First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

  “This one is my favorite.” Brook resets the sugar packets. “In this one, one of the running backs—or maybe a gutsy receiver—takes the snap from the center. The quarterback is positioned up front with the rest of the line and wide receivers. We don’t call this one often, but it’s a good way to shake up a defense.”

  “Hmm.” I lean in to watch more closely when he rearranges the packets again, but we’re interrupted by the server returning with our plates of food. My stomach groans in appreciation. Talking about football and walking stirred up my appetite.

  We fall into a comfortable silence while we eat. After swallowing a giant bite of his sandwich, Brook flashes a smile. Even through a week’s worth of whisker growth, I can still detect the faint scar on his chin. Since we’re in bonding mode, I have to ask.

  “Did you actually get your scar in a bar fight?”

  He doesn’t bat an eye. “Who told you that?”

  “Dylan. He said it happened back in college. Someone was trying to hit on your date and he punched you in the face.”

  Clearly amused, Brook asks, “What else have you heard?”

  “Wade told me a variation of that story. Only it was a loud-mouthed fan who was messing with one of your teammates. You put yourself in between them and ended up getting cut by a broken beer bottle.”

  “Any other theories?”

  “Gio said it happened in a game. Your helmet flew off, and you caught a piece of rough grass.”

  “And J.J.?”

  “Weight-lifting accident.”

  His lips twitch. “What do you think?”

  I chew on my straw, considering the options. Brook is the kind of guy to try and enforce peace, but he doesn’t strike me as someone who would get into a bar fight. He’s much too patient to lose his cool. Maybe Gio and J.J. are onto something with it being sports-related. Still, none of the stories fit. “No clue. That’s why I’m coming to the source for answers.”

  “How about you keep guessing?” He leans forward on his elbows. “And I’ll tell you the truth if both of our teams make it to the playoffs.”

  “But what if one of us makes it and the other doesn’t?”

  “Better luck next season.” I glare, which only earns me a shrug. “Pouting won’t work on me.”

  “You’re immune?”

  “Not immune but able to resist unless the situation calls for it.” He bites into his sandwich and wiggles his eyebrows. “My sister’s kids put me through training the past seven years. I’m practically a master.”

  “You’ll have to teach me your ways. My nephew gets exactly what he wants whenever he wants it from me.” I sigh. “I’m a pushover.”

  “Harper Duquaine is no pushover.” Brook gives a short laugh. “Harper Duquaine. That’d be a pretty good name for a football player.”

  “Put me in, Coach.”

  “I’ll have to teach you a few more plays and formations.” Brook strokes his chin and taps that damn scar of his.

  I set down my fork and push the remnants of my salad to the edge of the table.

  He points to my plate. “You didn’t finish.”

  “I ate the fish and avocado, which was delicious by the way, thanks for asking,” I tease. “But I’m full.”

  “You didn’t eat all of the vegetables.” He shakes his head, sighing like I’ve dropped a touchdown in the end zone with only twenty seconds left on the clock. “Vitamin deficiency is a problem in first-world countries, too.”

  “Save the lecture for the classroom or football field.” I lean forward, resting my chin on my fist. “I had plenty of vitamins in what I ate. Fish is healthy. Besides, I have to save room for dessert.”

  “What makes you think there’s dessert?”

  My eyes narrow. “It’s our birthday weekend. There has to be dessert.” Or there will be trouble.

  “You’re right. There’s dessert.” He offers me some of his fries, and I take one. He has the grace not to make a comment about my previous statement about being too full. Even if he did, I’d win the argument. There’s always room for a couple of fries.

  “What should we do for dessert? Are you more of a cake and ice cream guy, or do you go the giant cookie or pie route?” I’m fine with whatever. Actually, I’d take one of each of those if I had the choice. And maybe a slice of cheesecake. Maybe I’ll pick up a slice on my way home regardless of what Brook wants to do next.

  “I’m not that big into sweets,” he admits. My jaw drops. If he doesn’t like sweets, then why does he always take at least one or two of each of the treats I’ve made this season? The same thought seems to have dawned upon him. “I like the desserts you make.”

  “No, you don’t.” I fold my arms across my chest. “You just said you don’t like sweets. You don’t have to lie.”

  “Okay, so maybe they aren’t my favorite thing,” he rushes out. “But your treats were still good.”

  “Why did you keep eating them if you don’t like sweets?”

  “Because you made them.”

  Oh. That’s nice, I suppose. But I wonder . . . “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve made something different.”

  He shrugs. “It’s not that big of a deal. And it’s not like I hate brownies, cookies, or those bars. I—”

  “No.” I hold up my hand to stop him. “My days in the kitchen are done.”

  “Oh, man. The rest of the guys in the league are going to hate me.”

  “You should have considered the consequences before you revealed your secret.”

  “Shouldn’t I be commended for being so open and honest this early in our relationship?”

  His casual use of the r-word sends my heart racing. I promptly change the subject back to something that makes me less uncomfortable. “We can skip dessert if you like. Maybe we can grab some coffee.”

