First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

“I stopped at the store,” he calls over his shoulder, while he leads me to the kitchen. “Is spaghetti okay?”

  He opens the tote and removes a container of mushrooms, fresh garlic, and onions. He’s going to make mushroom sauce. One of my favorites. “Sounds delicious.”

  “I couldn’t find any of the hard cider you like.” He darts an apologetic glance my way. “But I picked up some of these.”

  I step around the island to get a closer glimpse. Brook holds up a six-pack of yellow-labeled beer. I take one of the bottles to inspect the label more closely. “These are from . . .”

  “The brewery down the road from your hometown,” he finishes, when I can’t seem to find my voice. “They even had one more pack of the summer variety you like.” His lips curve up. “How’s that for good luck?”

  I stare at the brown bottle in my hands. I rub a thumb over the words, “Summer Shandy.” Suddenly, my eyes burn. I turn my head to hide the tears.

  He’s making my favorite dinner and bought one of my favorite beers. He doesn’t even like shandies. And it’s a school night, which means he won’t be drinking. He did this for me. Can he be any more perfect?

  An arm curves around my stomach, and Brook pulls me up against the solid wall of his chest. “Are you okay? I’m sorry about the cider. If you’d rather, I’ll pour you a glass of the wine for the sauce—”

  “No.” I clear my throat to dislodge the lump forming in it. “That’s not it. The beer’s fine. It’s great.”

  “Then what’s wrong?” he asks, his voice laced with concern. “Tough day at work?”

  “Something like that.” I set down the beer bottle and turn around, slipping my arms around his waist. “Lots of paperwork. Follow-up calls. It gets a little monotonous.”

  “I’m sorry, babe.” He gives a gentle squeeze and rests his chin on my head. “How about you grab a beer and turn on the game while I start dinner. We can try to end this day on a better note?”

  I nod again in silent agreement. Guilt ebbs in my belly. He’s sending me to the living room with a beer after my supposedly long day while he cooks dinner then continues doing the work he’s been at since before dawn. What have I done to deserve a man like this? Probably nothing. Despite what Amelia says, I’m only a shadow of the fun, vivacious person I was back in college. If I was a better woman, well, there wouldn’t be anything to worry about.

  THE WARRIORS ARE GOING to State. Tonight. For the game, I dug out the thermal undershirts I used to wear for walking across campus during the frigid northeast winters back in college. A coat would have done the trick, but I wanted to show my support for the Warriors, and a coat would have hidden the team logo on my sweatshirt.

  The boy’s football championship game is on a Monday night, which means we don’t have as good of a showing as we did for the game earlier this fall. But most of the guys from the league made it out tonight. I’m also flanked by my brothers, who are reliving their high school glory days. In the band, not on the football team. I have to point that out, not because it’s anything to be ashamed of (hey, I played clarinet all four years), but for context. We Duquaines may have proudly supported our team from the bleachers, but none of us took any snaps.

  Wade is seated a row ahead of me with Amelia and the girls. They’ve basically been inseparable since they finally took their own advice. Neither of them has said it, but they’re both surprised by how supportive Brook was when they told him.

  “I’m not blind,” he’d told me later when it came up during a quick phone call in between his second and third block classes. “They’ve been batting their eyes at each other since high school. I guess they realized that at a certain point you should grow up and do something about it.”

  Said the guy to the girl who, until a couple of weeks ago, played the role of starry-eyed teenage girl with a crush on the football coach.

  Only J.J. had seemed surprised about Wade and Amelia finally getting together. He’d made a couple of remarks about his own experiences dating the sisters of friends, but they’re too crude to repeat. When he tried to engage me in the conversation, I pretended I hadn’t heard him over my headphones.

  A voice booms over the speaker announcing the end of the third quarter. The Warriors are ahead by one touchdown, but anything could happen during the next fifteen minutes. The players take the field again, and I search the sidelines for Brook. Like usual, I can only see the back of his head. He’s leaning forward, one palm resting on his leg, the other clutching his tablet. And God help me, I can’t resist taking a moment to admire the way his khakis fit. One of these days I swear I’ll get used to how appealing I find my gentleman friend, and I’ll stop treating him like eye candy.

