First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

  Instead, I seem to have this bad, semi-self-destructive side I’ve developed in the past year. It’s like, no matter what I do or how hard I try, something snaps and undoes the good. Like in Dallas. I should have handled my breakup with more grace. Instead, I acted out and came out looking like more of a jerk than the guy who cheated.

  And last week, I could have handled the drama with J.J. like a strong, independent woman. Instead, I got trashed and made an ass of myself. I deserve the pain, but I still want it to stop.

  On Monday night, with only five minutes to go before I can reasonably call it quits for the day, I contemplate refilling the ice bag for the drive home. I kick off my ballet flats—the only dressy shoes I can wear on my puffy foot. I’m a bit concerned about the swelling on my toes. According to my crossword puzzle sports medicine lesson, ice will help. But so would rest. The break room isn’t on my way to the door, which would add quite a few steps. It’s a tough call—ice or rest.

  Wade taps on the door frame to my office and ducks his head in. “You have a visitor.”

  I straighten in my seat and shove my feet back in the shoes. A jolt of pain shoots up my leg. “Ouch. Damn it.”

  “That’s a strange way to say hello.”

  I glance up to find Amelia leaning against the door with her arms crossed, still dressed in her medical scrubs. “But according to my brother, you’re still injured, so I’ll let it slide.”

  “Hey.” My cheeks flush, and I adjust the shoulders of my slouchy shirt. “What’s going on?”

  She pushes away from the door and steps around my desk. “We have a date.”

  “We do?”

  I’m still trying to make sense of her declaration when she drops to her knee and reaches for my ankle. She brushes off my protests and feels the bone, muttering to herself. A couple of minutes later, she slides the shoe back on, more carefully than I had done earlier, and stands.

  “It’s not broken,” she says.

  “Okay . . .” I’d already figured that out, but it’s nice to have a semi-official diagnosis from an expert.

  “We’re still going to go in and get a second opinion.”

  “No, we—”

  “Harper, I get why you might not want to go to a doctor, but you’re dealing with a serious sprain or worse.” She softens her tone and rubs her hands up and down my arms. “Brook and I are worried.”

  I silently accept Amelia’s help to get to my feet. Wade hands her my purse and promises to lockup the office.

  We don’t say much on our drive to a still undisclosed medical facility. I hope the physician is in my insurance provider’s network. We’ve been in the car almost twenty minutes when I realize what we’re listening to on the radio.

  “Are you a Bon Jovi fan, too?”

  “I like them,” Amelia says. “My brother told me about your Sunday Night Football routine. I figured you might be more comfortable with this arrangement if your friends came along for the ride.”

  It’s a nice gesture, though I’m still not too pleased with Brook for going behind my back to make this happen.

  I return to wordlessly watching the passing scenery and discover we’re on campus. I seriously doubt the university health center will take my insurance, but whatever. We make a turn on the road leading to the stadium. Unlike on Saturday when the streets were full of thousands of red-garbed fans, tonight we’re the only ones. I glance up and read the words inscribed in the heavy stone walls that make up Memorial Stadium.

  “Not the victory but the action; Not the goal but the game; In the deed the glory.”

  If you say so.

  Amelia clears her throat. “I remember my first time coming here. We were stationed in North Carolina and came back to visit our grandparents. My dad woke us up early that morning and loaded us into the car to drive down from South Sioux City. My mom stuck a red ‘N’ tattoo on my cheek and Brook wore his favorite jersey.”

  I say nothing but turn to face her while she continues the story. “The kids at home used to make fun of Brook because of his name. They said it was a girl’s name and made up songs and let him have it. He never fought back or said anything. He was always the strong, silent type. But it hurt his feelings. That year, one of the backup quarterbacks for Nebraska was named Brook. He stepped in when the starter was out for most of the season. My brother loved that. He loved sharing a name with one of his heroes. It never bothered him again when the other kids teased him.”

  My chest clenches imagining little Brook. He sounds a lot like the grown-up version.

