First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

  Clubs and bats in position, my brothers are ready to strike if that mouse comes anywhere near us. I may not be a fan of cruelty to animals. But in this instance, I’m okay with them channeling Little Bunny Foo Foo and bopping that mouse on its head.

  Hopefully they’ll only stun the little guy so we can scoop him into the cup and safely deposit him a mile away from our house. Oh God. I have the cup. That means I’ll be the one scooping him up. I’ll be in charge of taking him somewhere far, far away. My stomach lurches.

  The squeaking grows louder as the mouse comes to my end of the couch. It runs into the cup. I instinctively flip the cup up and jump to my feet. My eyes connect with his for one beat. His nose wiggles and my shoulders relax. He’s kind of cute. I nearly say that, but then he moves. I’m going to lose him. A shoebox lid slams down on the cup.

  I turn to face Meg, who has reappeared at my side. Her hands, which are holding onto the lid, are shaking almost as much as mine. Her voice comes out in a near whisper. “Got it?”

  I nod and release a shallow breath. “Ohmygod, ohmygod. Ican’tbelievethatworked. Ohmygod.”

  The squeaking returns, louder and shriller than before. My grip on the cup grows weaker. “Boys. Shoes. NOW.”

  They move into action at my bellow. Scott grabs my arms to hold me steady while Christopher slips a pair of ballet flats on my feet. Fueled by adrenaline alone, I take over for Meg and clamp the lid over the cup.

  Jackson bounces up and down on the chair cheering me on, while Scott races ahead of me and flings the doors open. Christopher follows along a few paces behind, and I run. My lungs burn from the cold air and the scream I’m trying to contain. My hands grow wearier as the mouse fights to jump out. But I hold on tight, arms extended as far away from my body as I can keep them without losing control.

  I can’t stop. I need to get as far away as I can. That’s what the articles online said. I need to keep this mouse from finding its way back into our house.

  At last, when I’m not sure my legs can carry me any farther, we reach the small park at the edge of our development. Pulling my arm back I lift the lid and fling the mouse. It flies away into the dark.

  My breath comes out in white puffs. I did it.

  Christopher catches up to me, almost as out of breath as I am. “That. Was. Awesome.”

  I’m inclined to agree, but a wave of guilt rushes over me. “I hope I didn’t hurt him. With the throw.”

  “Who cares?” He grabs onto my arms and stares into my face. “You did it, BK. I wouldn’t have been able to do it. You’re such a badass.”

  I try to nod, but my knees give out. He tightens his hold so I don’t fall to the ground. “Are you okay?”

  I try to speak, but all that comes out is another cloud. The crisp air bites my nose. I hadn’t noticed the cold until now. The adrenaline and fear are suddenly gone, though my heart keeps racing. It’s all I can do to put one foot in front of the other as my brother leads me back to the house, tears streaming down my face. I’m still not sure where that sudden burst of courage came from, but Christopher was right. I am a badass.

  WITH HOURS TO GO UNTIL the Thanksgiving weekend begins, I’m covering for Kelsey on the front desk so she can start the drive home to her family. Oddly enough, she’s been nicer to me ever since J.J. revealed my less than perfect past, and I’m trying to stay on her good side.

  I’m locked in a staring contest with the front door. Waiting for it to swing open and bring me something to do. I wrapped up the phone calls and paperwork an hour ago. There’s no point tinkering with my fantasy lineup this long before the next games.

  I wonder who might show up to buy a car today. Maybe Todd Northwood—in town for the holiday and interested in buying a luxury vehicle with his hard-earned football money. He’ll wear his Super Bowl ring and that charming smile of his. Anderson sent the rest of the sales team home, which means he’ll need my help securing the deal. Maybe North and I will bond over our favorite Thanksgiving dishes. I’ll tell him about my grandma’s pumpkin pie recipe and promise to send his wife the recipe. We’ll connect on a level Anderson can never understand. A non-football fan like him will never relate.

  Maybe I’ll even casually mention that I’ve started him every game this season, except his bye week. No one—except me—had faith in his having such an amazing season. My loyalty will win his respect and undoubtedly his business. As North drives away in his brand new Jaguar, Anderson will give me a cut of the commission. I could use that money as start-up funding for the new crocheting business. Or pay off my student loan.

  Either way, happy holidays to me.

  The door swings open. At last, my powers of visualization are working. The customer removes his hat, and I recognize Dr. Patel. Pity. I would’ve loved to meet North. Even if it’s highly improbably he’d be in Lincoln the day before a home game.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Patel,” I call out. “Are you here for some retail therapy?”

  While buying a luxury car on a whim might not be something I’m ever able to do, for enough of our clientele—Dr. Patel included—it isn’t impossible.

