him back soon. His voice was even more worried in the second message. Pangs of guilt tug at my heart again.
“Me again. If you’re listening to this it’s Tuesday morning. You’re probably waking up to find yourself with bumps, bruises, and what sounds like a soft tissue injury. That explains your demand for RICE. I hope you got it by the way. Anyway, now that you’re sober, listen carefully to what I’m about to say. Don’t beat yourself up about this. Hell, my friends have a video of me dancing on a table. It’s okay. We all get a little weird sometimes. And don’t worry about Christopher. He’s been here before, too. Now, get your RICE, drink some water, and feel better.”
The need to cry builds, but I fight it while I check the final message.
“Hey, it’s me. It’s Brook. I heard you fell. I hope you’re okay. I . . . I’m here to help if you need anything. Like, if you need a ride after work this week. You’re on my way home from practice. It’d be no trouble . . . I’m glad to help . . . Anyway, stay off of that ankle. Keep it elevated. And hydrate. You’ll feel better in no time. Oh, and sorry about sending a million texts. I was . . . concerned.”
That must mean the other unaccounted texts are from him.
Brook: Congrats on your big victory. You deserve it!
Brook: Are you guys still out?
Brook: Do any of you need rides? I just wrapped at school and can be there.
Brook: I talked to Wade . . . Is everything okay?
Brook: Did you get home?
Brook: How do you feel?
The last one came in a little after seven this morning.
Brook: Text me when you get this. Please.
Of course he has to prove he’s the world’s nicest guy the night I prove I’m the biggest dumbass. I wish I was more like him. Put together. Selfless. Compassionate. At the very least, I need to not act like a complete idiot.
I don’t deserve his kindness. Maybe J.J. and his teasing and taunting and underwear photo snapping are more along the lines of what I deserve. I certainly earned every bit of pain I experience during the next few days. God, I’m a mess. But I don’t have to be such a big one. First things first, I have to go about making things right, or at least as close to right as I can get.
I send a quick text to Scott to tell him I’m alive and apologize for my bad behavior. He’s probably in a meeting, and I’m not sure my voice works well enough to talk yet. I take a deep breath and send a short message to Brook.
Me: Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. My ankle is a little sore, but I’ll recover. Thanks for the well wishes.
There. Done. And not too bad, actually. I set the phone down and recline against my pillows. I wonder if this little incident has made him change his mind about wanting to take me out sometime. I should be glad if it has. He’ll be saving me from screwing this up at some point because that’s what I do in relationships.
I have to get up. Soon. But I need to savor these last few minutes before I face Christopher and maybe Meg. I close my eyes, and my pillow vibrates. I turn my head to check the phone screen. It’s Brook.
Why is he calling? Shouldn’t he be in practice or getting ready to teach a class on the Emancipation Proclamation or watching game footage? I could let it go to voicemail and tell him I was in the shower. But that would be lying. I don’t need any more bad karma today. Heart racing, I shakily hold the phone up to my ear. “Hey.”
“Hey, you. How’s the patient?”
I give the ceiling a weak smile. “I’m great.”
“Are you actually great or are you putting on a brave face?” He’s got me there. I’ve never been able to bullshit teachers.
“I’m putting on a brave face.”
“I figured as much. How bad is the ankle?” Again, I can try lying, but there’s no point. With his athletic background, he’s probably dealt with worse injuries. He might even have some suggestions for homeopathic care. So I tell him how it happened. How I ran around O Street like a drunken idiot. How my ballet flat caught on an uneven piece of pavement. How I twisted and fell. I leave out the part about my screaming for RICE and dropping my pants. I finish with a brief description of how my ankle looks. Puffy, painful, and purple.
“You did the right thing by propping it up on pillows and icing it last night,” he says. “You’ll want to keep it elevated as much as possible and put more ice on it. Don’t leave the ice on for too long, though.”
“Why not?”
“Too much of anything isn’t ever good.” Isn’t that the truth? Where was he ten hours ago when I agreed to another round of shots? “Wrap it up with a compression bandage, whether or not you plan to be on your feet. That will help with the swelling and stabilize the injury.” He falls silent for a beat, like he’s carefully choosing his next words. “You should probably go to a doctor.”
“I’m not—”
“It sounds like a deep tissue sprain,” he interrupts. “You need to make sure you didn’t tear anything.”
I flinch. “Deep” and “tear” are not two words I want to hear together.
“I’ll try to tough it out. I’m fine.” Having to tell a doctor this story would be pretty embarrassing, and who has time to go to a doctor?
Brook sighs. “If your ankle is still bad tomorrow, please go to a professional. You don’t want long-term damage.”