  (No, I’m not ready to call him my boyfriend yet, but I’ll get there.)

  I’m still ogling Brook when he throws his arms up and my brothers let out expletives in surround sound. I shift my attention to the field in time to watch a defender from the other team cross the end zone with the football tucked under his arm.

  “Were we picked off?”

  “Yep,” Christopher says, darting a glare my way. “You should pay better attention to the game.”

  I take his advice to heart. For the next fifteen minutes, I barely blink as the opposing defense holds the Warriors to a three and out. Once. Twice. Three more times. I watch when, with only twenty seconds left in the game, the other team scores a field goal taking a three-point lead over us. My eyes fill with tears when the Warriors’ last-minute Hail Mary fails.

  My heart sinks to my stomach, and I barely breathe. I once again search for Brook. I look past the other coaches lining the sidelines. Some have their faces buried in their hands. Others are staring at the field in disbelief. At last I find him. Unlike his defeated colleagues, Brook’s arm rests around the shoulders of one of his players, the quarterback who threw the interception earlier in the quarter. He turns his head and says something to the young man. The quarterback nods, wiping tears and sweat from his face.

  “I wonder what he told the QB,” Scott muses.

  I have a pretty good idea of what Brook said. Not because I can read his lips, but because I know he’d offer encouragement rather than retribution at a moment like this. He probably said something like, “You gave a great effort” or “We’ll get them next time.”

  Brook’s eyes rise to the bleachers and scan the rows of devastated fans until they fall on mine. I raise my hand and mouth “Good game, Coach,” even though I doubt he can tell what I’m saying from the field. The somber expression falls from his face and turns into a gentle grin. So subtly I almost miss it, he taps his lips with his index finger and points at me.

  I wish I could tear down the stairs and onto the field. I want to throw my arms around his neck and tell Brook how proud I am of him for leading his team this far. Instead, I hold his gaze until someone calls his attention and the team runs off the field.

  There has to be something I can do to support Brook. Despite the brave face, he must be disappointed. As his . . . special friend, it’s my job to have his back like he’s had mine since we met. Maybe I can Google “How to help a coach you’re dating after he loses” when I get back to the car. If I’m going to commit to this relationship, then I’m going to have to learn how to be the support system for the man who has dozens of others depending on him.

  WADE AGREES TO COVER for me while I take a longer than usual lunch on Tuesday. I rarely use my full hour, and he practically pushed me out the door when I told him my plan. It’s something I have to do. I realized it when I woke up this morning.

  The traffic stalls, and I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. It’s kind of amazing how quickly I’ve grown accustomed to the faster-moving traffic in Lincoln. After years of driving around Dallas, Lincoln roads usually seem like a breeze. But not today.

  Glancing at the clock on the dash, I say a little prayer I get there on time. Maybe a little music will distract me before I have a full-blown panic attack over a little road congestion. I reac
h over to flip on the radio, and Nat King Cole’s voice and a chorus of strings ring through the air. It’s a little early for Christmas music, but what the heck. Listening to a smooth voice sing about families gathering around a fire, turkeys, and mistletoe is better than being left alone with my thoughts.

  I wonder what Christmas will be like. Have Brook and I been dating for long enough to do presents? I’m still contemplating getting him those Bon Jovi tickets. Speaking of time . . .

  “Son of a . . .” I’m so going to be late. I push the pedal to the floor and hope no police officers are on this last stretch of road.

  I pull into the high school’s visitor parking and grab the boxed lunches on the seat next to me. Brook said he usually eats in his classroom at noon. He grabs an apple, pretzels, and coffee from the break room and uses the time to grade tests or papers.

  Hopefully, he doesn’t mind the interruption, but I figure it’s time for me to make a grand gesture. While he claimed he wasn’t upset about the team’s loss last night and was proud of them for making it to the playoff, he’s more disappointed than he let on.

