“Are you a Northwood fan?” the college kid standing in line behind me asks.
“He’s my fantasy football quarterback.”
“No shit, you have a team?”
I nod and nearly take a step back to give his enthusiasm some room.
“How’s it going?”
“Oh . . .” What’s a polite way of saying, “my team is basically shit” to a total stranger? I grimace before I can stop myself, which earns me a laugh.
“That good, huh?”
“I had a rough start to the season.” I take a quick peek at my phone to check the time—and my Thursday night lineup. “Sorry. I have a couple of players tonight, and I want to make sure I have them set to start.”
“Who?”
“The Pope and I-Double D.”
“Two players on rival teams. That’s a lot of pressure.”
“You’re telling me. I lost the first five games of the season.”
“Ouch. How’s your team going now?”
“Four and five.” If I win this week, I’ll officially balance my record.
“So you need a lucky jersey to do the job?” He points to the fabric bunched up in my arms.
“No, it’s for a costume.”
“Are you going as Northwood?”
I shake my head. “I’m going as my team name—Queen Harper. I have a tiara and everything. Except a jersey.”
He checks his watch. “Your party probably starts soon, huh?”
“Yeah. And it looks like I’ll be late.”
“Do you have to have a Northwood jersey, or would this work?” He tugs at the one he’s wearing. I didn’t notice it earlier. The number, the team, the name. He’s wearing a Chad Baker jersey. My favorite player. Brook’s favorite player. Why hadn’t I thought of wearing that in the first place? It would definitely get his attention, which admittedly, is the point of me pairing a jersey with leggings tonight. “You can have it. I’m buying a replacement.” He holds up the fresh one in his hand.
“You’d be willing to sell it to me?”
He pulls the jersey over his head, tugging down his white undershirt to keep his torso covered. Thank goodness. I’d hate for him to kicked out of the store for violating the “no shirts, no shoes” policy. He hands me the jersey.
“It’s yours.”
“Are you sure?” I stare down at the worn material. This would help my costume, and it’s something I’d want to wear again. But it’s clearly been loved. “I’ll pay you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He takes the Northwood jersey I’ve all but forgotten about. “You’re a queen who’s about to be late to her ball. What kind of a gentleman would I be if I didn’t help you out?”
Without thinking, I throw my arms around his neck. “Thank you so much.”
Though a little stiff around the shoulders, he pats my back and says, “Go win that game.”
MY COSTUME IS A HIT. Maybe too much of one, if the overly appreciative stares I’ve been getting from my fellow league members and their friends are any indication. When Dylan opened the door he stared at my legs for a good five seconds before he said “hello” and stepped aside to let me in. J.J. asked if he could inspect the skirt to find out how it was made, and I barely stopped him before he flipped it up. Even Paul froze, chip halfway to his mouth, when I stepped inside the kitchen.
I maybe should have reconsidered the length of my skirt, but I ran out of time. After I came home with the Baker shirt, I added some yellow and green ribbons and a big black belt to cinch the oversized jersey in at my middle. Catching my reflection in the TV, I do a three-sixty spin as subtly as possible. No, it’s not too short.
I wouldn’t mind finding out if Brook likes it, but he’s not here, which is weird. He lives here.
“Where’s the coach?” I ask Wade when I find him filling his plate in the kitchen.
He shrugs. “Late practice.”
That figures. The Warriors won their first round tournament on Friday night. With a state championship so close, I imagine they’re pretty busy. More disappointed by Brook’s absence than I care to admit, I grab a hard cider and go in search for the next best thing. I find Blitz curled up on a recliner in the small rec room outside Brook’s basement bedroom. We’ve laughed about how we’re both basement dwellers in our late twenties, but with my twenty-seventh birthday a week away, that isn’t quite as funny as it seemed a couple of months ago.
Careful not to mess up my skirt, I crouch down to Blitz’s level. I wince a little and readjust to find a position that doesn’t make my still-mending ankle hurt.
