With a firm hand on the small of my back, Brook guides me to the last empty spot at the bar. I scan the area and frown. “There’s only one seat.”
“It’s the best we’ll be able to find this close to the game.” He flashes that signature grin, and my eyes are once again drawn to his enigmatic scar. I’m still more convinced it’s an old football injury rather than the remnants of a bad bar fight. While I’m distracted, he pulls out the chair. “Here. You should get off that ankle.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You don’t want to re-injure it,” he offers instead, jiggling the stool. “Sit.”
I eye the high-back stool, desperately wanting to sit despite my stubbornness. “Don’t you want it?”
He shakes his head. “Sit. Please.”
Well, since he asked nicely . . . Brook helps me step up and offers no comment when I wince from putting too much weight on my bad foot.
“We can grab something to eat here if you like.” Brook reaches for a menu and waves back at someone on the other side of the bar. “There’s food at the stadium, but it might be hard to find anything without beef or pork in it.”
Grateful for the tip, I order a veggie burger. With a side of fries and honey mustard to counteract any of the health benefits I might have gained from the main course. Brook orders wings—“The best in town,” he says—and a red beer. Not entirely sure what that means, I follow his lead. “I’ll take one, too.”
Brook rests an arm across the back of my chair out of necessity and leans in. “Do you know what you just ordered?”
“No.” I shrug. “But when in Huskerland . . .”
That earns me a laugh and a flurry of butterflies in my belly. Will I ever get used to his effect on me?
“Do you mind that I ordered wings?” he asks, abruptly forcing me to regain control of my brain.
“Sorry?”
“You don’t usually make a deal when any of us orders meat around you, but . . .” He strokes his chin while he considers his next words. “I realized the other day that maybe we’re being rude. You being, well, a pescetarian, and everyone else is always chowing down on steaks and burgers. Maybe we’re making you uncomfortable.”
“Oh.” His concern is well intended, but it’s not warranted. In the years since I gave up anything that doesn’t grow from the ground or swim in water, I’ve never worried too much about what others eat. It’s my lifestyle choice, not theirs. I should probably tell Brook all of this before he worries. “It’s fine. Eat what you like. I don’t expect everyone to go off burgers and chicken wings because I’d rather have a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“Okay, burgers and chicken wings for me.” Brook’s shoulders relax and the friendly atmosphere returns. “So, what made you decide to become an almost vegetarian?”
“It wasn’t anything major.” I almost don’t want to tell him because it’s kind of pathetic. “One of my college boyfriends was big into protecting the environment. He was president of the school’s Green Party chapter, only wore clothes made in conflict-free settings, and regularly staged peace rallies in the quad.”
“So, he was a hippie?” Brook teases.
“Pretty much.” I toy with a stray straw wrapper on the counter, even though I have no clue who else might have touched it. “We dated for about a year. He encouraged me to become a vegetarian. After we broke up, I realized I liked the diet and I stuck with it. And that’s it. No harrowing tale. Just a girl who liked a boy who wanted to save the world.”
He shrugs. “There doesn’t always have to be a lot of drama.”
The bartender reappears with our drinks, ending the conversation. Brook watches me closely as I pick up my glass. Based on appearances, it’s a crappy beer with ketchup in it. I hope that’s not the case. He waits while I take my first sip and swallow. Huh. Not bad. Not amazing, but not bad. I take another gulp, and this one tastes even better than the last. By my third taste, I’m nearly convinced this is my new favorite drink.
Before I get too attached, I should find out what’s in this glass. I don’t want to make this a thing if it turns out to be ox blood or something gross.
“Don’t worry,” he said, somehow reading my mind. “It’s beer with a splash of tomato juice in it.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“I normally hate tomato juice.”
His grin returns, slowly spreading across his face. “Me, too.”
I down another swallow. “But I’m pretty sure I love this.”
Our food arrives next, and we dive in. Brook stands throughout the meal and rejects my offer to take the stool. Instead, he tells me stories about the other guys in the league. I tell him about some of the changes going on at the dealership, and he fills me in on his team’s chances of earning a spot in the high school football tournament.
“What’s it like?” I ask.
“What’s what like?”
“What’s it like to wake up every day of your life and go to work knowing you’re doing what you love? You’re exactly where you want to be.”
“Who said I’m exactly where I want to be?” He leans against the counter, staring into his scarlet beer. “Yeah I love my job, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything else, but there’s still more I want to do with my life. I want a state championship game. I want each student to graduate.”
“And every day you do whatever you can to make that happen.” I cover his hand with mine. “You inspire me to figure out what I’m supposed to do with my life.”
“But figuring out what you want to do is only part of the battle. You have to keep fighting for it every day. Even if you reach your goal, a new one will come up. No one ever has all the answers.”
“That’s a bit of a bummer.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” He flips his hand over and weaves his fingers with mine. “It’s exciting more than anything. Wouldn’t it be even sadder to reach a peak and never have another one to climb? To spend the rest of your life going downhill?”