  “That day we were hosting Colorado, who was one of our big rivalries back in those days. They were ranked number three, we were number two, and tensions were high. It was Homecoming weekend, and I’d never seen so many people in one place in all my life. Brook and I were in awe as we walked up to our seats. It was the most exciting day of our lives.”

  “What happened?”

  “We won the game. We finished the season undefeated and won the first of our back-to-back National Championships in the ‘90s.” Amelia’s hand quickly swipes across her cheek. “That day, my brother turned to me and said, ‘I’m going to be like him when I grow up. I’m going to play football and be a Husker.’”

  “And he did.”

  “Yeah, but more importantly, my brother always tried to be a good person to be more like the only other man he knew with his name.” She pulls into a small lot next to the stadium and faces me. “That’s why our Brook can’t sit by and do nothing when someone needs help. It’s what makes him a good coach and teacher.”

  “It’s what makes him a good person,” I whisper.

  “Exactly.” Amelia squeezes my hand. “Sometimes it can be annoying for the rest of us. He seems so good, and he is, but he means well. And sometimes he oversteps. He only does it because he cares and wants to make the world better.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because I hope you’ll cut him some slack for arranging all of this. And I hope you’ll keep doing what you’ve done to get him to relax and smile. He needs to loosen up more.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Yeah, you do.” Amelia releases my hand and turns off the car. “Now let’s go.”

  My eyes widen. “In there?”

  She nods. “Brook’s friends with one of the trainers. He’s going to check out that nasty ankle of yours as a favor.”

  “Seriously?”

  She answers by opening the door and offering me a hand to step out.

  IT’S ONLY A SPRAIN. Thank goodness. The trainer showed me a better way to wrap my compression bandage and gave me a walking brace to help with my mobility during recovery. A former walk-on like Brook, he also gave me a few stories I can use later if I ever need to tease Brook.

  I’m still processing everything Amelia told me when I get home and elevate my leg. It certainly doesn’t answer every question I have about Brook, but it covers the big one. Yes, Brook is actually that good of a guy. But I learned something else. It’s not like he was born perfect, he works at it. He’s human like the rest of us, but he also does his best to be his best. It’s maybe more impressive this way.

  And maybe I understand myself a little bit better. This might be the high dosage of anti-inflammatory pills talking, but I actually feel good. I messed up last week. I drank too much, lost my humility, and I paid the consequences. This lapse in judgment doesn’t have to define me. I deserve better for myself. I get that, but it still might take a while for me to actually believe it.

  Thanks to the support of people like my brothers, my friends, and Brook, I’m realizing it’s okay to make mistakes as long as I learn from them and move on.

  Oh, Brook. I understand what these grand gestures mean. The free consultation with a sports medicine specialist. The tickets to the Huskers game. The piggyback ride. The Chinese delivery to my work. The random texts at odd hours of the day. His wanting to make sure I’m okay.

  Brook might be the world’s greatest guy, but n
o man goes to these kinds of lengths unless there are deeper feelings involved. I may not be an expert on good men, but no man has ever gone to this much trouble for me. He must like me a lot. Maybe he even . . . no. I can’t go there. Not yet.

  But right now there’s something I can do. It’s one of only two favors he’s ever asked of me. The other was if I’d go out with him. I’ll have an answer to that one soon, hopefully. I shoot him a quick text message.

  Me: Thanks for setting me up with the trainer. It’s a soft tissue sprain. Should be better in a few weeks with more RICE.

  Brook: Glad to hear it. Sorry about the surprise. I hope you aren’t mad.

  Me: Not mad, but thankful.

  Brook: That’s a relief.

  Me: Hey, random question.

  Brook: Yeah???

  Me: Do you know where a lady could sell some crochet-work for a good cause? I heard you might have an inside track on football booster craft fairs in the area.