“Hey, little buddy. Why aren’t you upstairs with the rest of the party?”
He yawns and stretches his orange paws, angling his head to give me better access to scratch his neck. I oblige because he asked so nicely. I’m still curious about how Brook came to have a rescue cat. Not that he shouldn’t have a cat, but . . . Brook seems like the kind of guy who would want a lab or retriever he could take out for hikes.
The door from the garage swings open, followed by the quick thud of feet running down the stairs. I turn in time to watch Brook pull off his sweatshirt as he walks through the doorway. He notices my presence a moment too late and freezes, exposing a hint of his belly. My eyes dart to the line of hair trailing from his belly button to khakis before I can stop myself.
I gulp and let out a weak, “Hey.”
“Hi.” He pulls the sweatshirt the rest of the way off, while tugging his polo back into place.
Too bad for me. I turn my attention back to Blitz to hide my flushed face. I need to stop treating him like eye candy that’s mine for the taking. If only he wasn’t so everything. “How was practice?”
“Good. We were going over a couple of new plays, but . . .” He runs his hand over his hair, still tussled from wearing a hat all afternoon. My fingers itch from wanting to smooth down the stray pieces. Stepping forward, he helps me stand. “Let’s get a better look at your costume.”
With one of my hands still clasped in his, I smooth my ruffled skirt as best as I can. I twirl back and forth slightly to show off the green and yellow ribbons.
He scans my costume from head to toe and raises an eyebrow. “Very nice, Queen Harper. Very nice.”
“And where is your costume?”
Releasing my hand, he backs up toward his bedroom. “Give me two minutes.”
It takes closer to five. Twice during my wait, I have to dislodge Blitz’s claws from my skirt. I should have guessed the tulle and ribbon would be too much for his curiosity to resist. I’m bent over pulling him out of my skirt for a third time when Brook steps out of his room. He’s wearing a blue hat and polo with “Dillon Panthers” embroidered on them. His shirt is tucked into a pair of khaki shorts, and a pair of sunglasses and whistle dangle around his neck.
He’s also chomping away on a piece of gum like his life depends on it. “Well?”
I have no clue who he’s supposed to be. I mean . . . I guess he’s a coach, but that’s not much of a costume. It would be like me wearing a Lexus nametag over one of my work dresses and saying I was an office manager at a rival dealership.
But he seems so proud, I don’t want to hurt his feelings. “It’s great.” I eye him more closely. “You shaved.”
He strokes his whisker-free chin. “Yeah. The coaches always do No Shave November. I figured I might as well get one last shave in before I turn into a mountain man.”
“That’ll be interesting.” I push Blitz back once more. He lets out a dejected meow and hops off the chair to meander up the stairs. “I guess we should follow his lead.”
“I guess.” Brook hangs back a moment and clears his throat.
“What?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Nothing, I . . . nothing.”
Well, that’s weird.
THE STRANGENESS WITH Brook lasts through the first half of the Monday night game. He gives a half-hearted shrug any time one of the other guys mocks his costume, which I still haven’t figured out.
He also hasn’t made any comment about the fact that my team is about to secure another victory.
His agitation only grows stronger as the game progresses. Maybe he is more worried about the high school playoffs than he’s letting on. A few minutes before halftime, he leaves the room muttering something about self-control and perseverance.
Gio shakes his head and laughs from his seat next to me. “That boy is taking his costume to heart this year.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the third time he’s worn that thing, but this is the first year he’s embraced the character.”
Role playing or not, this doesn’t seem like Brook. “Maybe someone should go check on him.”
“Be my guest. But first, would you please grab me a beer from the fridge? Bottom shelf.”
Again? “Sure, I—”
“No, I’ll get it,” Amelia interrupts, shooting a glare Gio’s way. “You go on ahead.”
Still shaking my head at everyone’s bizarre behavior tonight—it is Halloween—I head back to the basement. Brook is sitting on the couch absentmindedly petting Blitz. He glances at me and he swallows hard, before turning his gaze back to the TV. It’s playing the game, but he has the volume down.