My breath catches. Coach is full of wisdom. Sometimes, when he talks, it’s like I’m sitting in the locker room during one of those epic motivational speech scenes in a big budget football movie. “And now I’m inspired again.”
Brook squeezes my hand before he releases it to change the subject. He proposes a ridiculous fantasy trade—I can get Zimmerman, his magical kicker, but only if I give him one of my potential golden boy running backs.
After we bicker about the ridiculous trade, I finally work up the guts to ask Brook why J.J. has suddenly turned on me. Even though he assures me it’s nothing personal, I still wonder how one minute J.J. was all over me and now he seems determined to ruin my life. Or at least my chances of a fantasy football championship.
“He’d kill me for telling anyone this.” Brook runs his tongue across his teeth like he does when he’s seriously considering something. “Especially you.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“It is. If you only knew . . .”
I drop one of my fries and glare. “Come on. You can’t say something like that and not finish. You have to tell me. Please.”
“I’m not sure . . .”
“Oh, come on. What do you have to lose?”
“How about my friend’s trust?”
“Are you sure he’s a friend? You barely seem to like him.”
Brook shrugs, breaking his gaze to take a swig of beer. Oh, come on. Is he going to leave me hanging forever? I have to hear this one fact that might change my opinion of an otherwise awful man. Or at least it will give me leverage against J.J. And Brook is stalling.
Desperate times make us desperate fools. I take a deep breath and slide my hand across the bar to take his again. “I’ll consider your trade request.”
“You’ll only consider it?”
Brook wants one of the running backs on my team. In exchange for him and my backup tight end, Brook is offering me a mid-level running back and Casey Zimmerman, the way-better-than-my-starter ki
cker. I quickly crunch the numbers in my head. Combined they’d more than compensate for my loss of the other players.
I raise my gaze and lose count when I catch Brook staring at me. His eyes are piercing. And with him watching me like that, I’m more likely to loosen a button on my blouse than I am to recalculate those stats again. Oh, hell.
“Fine, I’ll accept it. You can have my guys, and I’ll take your stupid sleeper.”
His eyes light up. He flips his hand to shake mine. “We have a deal.”
My gaze drops to our hands. His palm is warm and rougher than I would’ve expected from a history teacher. Not rough in the sense that it’s chapped and gross, but . . . tough and strong. Like he could build me a boat with those hands. What’s wrong with me? Of course he has strong hands. He is an assistant coach for his high school’s football team. He must use his hands a lot. Catching passes. Grading papers. Molding young students into future world leaders. I gulp.
“Start spilling. And this better be worth it.”
“What will you do if you deem it unworthy?”
“I’ll reject the trade.”
His eyes narrow. “But you promised.”
“It’s not official yet.”
“Then let’s make it official before I say another word.” Brook reaches for his phone. Before he can pull up the fantasy football app, I grab his hand again.
“I’ll make the trade no matter what. You can trust me.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“You can trust me,” I repeat.
We stare each other down. Both of us willing the other to break first. The seconds tick by. Neither of us blink. His cheek twitches. My palm grows sweaty.
Brook closes out of the app and releases his phone. “You win,” he says. “But after I tell you this, you’ll be thanking the football gods you had players worth trading for this tidbit.”
“That remains to be determined.”
He ignores my barb and toys with my fingers, which are somehow linked with his again. “What I’m about to say would make J.J. a laughing stock in the league and even amongst our non-football watching friends. If you choose to use this information to your advantage, do it with care.”
I nod, and my excitement stirs in my stomach.
“Good.” Brook’s thumb absently traces my knuckles. I force myself to concentrate on his words instead of the shivers he’s sending down my spine. “By now you’ve heard about his college football career and his attempts at a post-collegiate career.”
I roll my eyes. “Who hasn’t?”
“Fair enough.” Brook clears his throat. “Well, the reason he ended up in Lincoln was . . .” He fades out and reaches for his phone with the case that matches mine. “Just watch.”
My eyes are glued to the screen, my heart pounding louder and harder with every beat as I realize what is happening in the video. I squint at the screen and replay the video to make sure I saw it correctly the first time. After I finish, I gape at Brook. “That’s him?”
“Yep.”
“Did he actually . . . ?”
“Yep.”
“And he . . .”
“Exactly. See why I’ve never shown it to anyone else?”
Oh my God. It would seem I now have some dirt to hold over J.J. should it ever be necessary. It’s so good I can’t use it on any old grievance. I’ll have to save it for the right moment.
“Well, thanks for this.” I push my basket of fries toward Brook. “And thank you for inviting me to the game.”
“Of course.” He takes one of my extra fries and dips it in the honey mustard. He nods approvingly and goes back for seconds. “If you’re going to live in Nebraska, you’ve got to experience Husker football at least once.”
“Is this like a cult? Are you trying to convert me?”
“Depends . . . is it working?”
“Ask me after the game.”
“We should probably head toward the stadium.” Brook pulls the tickets out of his shirt pocket. “Are you still willing to risk it, even if this might be me luring you into a cult?”