  I RUB MY EYES WITH the balls of my fists. The longer I stare at the names on the screen, the blurrier they become. A quarterback could be a defense. I might as well play Dumbshit McDoesn’t Exist. Okay, that’s harsh, and there’s no reason for swearing. Everyone is the same as far as I’m concerned. Unreliable. Problem-ridden. Questionable for playing and generating points.

  It’s been the same problem every Sunday morning. After the lackluster performance from my Thursday night player, I once again question every member of Queen Harper. Winning the past two games after four losses has only made the fear of picking the wrong player worse.

  Is this how every NFL coach feels an hour before kickoff? Frustrated. Confused. Impotent. Scared. Or am I overthinking this whole setting-a-lineup business?

  Much as I hate to admit defeat, even I recognize when I’m beat. I need a second opinion. I try Christopher, but he doesn’t answer. That’s probably for the best. He’s still determined to win this bet, and I need answers I can trust. Scott picks up on the second ring.

  “What’s wrong? Where are you? Give me five seconds—I’ll grab my keys.”

  “Whoa, calm down.” He’s been jumpy ever since I fell. “I’m fine. I’m in my room. I’d like your advice on something.”

  “You’re not hurt?’

  “I said I’m fine.”

  “You’re downstairs?”

  “Yes.” I tap my fingers impatiently on my laptop. What part of “I’m fine” and “I’m in my room” did the guy not get?

  “Then why are you calling? You could’ve walked the fifty steps it would take to get you to the living room.”

  Ugh. Men. “I would’ve done that if I had time, but it takes me forever to stand and walk. And I don’t have time. Listen, I only have an hour to set my team lineup before the first games start.”

  “You got mad at me last time I gave you advice and it didn’t work.”

  “I promise not to be mad this time. Please. I need your help.”

  Scott sighs, and I frown at the wall. Why does he have to be so difficult? It’s not like I’m asking him to bail me out of jail or co-sign a new car loan. Heck, if I’d asked him to do either, I’d probably have less trouble getting a “yes” out of him.

  “Come on, it’s only a few players.”

  “You yelled at me last week. You called me a clueless sports moron.”

  He’s right. I’d actually thrown a few four-letter words into the mix. But the point is, I’ve moved on from that. The past is the past. Why can’t he get over it, too?

  “I wouldn’t ask for help unless I seriously needed it.” I wait a beat, growing more impatient and irritated as the seconds tick by. My desperation is about to explode all over my unmade bed. I’m going to have to give the guy something. I’d wished it wouldn’t have to come to this. “I’ll babysit Jackson next Friday night. For free. I’ll even pay for the pizza.”

  “Promise you won’t punch me if you lose?”

  “I promise,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Who do you have available this week?”

  That wasn’t so tough, brother, was it?

  ON MONDAY NIGHT, I meet Brook at a sports bar near the high school to watch the last game of the week. He’d said he wanted to buy me a drink as thanks for agreeing to help with the craft fair next week, but I’m hoping that was an excuse for some one-on-one time. We’re playing against each other in fantasy football this week, but so far we’ve kept the trash talk to a minimum.

  Wade hadn’t pressed the issue when I told him I wouldn’t be joining the guys from the dealership to watch the game. Instead he’d smirked, like he knew exactly why I’d said no.

  Scott made noises about wanting to go out, but I told him I had other plans.

  At the moment, I don’t care about what Wade, Scott, or any of the other guys are doing. Because John-Paul Massa, the Pope himself, just scored another touchdown. The game isn’t over for the players, but it is for us.

  Brook’s jaw drops. “You won.”

  I did. I won. Three weeks in a row. My losing streak must be over. I want to jump up and down shrieking in excitement, even though that definitely goes against everything RICE encourages.

  Instead, I fling myself into Brook’s arms and place my lips on his. I don’t care that the sudden movement sends a jolt of pain through my ankle. I don’t care that I’m crossing a line I’d created. I don’t care that my victory comes at the cost of his winning streak. I’m just so happy and want to cap off this perfect moment with a kiss with the man I’m crazy about.