Yep. Something is definitely wrong. Rather than start in with what may prove to be a tough question, I start with one I hope has an easy answer. “Want some company?”
“Sure.”
I take the empty spot next to him, and my skirt rises up a couple of inches. Brook flinches but makes no other movement or comment when I lean over to scratch Blitz between his ears. “How long have you had him?”
“Five years.”
“Why did you decide to get him?”
Brook clears his throat again. “I wanted a pet but didn’t live anywhere that allowed dogs. I’m gone a lot, too, during the fall. A cat seemed like a good idea.”
“They’re independent.”
“Right, I—” He’s interrupted by Blitz, who has rediscovered my skirt and is tugging away at it.
“Son of a . . .” Brook jumps up to his feet and begins pacing.
I blink at his sudden movement. What is his deal? “Are you okay?
His fierce glare silences me. I watch, stunned as he rants. “I told myself I’d take it slow. To give you more time. Until you were ready. I said we were fine being friends.”
He turns on his heel and points at my skirt. “But then you show up looking so . . . How can I pretend I’m okay in the friend zone when . . .” He pulls the hat off his head and runs his hands over his hair again. “God help me, I’m acting no better than J.J.”
Though I’ve struggled to keep up with him until now, that grabs my attention. “Wait, what?”
Brook sighs, drawing my attention back to him. He’s stopped pacing and tugs the hat back on his head. Grabbing his chin, he taps his lip three times before letting his hand drop to his side. “You wonder if I’m okay? Well, the answer is no. You’re driving me crazy.”
My mouth falls open. I’m driving him crazy? That is not the response I was going for with this outfit. It’s not the first time I failed. It’s all I can do to fight back the tears burning in my eyes as I stand. “I’m sorry. I’ll give you some space.”
“What?” He stills. “No. That’s not what I want.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”
“I tried, but you aren’t making a lot of sense.” I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. “Tell me what you want.”
When he doesn’t answer, I try stepping around him. He moves too fast for me. Grabbing me around the waist, his lips crash against mine. I grip on to his polo, trying to stay steady while his mouth moves with mine. This is different than the last time we kissed. That had been tentative and excited. This one is all-consuming. Like Brook is pouring every emotion he’s feeling—frustration, annoyance, arousal, and passion—into this one moment.
And I want it all. Every last bit.
He pulls away at last, chest rising up and down. “We’re out of the friend zone, right?”
“Right.”
His eyebrows fly up. “Yeah?”
“Definitely.”
Letting out a chuckle, his mouth takes mine again. My hands fly up to grip his shirt, pulling him closer. Between kisses he asks, “Have I told you how much I love this costume? It’s clever, which makes the costume that much sexier.”
Mission accomplished. “Thanks. I’m glad you like it.”
Leaning up on my toes as far as my still tender ankle will let me, I pull him in for another deep kiss. His lips press firmly against mine. My knees give, but his arms are there to support me.
When at last we pull apart to catch our breaths, Brook rests his forehead against mine. “I kind of want to punch every guy in there. And I’m not usually that guy. I don’t do jealousy.”
I blink, taken aback by his words. “Why?”
“I’m loving this jersey and bare leg look. But so are the other guys. That’s why they keep tricking you into bending over and . . .”
I mentally retrace the first half of the game. The guys did ask me for refills more than usual, and for some reason everything was on the bottom shelf. Oh man, how embarrassing. I was so caught up trying to impress Brook, I didn’t even notice I’d fallen into their dirty trap. Creeps. I’ll have to get them back somehow.
“Like I said, I’m not usually the type to . . .” he mutters.
“You have nothing to worry about.” Now that we’re getting everything out in the open, I have to ask. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“I’m Coach Taylor.” He points to the name tag on his chest that reads My Name is . . . Coach Taylor in messy handwriting.