“Why not? I’ve already invested in a red sweatshirt.” I throw down some bills, pushing his hand away when he tries to pick up my money. He’s treating me to a football game. The least I can do is spring for lunch and a couple of beers. “I might as well give it a shot. I already drank the Kool-Aid.”
“Technically it was red beer.”
“Close enough.”
Halfway to the stadium, I realize I might die. I’m not sure I can take another step. Not without amputating my leg and hopping the rest of the way.
Brook’s eyes are focused on my face when he lowers his voice and asks, “Your ankle hurts more than you let on, doesn’t it?”
I nod, hoping he doesn’t judge me for the lies. Scanning the distance of our walk, probably a good five or six blocks, he also checks the line of cars waiting to get into one of the closer parking lots. We reach the same conclusion: There isn’t time to go back to our car and find closer—more expensive—parking before kickoff.
He shrugs. “I guess we only have one option.”
“What’s that?”
He leans forward, bracing his hands on his bent knees. “Hop on.”
“What?” I stare in confusion, not understanding what he means.
He taps his shoulder. “Get on my back.”
My eyes widen. He wants to give me a piggy back ride? “Thanks, but I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. I’m not going to let you do any more damage to that ankle or leave you behind, so don’t even suggest it. Let me give you a ride.”
“I don’t . . .”
“Come on. It’ll be fun.”
I glance up and catch the sincerity on his face. A warm flurry fills my stomach.
When I say nothing and make no movement to follow his orders, he lifts my chin with his finger. “Do you want to go to the game?” He waits for me to nod. “Good. Then let’s save ourselves an argument and hop on.”
I purse my lips. “But I might hurt you.”
He rolls his eyes, like he can’t believe I’d worry my weight might cause him injury. I’d rather not take the chance, but I suppose it’s his back to break. Taking a deep breath, I put a hand on his shoulder. I move to jump up but stop short.
“What’s wrong?”
“I . . . I haven’t done this in a long time.” My hand grows clammy on his shoulder. “Like, not since I was little.”
“Well, I did this last week with my nieces.” He flashes a bright grin over his shoulder. “And I can promise the process hasn’t changed since we were kids.”
That settles it. I climb onto his back as gracefully as possible, which isn’t terribly elegant as it turns out. My arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hands gripping on to my legs, we move forward.
I have to give the man credit. He never winces or makes a single grunt of complaint. His face is barely even red when I slide off his back outside our gate. He’s not even winded.
Catching my astonishment, his lips curve up. “I weight-lift three times a week and take the team out for conditioning runs every morning. That was nothing.”
Before I can come up with a witty response, he asks, “Has someone checked out that ankle? Like, someone professional.”
I consider lying but figure he already knows the truth. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t had time.”
He gives a pointed stare. Yep, he has a gift for seeing through my bullshit. It must come from years of teaching and coaching high school students. “Want to try that again?” he asks.
“I’m embarrassed,” I admit. “I don’t need to retell this ridiculous story to a person in a white coat who will tell me to keep my ankle bandaged, iced, and elevated.”
“Maybe someone can—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I’m going to be twenty-seven in a month. It’s about time I figured out how to take care of myself.”
Brook might want to push the i
ssue, but fortunately I’m saved by a war call from behind us in line.
“Gooooooooooooooooo Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig Reeeeeeeee-eeeeeeeeeeeed.”
Sharing a grin, Brook and I cup our hands to our mouths and shout back, “Go Big Red!”
Week Seven Recap: Make That Two Wins
That’s another win in the bag for Queen Harper, and no one is more surprised than this writer. As a team manager, she continues to make bold choices with her lineup, and it has paid off in a big way.
This week she bucked tradition and started rookie Ryder James, who broke out this week. Paired with veterans like North and I-Double-D, Queen Harper is showing that sometimes age ain’t nothing but a thang.
Could this newfound success be related to the team’s new name, or is it merely a coincidence?
Hold on tight, and let’s find out what is in store for Queen Harper’s Week Eight, when her star quarterback has a bye week.
Record: 2-5
Chapter Eighteen
I SHOULD BE CELEBRATING. It’s the day after my second consecutive fantasy football victory. My record still sucks, but now I’m only tied for last place rather than being at the bottom alone.
I’m also more confused than ever about Brook. Spending the weekend together only made me like him more. My heart says go for it, but . . . I’m not sure how dating him would work. I’ll have to figure it out eventually. And I will, just as soon as I figure out what to do about my ankle. It’s been more than a week, and I’m fairly certain I may need to amputate. Granted, I’m no doctor. Amputation might be an extreme measure to end my suffering, but at this point, I’d be willing to try anything.
This punishment was due. I’m old enough to know better than to get outrageously drunk—on a weeknight no less. I also know not to skip around gloating like an idiot. Especially when I’m not in control of my body. That’s what I get for my lack of humility and self-control.
This isn’t me. At least, it’s not who I want to be. I want to be the kind of woman who takes control of her life. The kind who treats people well, works hard, and always does what’s best. The kind of woman who deserves the Brook MacLaughlins of the world.
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