  My breath puffs into small clouds on my walk to the front door. I’m happy to report my limp is almost completely gone, and I still have some of the courage I had when I concocted this idea. My hand freezes on the door. Suck it up, Harper. I pull the glass door open and step inside.

  A man in a polo with “SECURITY” stitched over his heart sits at a small desk chewing gum. He glances up from a copy of ESPN and cocks an eyebrow. “You’re too young to be dropping off something for your kid.”

  “I’m not.” My hands go clammy again. “Or my brother or sister. I . . .” I clear my throat and I force a smile. “I’m here for Brook MacLaughlin.” When the guard still doesn’t speak, I lift the tote bag. “I brought him lunch.”

  “Are you Coach’s girlfriend?” Interest shows on his face.

  Oh . . . that word. Now hardly seems like the time to debate semantics. And this is a girlfriend thing to do. For today, I’ll fight that little flutter of worry that fills me every time I hear that word associated with me. Turning my smile up a little brighter, I nod.

  “Man, some guys have all the luck. I’ll call him.” The guard picks up the silver flip phone next to his magazine. The school system hasn’t wasted any money by giving the guards anything with an Internet browser. “Coach, you’ve got a visitor.” He winks. “Your girlfriend.”

  My stomach pitches. Will Brook tell the guard he doesn’t have a girlfriend and order him to escort me out of the building? Or will he assume it’s me and that I’ve suddenly gotten over myself?

  The guard snaps the phone shut. “He’s coming to meet you.”

  Rather than returning to his magazine, the guard eyes me closely. My heart pounds a little faster, and I’m transported back to my own high school days. I never had any troubles with our school’s security guard. I was too scared of getting in trouble to ever try anything. The fear lives on.

  To distract myself from worrying about ending up in high school jail, I crane my neck to read the cover of his magazine. With any luck, I can use it to change the subject. Unfortunately, his hand is covering too much of it for me to make out anything other than the word, “Football.”

  His eyes narrow. “You’re the one who makes those yarn things.”

  O . . . kay . . . “Yes, I crochet.”

  “You had a booth at the craft fair?”

  “I did.”

  He flips the magazine over and leans back in his chair. “My old lady bought a couple of hats from you.”

  He reaches into the pocket of the heavy jacket draped over the back of the chair. Pulling out a knit cap, he holds it up. Sure enough, it’s one of my fisherman style caps in the Broncos colors. I’d sold out of that variety during the fair and took orders for more than a dozen others.

  I bet Amelia and I could make a tidy profit if we focused our future sales projects almost entirely on sports fans.

  Delighted, but also a little embarrassed to find someone using something I made, I mumble, “I hope you like it.”

  “I love it.” He stuffs the cap back in his pocket. “I wear it every day.”

  I shuffle from one foot to the other. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “The wife mentioned she’d met Coach’s girlfriend at the sale. She was a little tight about the lips with any details.” He gives me another appraising glance. His eyes linger too long on my hips, which are still carrying a few more pounds than I’d like after months away from the gym paired with a season of stuffing my face with beer and carbs. “I guess I can understand why.”

  I tug the coat closed and cross my arms across my chest. “Are you a Broncos fan, then? They have a lot of momentum this year.”

  “It’s a good year to be us.” He winks again. I wish Brook would walk down the stairs sooner than later. “You’re a fellow fan, I take it.”

  “They’re okay.” I dart another glance toward the still-empty stairs. “I’m more of a Packers fan.”

  The guard’s lips curve into a sneer as he shakes his head. “I’ve never understood why some people insist on living their lives being miserable.”

  That does it. “We have more championships and titles than most of the teams in the league.”

  “Only because your team is older.”

  That’s true enough, but it’s not like the Packers haven’t done anything in the past decade. The trophy room at Lambeau has plenty of evidence to back me up on that. I’m about to say this when a familiar hand lands on my shoulder.

  “Harper, what a nice surprise.” Brook gently squeezes. “You’ve already met Rick.”