My temper flares. I realize he’s trying to be helpful, but he’s kind of overdoing it. I don’t need a l
ecture. I feel stupid enough on my own without having someone remind me.
“Yeah, well, maybe,” I say shortly, running my tongue across my teeth. Ew. I didn’t brush my teeth last night. “I’d better go.”
“Are you upset?” His voice grows concerned, again. “I didn’t mean to nag. It’s a habit. I deal with junior macho men every day. They don’t always report their injuries, which leads to bigger problems down the road.”
I soften my tone to say, “I appreciate your concern. Sorry I snapped. I . . .”
“You don’t have to explain. I had turf toe in college. I was a baby for weeks. Not that you’re acting like a baby, but . . .”
Neither of us seems able to complete our sentences. I’m not sure why he’s struggling, but I can only attribute my difficulty to the awe I feel every time he talks to me.
“I should probably go,” I say at last. “Seriously, thanks for checking in. It was . . . nice.”
“Of course.” He hesitates a moment and clears his throat. “Will you go in to work today?”
“I have to,” I say, admitting for the first time that I need to pretend last night wasn’t a big deal. “I don’t want anyone to worry.”
“Good plan.” He clears his throat again. “Don’t worry too much about last night. We all get dumb when we drink.”
So I’ve been told. It doesn’t change how nervous I am to go into work and face my co-workers. And I’m still terrified of speaking to my brother, which I’ve delayed long enough. My bladder will burst if I don’t do something soon.
“Good morning.” Christopher is sitting at the kitchen table when I finally manage to hobble up the stairs.
I grab hold of the door frame for balance, wincing at the contact on my raw palms. Damn, is there an inch of me that works?
His brow furrows. “Are you okay?”
I nod, but the motion paired with standing makes me dizzy. The hallway disappears, and I’m on a merry-go-round. Or is it a Ferris wheel? Either way, my stomach can’t handle what’s happening. “I need to puke. Or pee.”
Either way, it’s going to happen in three . . . two . . .
Pushing away from the table, Christopher offers an arm to hold me hold me upright. He carries the bulk of my weight as we make fast, but awkward, progress toward the bathroom. When he tries to help me sit on the toilet, I balk. Much as I appreciate the gesture, I am not ready to take our relationship to this level. Now or ever. There are some lines a brother and sister should never cross.
While my bladder releases a night’s worth of bad decisions, Christopher rummages through the hall closet. When I finish peeing—no puking, score!—he’s back in the kitchen with a First Aid Kit. He pulls out small bandages, antiseptic cream, pain relievers, an icepack, and an ACE bandage. I lower myself into the seat next to him at the table and lean forward to examine my ankle, which is even purpler in this light.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. He glances up, and I repeat the apology.
“It’s not a big deal.” He watches me closely. “I’m not going to ask what happened. I’m not going to say you shouldn’t hang out with the guys from the league. I’m not going to say this isn’t like you. You already know.”
Christopher leans forward and carefully pulls my bad ankle into his lap so he can wrap it for me. The gesture is too much for me. I let out the sob I’ve held in all morning.
I MADE IT TO WORK ONLY a few minutes after nine. My mild tardiness didn’t save me from the pitying stares from Gio and Wade, or the embarrassed flush from Paul. And it definitely didn’t prevent J.J. from showing me the videos and photos he snapped the night before. When he eventually figured out how upset they made me, he offered to give me a back massage after work.
I turned him down. I’ve already made a big enough fool of myself. I don’t need to make it worse by letting him believe he has a chance at seducing me.
Anderson only raised an eyebrow at my wrapped ankle and limp but didn’t ask any questions. He seems to have a “don’t tell me what happens, and I don’t have to lie for you” policy, for which I am grateful.
The worst part of the day was when Dr. Patel showed up to have his oil changed while I was giving Kelsey her break at the front desk. He’d offered to give my ankle a full inspection, assuring me he was more than capable of general practice even though he was a heart surgeon.
I’d thanked him for the offer but told him I’d already taken care of it. Which is kind of a lie, but not completely. I am taking care of it with a little rest, ice, compression, and elevation except while I’m at the front desk. Propping a purple ankle up on the counter won’t give our customers much incentive to buy a new car from us. It might send them out the door crying.
Ten minutes before my own lunch break, a takeout delivery person walks through the door. Based on the containers—and the mouth-watering scent accompanying it—someone ordered Chinese. I wish they would’ve told me. It’s the first time I’ve been hungry today, and I could totally go for some stir-fried vegetables and egg rolls. My stomach pangs. Oh, man. I’m past the point of hungry. And it’s only getting worse the closer the delivery guy gets to the front desk.