  Caught up in the feel of his lips on mine, it takes me another few seconds to realize Brook hasn’t recoiled. Instead, he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me closer. His mouth moves against mine, taking the kiss deeper. The pain in my ankle is gone, replaced by a tingling that shoots through every part of my body. I tighten my grip and sink deeper into this moment, until I’m good and lost.

  When the kiss softens, I pull back. Brook’s chest rises up and down and we stare at each other. Neither of us speaks. I can’t. I can’t say something like, “That was a mistake” or “I’m sorry about that,” because I wouldn’t mean it. And even more, I want to kiss Brook again.

  He rests his forehead against mine. “We should do this. Spend time together, more often.”

  “Okay,” I agree between breaths.

  He flashes another grin and kisses me again. My head dizzies, but I manage to control my thoughts well enough to acknowledge a few facts. First, my ankle is feeling better. Second, Brook apparently didn’t mind the way I’ve chosen to celebrate my newfound fantasy success. In fact, if his hand sliding up and down my back is any indication, he likes it.

  We pull apart again, and Brook’s face grows serious. “Maybe we shouldn’t watch any games without the other person around.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because if this is your new chosen method for celebrating a victory, I’d prefer to be the one on the receiving end of your touchdown dance.”

  My laugh is cut short by Brook’s lips. It seems I’ve broken a dam with my spontaneous kiss, but I don’t plan to stop it. Like everything else he does, Brook is incredibly skilled at this.

  Week Eight Recap: Three Wins for Queen Harper

  It was dirty, and at times a little dangerous, but somehow Queen Harper managed a third straight victory.

  At first, her backup quarterback Andre Blackwell, the rookie Heisman winner fresh out of Oklahoma, didn’t show much promise throwing two pick sixes in the first half of his game. But Blackwell returned with an unexpected ferocity in the second half, finishing the game with an admirable, if not remarkable, eighteen points.

  And I’m sure Queen Harper is thanking God for The Pope. John-Paul Massa has twelve carries for more than hundred yards. It’s about time for her first-round pick to pay up a big dividend on her investment.

  Record: 3-5

  Chapter Nineteen

  WORRIED ABOUT MY INHIBITED mobility, Scott and Jackson drive me to the craft fair the following Saturday and
help me carry in the supplies. Or rather, Scott does most of the heavy lifting while Jackson focuses on running around, asking questions, and being adorable. I’m somewhere in between. I’m simultaneously trying to haul an armful of scarves and make sure my nephew doesn’t get hurt or knock down the pottery booth in his excitement.

  I spy Amelia setting up our table with Marley and Ellery playing on a blanket spread out nearby. Ellery sees me first and calls out a greeting before running across the gym to greet us. After giving my uninjured leg a quick hug, she turns to Scott and asks if Jackson can play.

  “Uh . . .” Scott catches my nod and grins. “Sure.”

  “Let’s go.” She grabs my nephew’s hand and races him back to the booth.

  “Better watch out, Dad. Jackson has a crush.”

  “We Duquaine men are Casanovas at heart.”

  I roll my eyes behind his back. “Right.”

  We’re a few yards from the booth when Brook appears at my side and unloads my arms. “I’ll get that for you,” he offers. “You should’ve called me when you got here. I would’ve met you outside.”

  “Thanks.” I am glad he’s here to help, because—and I hate to complain about it after everything he’s done—walking has my ankle burning again. It’s also the first time I’ve seen him since Monday night. We’ve exchanged dozens of texts, but being this close to him makes my heart pound faster.

  “Scott and I can get the rest,” he says. “You can set up your stuff.”

  “Well . . .” I’m not up to playing the strong, tough girl routine. Not in this situation anyways. But maybe I can pretend I’m letting him flex his muscles to impress me. We both win. “If you insist. Thanks.”

  Brook helps me into my seat and gives my hand a parting squeeze.

  Amelia waits until the men are out of earshot before she whispers, “Okay, you have to tell me everything.”

  I try playing dumb. “What do you mean?”