  More like, Dick. I turn and hold up the tote. “I took a chance you might be free for lunch.”

  “I am.” His eyes search mine. “Rick said my girlfriend was here.”

  My face flushes. “He did.”

  “I always have time for my girlfriend.”

  Week Twelve Recap: Queen Harper Sneaks in Another Win

  Sometimes a win is just a win. And this week, Queen Harper barely squeaked out a W over her opponent. Isaiah Dewey-Davis and Gabriel Natz had uncharacteristically low-scoring games this week, which goes to show that fantasy football can be an unpredictable mess.

  Queen Harper also left a hefty number of points on her bench in the form of running backs Blake Lambert and Jack Jacobsen and tight end Harley Hunter.

  But, as we said, it ultimately didn’t matter because Queen Harper managed to come out the victor thanks, in part, to an opponent who made even poorer game-time decisions.

  Only one more week of the regular season to go and Queen Harper is in the playoffs.

  Record: 7-5

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I DID IT. I WON MY seventh consecutive game, which is a new league record. Imagine, only a few weeks ago, I was convinced I’d finish the season without a single victory. Brook gave me the perfect team name because right now, I’m practically living a freaking fairy tale.

  With Brook at a post-season coach’s meeting, I watch the Monday night game at home. I’m glad Meg and Jackson joined my brothers and me for the game. As Queen Harper, I need as many subjects as possible to witness my victory.

  I’m so pleased about the new direction my fantasy team and life are simultaneously taking that I’ve almost forgotten about the mouse currently wreaking havoc on our house.

  We have three types of traps, two types of poison, and even a few of those fancy sound-emitting devices. Despite turning our place into a mouse war zone, our attempts at catching the infidel have been unsuccessful. We’re fairly confident we’ve managed to seal any of the entrances to our house with steel wool wedged into every crack. The only way the mouse is getting out of this house is through us. Unfortunately, the mouse is determined to stay.

  I’ve tried to keep my cool around my brothers, but I have to admit this whole mouse business is getting to me. Saturday morning, I stumbled upstairs to start the coffee only to catch the mouse racing across
the kitchen counter and escape down its secret hatch, better known as our stove.

  I tried pounding on the oven with a Tupperware container, but the mouse was long gone. Heart still racing, I reached for the coffee grounds, only to find a fresh set of mouse droppings in our cupboard. I’ve opted to go out for my coffee ever since.

  I’m not sleeping well at night either. I swear I can hear the damn thing scurrying along the kitchen floor. Every time I close my eyes and start to drift to sleep, my mind is flooded with visions of the mouse climbing up my bed skirt and running along my bed. It’s hard to sleep once you get that picture in your head.

  Fortunately, I have a great distraction tonight. Gabriel Natz, one of my wide receivers, is playing. Even though he and the rest of my team have secured my victory, he keeps adding point after point on the board. Eyes focused on the screen, I watch the quarterback chuck the ball down field and into the waiting arms of Natz, who runs it into the end zone.

  “Yes! Touchdown.” I jump out of my seat to high-five Scott and Christopher, then Meg and Jackson. Because I can’t seem to contain myself, I pick up my nephew and toss him up in the air and catch him while he squeals in delight. “Six points, Jackson. That’s six more points for Auntie Harper.”

  “Touchdown, Hah-paw! Touchdown!” he shouts.

  “Oh-my-God!” Meg screams while I’m in the midst of my victory dance.

  Jackson claps his hands together excitedly. “Oooh mow-sie.”

  I freeze. “Did you say mouse?”

  He nods. I turn my head and out of the corner of my eye a little gray blob races behind the couch. A scream forms on my lips as everyone springs into position. Almost like we’d planned the attack in advance, I plop my nephew on the recliner and pick up an empty cup from the coffee table. I position it on the floor on the other side of the couch.

  Scott grabs one of his golf clubs—why is that in the living room instead of the closet?—and jumps onto the ottoman on the other side of the couch. Christopher pulls out a baseball bat, and Meg runs to the kitchen.