“Are you Harper Duquaine?” he asks. I blink at the young man. “I have a delivery for Harper Duquaine.”
I cast a glance around the showroom floor. Is someone messing with me? Will one of my co-workers pop out and say, “Gotcha, Harper the harper?” The young man is still waiting, and I finally speak.
“That’s me, but, I didn’t—”
“It’s paid in full,” he says, handing over the bag. Then he pulls a crumpled envelope out of his pocket. He attempts to smooth it out on his leg before passing it over, too. “It came with this.”
I murmur a quick “thanks” and stare at the envelope. Someone spilled soy sauce and sweet and sour on it before the driver balled it up in his pocket. My stomach rumbles, and I cast a quick glance to the waiting pile of food. It’s tempting to dive in now and ask questions later. But the GM would frown on me eating at the front desk, and it’s probably dangerous to eat food when you have no clue where it came from.
I peel the sticky envelope open.
Team Harper,
I hear you were in need of some “rice.” I hope this kind will do the trick. (Don’t worry. It’s vegetarian. Only the best for Queen Harper, the future ruler of the league.)
From,
A mere peasant
(Brook)
He gave me rice. From anyone else, I would have taken exception. But from Brook, it isn’t a dig. It’s not an attempt to make me feel even more ridiculous than I do. It’s lunch with a joke to help me laugh at myself. I needed both.
I reread the letter, and a foolish grin covers my face. Queen Harper, huh? It has a nice sound to it. Perhaps I’ve been going about this fantasy football business and life the wrong way. I need to stop imagining myself as a lady-in-waiting and be a queen.
Chapter Seventeen
ON SATURDAY MORNING, a seemingly endless stream of buzzes and beeps from my phone wakes me. I crack open an eye. It’s not even seven, and some sick person is blowing up my phone. If it’s Scott or Christopher asking for advice, I’ll take them out. As nice as they’ve been to me this week, they need to stop with the fantasy football questions. One victory hardly makes me an expert.
Maybe they’re making pancakes. They could be trying to find out how many I want. Both of my eyes fly open. Homemade pancakes would be worth an early wakeup call.
Stretching across the bed, I reach for the phone, wincing a bit at the stiff pain in my ankle. It’s getting better every day, but not by much. It doesn’t help that I keep forgetting about it each morning. The messages are all from Brook. I curl back into the comforter to read.
Brook: Do you have plans today?
Brook: If you do . . . Would you be willing to rearrange them?
Brook: Especially if tickets to the Huskers game are involved? You’ve been in town long enough that you should check out a game.
Brook: Hope
you’re free.
God, he’s adorable. And apparently he’s in possession of tickets to the game. Tickets he wants to share with me. I’m not even a fan, but he wants me to go. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to spend time alone with him. It’s basically been on my mind nonstop since he brought it up a couple of weeks ago. A new message pops up.
Brook: It’s okay if you say no. You’re probably getting sick of me.
Yes, he’s seriously adorable. I punch in a quick response before he rescinds the offer.
Me: When and where should I meet you?
I’D BRACED MYSELF FOR insanity, but I’m still dizzied by the frenzy of activity surrounding me. When I moved to town, my brothers told me to avoid downtown Lincoln on a game day. I obeyed without question, but now I understand why. Unless you’re headed to the stadium or a watch party, you have no business throwing yourself into the chaos.
Not because the fans aren’t welcoming. Everyone has actually been pretty nice. I’ve had five people offer to buy me a beer in the past fifteen minutes.
Smoke from grills fills the streets. Everything is red: red shirts, red flags, red balloons, red painted faces. There was even a fleet of dogs wearing red and white jerseys. It’s like a mild-mannered themed college party. It’s one giant tailgate that spilled out of the parking lot and across a two-mile radius.
Navigating through the sea of red is a nightmare. Not like a slasher film. But if you aren’t a fan of crowded streets, standing room only bars, or the frequent bellow of “Gooooooo Biiiiiiiiiig Reeeeeeeed,” (followed immediately by a chorus of “Go Big Red,” and if you don’t join in you come off looking like an outsider), you’re apt to be uncomfortable.
And I love it. Not for the total chaos, but because it’s like making nearly thousands of best buds in minutes.
We still have more than three hours to kickoff as we wade through elbow-to-elbow traffic. Fortunately, the parking garage isn’t far from the bar, and the people are inching along. If we were going any faster, I’m not sure I’d make it on my bum ankle. I already told Brook it felt better, and I’m sticking to that story.
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