I stare at the name tag trying to make sense of it. “Is he the head coach at your school?”
Brook’s eyes go wide. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Umm . . .”
“Friday Night Lights.” He waits for me to say something, but I don’t. When I’m still silent, he frowns. “You’ve never seen it.”
“No.”
“Oh man.” He shakes his head mournfully. “It’s a good thing you’re smart, funny, and beautiful or this might be a deal breaker. We’ll have to watch it sometime.”
“Okay.”
His head lowers again.
“Brook?”
“Yeah?” he manages between pecks on my neck.
“Now that we’re out of the ‘friend zone,’ maybe we should go on a real date.”
His lips curve against mine. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Week Ten Recap: All Hail the Queen
Queen Harper has balanced the scales with another victory, bringing her record to a respectable 5-5. She also had three players finish the week in the top three of their respective positions.
The question at this point in Queen Harper’s fantasy football career is whether she can keep the streak going. Queen Harper currently holds the best winning streak with four consecutive victories. How’s that for a change of pace?
Record: 5-5
Chapter Twenty-One
OUR FIRST OFFICIAL date falls on the Sunday before our birthdays. Mine is on Monday and his is Tuesday. So it’s kind of serendipitous we both have the day free to spend together.
Or basically free. When he picked me up at my brother’s house midmorning, Brook said it was the first time he’s missed a Sunday watch party in league history. He assured me it’s not a big deal but said it enough times to suggest otherwise. Then he mentioned skipping church with his sister and nieces this morning. I nearly had a panic attack and insisted we find another time to do this when he explained they’d gone to the Saturday night service. He’d even taken the girls out to breakfast for supper to keep with tradition.
Our birthday celebration begins with an early-ish breakfast at a cafe. Because it’s my birthday weekend, I skip the healthier menu options in lieu of a four-cheese scramble with a s
ide of ranch potatoes and cinnamon raisin French toast drenched in syrup. It seems like even more of a splurge next to Brook’s breakfast of steak, sunny-side up eggs, and dry wheat toast wedges.
When I point out the nutritional variances between our breakfasts—in that mine has minimal value and his could be a football player’s pre-game meal—he only laughs and offers me a sip of orange juice, his only splurge.
We follow breakfast with a long walk along a trail around a lake. Now that it’s November, most of the trees have lost their leaves, and the air is brisk enough for a light coat. Through my knit gloves, I feel Brook’s warmth shimmy through me when he takes my hand. My ankle still isn’t like it was before my spill. The trainer told me to expect that, but after almost six weeks, taking a leisurely stroll doesn’t cause the pain or discomfort it did before.
During our walk, we cover most of the important getting acquainted topics. Favorite colors—his is Husker scarlet and mine is turquoise—favorite season—we’re both fans of fall because of football and birthdays—and our most embarrassing stories from college. (I’m keeping those a secret. I promised!)
And at one point, when we stop to admire a view of the lake we’ve walked around, Brook wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me in for a kiss. After, I’m sure my cheeks are red from the heat rather than the cold.
To give my ankle a rest, Brook drives me through campus for an abridged tour of the university. He points out his freshman dorm. Where he used to take his morning runs. The dining hall. The building that housed his teaching classes. The art and natural history museums. The library. The union. Dozens of memories that help paint a picture of the man he has become.
He takes me to lunch at a local treasure in the Haymarket. To compensate for my less than nutritious breakfast, I order a salmon, artichoke, and avocado salad. As a reward for his healthy breakfast, Brook orders a hot beef sandwich with french fries. He adds a side of honey mustard. “In case you want to snag a couple of my fries.”
He already gets me.
While we wait for lunch, Brook shows me some basic offensive formations using sugar packets from the caddy on our table. We start with the shotgun and I-formations because they’re the ones I’ve heard announcers mention most on TV. It’s more interesting than I care to admit but hardly necessary for me to manage my football team. Still, Brook is so excited to share some of his expertise, I do my best to listen to every word.
First & Goal Page 20