  And then I can sneak one of those muffins or scones from the café to have a little sweet. I can’t stress this enough: It’s my birthday weekend. I should eat whatever I want. I ate a salad for lunch, which basically gives me a free pass from now on.

  “Actually, I have a proposition for you. No pressure—you can say no if you aren’t interested—but . . .” He pauses and pulls his face into a tight, toothy smile. “My sister and nieces baked us a cake and wondered if we’d come over. Wade will be there, too.”

  “They baked us a cake?”

  He nods, and I’m oddly touched. I can’t remember the last time someone baked me a birthday cake.

  “I’d love it. So,” I keep my tone light and casual, “Wade will be there, too. Sounds like we have ourselves a watch party. Will the rest of the league be making an appearance?”

  “Nope. Just the inner circle.”

  “What kind of cake?”

  “Chocolate mousse. She found the recipe on one of those cooking and crafting websites. She’s actually getting decent at—”

  “Stop.” I hold up my hand. “You had me at chocolate mousse. When do we go?”

  He starts to answer, but his eyes catch something on the screen. He abruptly drops my hand and jumps to his feet. “Go, go, go!”

  I glance up in time to watch Dewey-Davis run across the goal line. The replay shows Chad Baker, his fantasy quarterback, throw a downfield pass into my wide receiver’s arms and into the end zone. His quarterback and my wide receiver scored us six points apiece. I let out a whoop and high-five him.

  “Happy birthday, Brook and Harper.”

  LATER THAT EVENING, I sneak into the kitchen to help Amelia divvy up the cake and refresh everyone’s coffee.

  “How much longer will you stay with your brothers?” Amelia asks.

  I shrug. “We never put an end date on the whole arrangement.”

  I haven’t exactly been active about finding my own place. There wasn’t any sense of urgency. At first, I was too focused on adjusting to my new job and implementing changes. Then, I was too busy trying to win over my new co-workers because I’d rocked their worlds a little too hard. That meant trying to win fantasy
football games, which has kept me too busy to care about where I live.

  Except now I have a gentleman friend—I’m still trying to be comfortable with applying the term “boyfriend” to him at this stage—and at some point I’d like to . . . take our relationship to the next level. Something we haven’t done yet, and I’m already terrified of my brothers or his roommates overhearing anything. I’d never be able to make eye contact with them again if that happened.

  “What’s keeping you from finding your own place?”

  “Laziness.”

  Amelia rolls her eyes. “Come on, you’re like the least lazy person in the world. You can’t even sit still long enough to watch a football game. You’re always helping in the kitchen or working on some new merchandise for a craft fair.”

  “My living situation suggests otherwise.” I shrug. “Staying with the boys is easy. So I haven’t done much about changing that.”

  “You can’t live with your brothers forever.”

  No, at some point I’ll have to grow up and move out on my own. “I need to stop being so lazy—”

  “Quit calling yourself lazy. You’ve been busy with a bunch of things—like moving to a new town and starting a new job. Fantasy football—”

  “Shouldn’t actually count as something that keeps me busy. It’s not productive. It’s a game.”

  “One that takes work to be good at.”

  “But is it that important in the grand scheme of things?”

  “It matters to you.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to.”

  “It does now, which is all that matters.” Amelia leans against the counter. “This is your life. What you care about matters. Even if it seems small compared to other things.”

  “Like world hunger,” I agree. “Or wondering why Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio don’t realize they’re perfect for each other and get married already.”

  “Exactly.” Her eyes sparkle. “Things are still new, but you’ve probably had your share of evenings worrying about why my brother hasn’t called you yet—the answer is he’s watching film or grading papers, by the way—or which running back you should start on your fantasy team. It’s all important because it matters to you.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Trust me, I am.” Amelia reaches across the kitchen island to pat my hand. “And as a fellow woman in a new relationship, I can only imagine how sexually frustrated you are right now. God knows how long it has been since Brook got laid. You’re both under a lot of pressure and have no chance for release.”

  “Whoa.” I pull back my hand. “I’m not exactly comfortable having this conversation.”

  “Why?”

  I dart a nervous glance toward the doorway, where anyone, including Brook, could waltz through at any moment. “What is or isn’t happening between Brook and me is our business.”

  “But I’m his sister and you’re my friend.”

  Exactly. Doesn’t she understand why that would be a problem right about now? “I don’t—”

  “Come on. Sex talk is fun. I’ll dish on Wade. Last night, after the girls went to bed, he put on a little music, and—”

  I hold up my hand. “Sorry. I can’t do this. It’s too weird.”

  “Fine.” Amelia’s lips set into a pout. “I guess we’ll have to come up with something else to talk about.”

  “Yes, please.” I’d rather discuss anything else at this moment. Even the gritty details of her job at a chiropractor’s office. Those stories usually involve popping, cracking, and other unappetizing topics. I’d prefer a dramatic retelling of the time she had three babies pee in her face in one day. “How’s work?”

  “Same old, same old, but . . .” The light returns to her eyes. “I do have an idea I’d like to run by you.”

  Her chest rises up and down in excitement. Even more so than a few seconds ago when she was prying for some inside scoop on Brook’s and my bedroom activities. I’m not sure if I should be worried or relieved she has a new distraction. For now, I’ll take the reprieve that can’t be as weird as a sister wanting to hear about her brother’s love life.

  “Go on.”

  “It’s about the craft fair.” Amelia grabs her phone and opens a spreadsheet. “I crunched some numbers to figure out exactly how much we made. I realize the proceeds were going to the football program, and it shouldn’t matter, but I was curious.”

  She passes me the phone, and I scroll through the lines of data, which remind me of the files I hate sifting through at work first thing every morning. Only, this list is longer. Much longer. Sure the financial figures are smaller than the profits we net on each luxury vehicle, but they add up.

  “Not bad.” I hand the phone back over. “I’m glad we were able to help the team in a big way.”

  “It was for a good cause, but . . . can you imagine how nice it would be to have that extra chunk of cash right now? Especially going into the holidays?”

  “It would be nice.” I could buy tickets to a Bon Jovi concert in Kansas City and cover the cost of a hotel. Brook has brought up the concert a few times, and it would be a nice way to thank him for everything he’s done for me this fall. “But what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying we should start our own handicrafts boutique online.” She opens up another file with dates and projections.

  It’s thorough. “You’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah, well, when I get an idea . . .” She trails off and studies my face. “So?”

  “I think . . .” It might be a lot of work and it isn’t guaranteed to succeed. I’m not sure if my ego can handle any more failure this year. Then again, it might also be a lot of fun to try. And I’d regret not giving it a shot. “We need to come up with a name and some branding ideas.”

  Amelia claps. “Yes! Let’s get together—soon—to draw up some ideas. Birthday cake comes first, but business can wait. Oh man, I’m excited.”

  How can I doubt Amelia would be anything but a perfect partner in this new venture? She clearly has her priorities in order. You can store a lot of faith in a woman who puts cake first.

  Week Eleven Recap: Queen Harper Becomes Dominant Force in the Mega Ballerz

  How many touchdowns would Todd Northwood throw if Todd Northwood could throw touchdowns? The answer, in case you were wondering, is six. For the second time this season, North has accrued more than forty points.

  One year ago, who would have imagined that North would return as the best quarterback in the league?

  The rest of Queen Harper’s team didn’t perform too shabbily either. As expected, both active and benched players outperformed her opponent’s meager second string.

  Somehow, Queen Harper’s seemingly weak draft—with a few minor changes thanks to the waiver wires and one trade—has become a juggernaut team that can’t seem to be stopped.

  Record: 6-5

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  BROOK’S HOUSE IS DARK when I arrive on Wednesday night. It’s weird to be here on my own, especially when we haven’t exactly gone public with our relationship status. But his reasoning had been persuasive. “I miss you.” That was all it had taken. Palms sweating, I grab the spare key hidden in a rock by the front door. I let myself in as instructed. I call out a quick “hello,” even though it’s obvious I’m alone. My response is a flurry of tiny footsteps as Blitz runs into the entryway to meet me.

  “Hey, buddy.” I kneel to scratch behind his ears. “How was your day?”

  He meows loudly.

  “Really?” I ask, playing along. “And how did that make you feel?”

  He gives a short chirp and flops down on the floor, rolling onto his back. He bats at my hand until I find the right spot under his chin. I grin, charmed by the pure adoration oozing from the cat.

  “I bet it didn’t take long to get your daddy wrapped around your little paws.”

  My stomach flips at my assigning the label of “daddy” to Brook. He’ll be a natural. Someday. I’ve seen him with his nieces p
lenty of times, and . . . the memory of him holding one in each arm is enough to have my belly doing somersaults again. Sheesh. Slow down. I’m not even comfortable using labels for Brook yet. Imagining him as the father of my children is a pretty big reach.

  Smoothing down his sleek fur, I consult the expert. “Hey, Blitz?” He meows in answer. “Am I completely crazy?”

  Of course he says nothing. But he hops up on all fours and extends his neck to nuzzle my chin. His purr vibrates in my chest. I close my eyes, savoring the sweetness of the gesture. It’s better than any words. The door opens behind me, and Blitz steps around me to continue his role as chairman of the welcome committee.

  I stand and turn into Brook’s chest.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Our meeting ran longer than expected.”

  “That’s okay. I wasn’t waiting long.”

  He’s carrying canvas tote bags and the iPad he’s never without. He has game footage to review before tomorrow night, but first he’ll want to grade some papers. His students are studying the New Deal, a concept apparently too abstract for them to fully comprehend. He told me one of the students said the New Deal was a fictional glee club on the quiz he’d given over the chapter.

  We’d laughed about the student confusing a public works program with the TV show Glee—and messing up that part, too—but I got the impression it kind of broke Brook’s heart.

  I can only imagine how much of a headache he’ll have tonight, but he won’t complain. He’ll stay up late grading or reviewing game tape from last season. He’ll turn off the lights after midnight and still manage to wake up at five to get in a run before he goes back to work. By comparison, I’m mulling over whether or not to touch up my toenails when I get home.