  “Not exactly.” He flashes a bright grin and hands me his keys. “My wife says I need the floor vacuumed before we take her parents to the airport. Can you squeeze me in?”

  “Certainly.” Paul and the other maintenance guys will be glad to have something to do before they head out for the day. Their workload has been even slower than mine, and they don’t have a pile of crossword puzzles to keep them entertained.

  Dr. Patel and I chat about his plans for the holidays, which apparently includes an invasion of almost every member of his extended family. I tell him about mine—a quiet dinner with my brothers and parents, who are on their way to town as we speak. My nephew will be with his mom’s family, but this will be Meg’s first official holiday with our family.

  Paul pulls Dr. Patel’s Jaguar in front of the building. A glint, like a father greeting his most beloved child, lights up his eyes. “I love that car.”

  “It’s a beauty.”

  “Have you ever driven one?”

  I try not to snort because he’s being polite, but seriously? Does he think I can afford a luxury car on my salary? “No, not yet.”

  Dr. Patel takes the keys from Paul and tosses them to me. “Get in. Let’s take her around the block.”

  I stare down at the keys in my palm. Even the weight of them somehow feel more substantial than the ones to the unglamorous yet trustworthy sedan I’ve had since college. My fingers itch from wanting to put them in the ignition and take him up on his offer.

  But I can’t. “Thank you, I shouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m on duty.” I gesture to the empty showroom floor behind us. “Someone has to cover the desk.”

  “I’ll watch it,” Anderson says, stepping out of his office.

  That’s nice of him to offer, but . . . “Are you sure you can manage?”

  He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Harper, I can answer a phone. Besides, we’re dead.” He nods toward the front door and the car sitting at the curb. “Go. Have fun.”

  My stomach tumbles, and I find myself being pulled outside. Opening up the driver’s door, Dr. Patel waits for me to slip into the cool leather seat before he closes it. He settles into the passenger seat. I turn the ignition, and the car comes alive in my hands.

  “Now put the car in first,” he says in a near-reverent whisper. “And just go.”

  I follow the orders and merge into traffic. Dr. Patel doesn’t speak while I maneuver his baby through the roads, and I’m glad. I need to keep my energy on moving the car forward without incident. Heaven forbid I put a ding in it.

  As the feel of leather under my fingertips becomes more familiar and the seconds tick away, some of the tension eases out. The freshly cleaned interior smells rich, and the dials shine like in the commercials. I’m barely going thirty-five, but . . . this is kind of awesome. My dad always throws out the phrase, “Like dri
ving a Cadillac.” Well, he’s obviously never taken a Jaguar out for a spin.

  All too soon, the drive is over, and we’re back where we started. Only now I feel like I’ve run a marathon rather than driven a car around the block.

  “Now, how was that?” Dr. Patel asks.

  Amazing. Spectacular. Maybe one of the most thrilling things I’ve ever done. “I loved it.” I turn off the car and face him. “Thank you for that.”

  “Anytime. Happy Thanksgiving. And Harper?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll be driving your own someday.” He winks. “You’re a woman who’s destined for the best. I believe it.”

  I’m still tingling from the thrill of taking an $80,000 car for a drive around the block when I return to the front desk. Anderson’s lip twitches, betraying the hint of a grin he’s trying to hold back. He gets it. Sure, he’s driven more than his share of Jaguars, but he hasn’t always been the smooth-talking salesman-turned general manager he is now. He hasn’t forgotten what it’s like the first time you sit behind the wheel of something worth three times more than you make in a year.

  Leaning against the desk, he asks, “What do you say we close up shop and grab a treat to celebrate?”

  “Celebrate what?”

  He shrugs. “Thanksgiving. All of your hard work the past few months. You getting to drive your first luxury car. Take your pick.”

  My eyes dart to the chrome clock on the wall. “We’re supposed to be open for another fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s a holiday. Or close enough.” He leans against the counter. “Even the maintenance guys are gone. Come on. Let’s get some coffee and pie.”

  “Won’t we get enough pie over the weekend?”

  “Can you ever have too much pie?” He pushes himself away from the desk and walks across the room to flip over the ‘Closed’ sign. Locking the door, he calls over his shoulder. “Besides, isn’t the point of Thanksgiving to overindulge and celebrate as often as possible?”

  My inner first grader wants to remind him about the pilgrims and Plymouth Rock, but my inner carb lover doesn’t care. I love pie. Yet . . . I barely squeezed into my dress pants this morning. I should probably lay off the sugar.

  “Grab your coat. I’m buying. I’ll even let you order a fancy coffee if you promise to tell me how you plan to knock J.J. off his high horse when you play him in that fantasy football championship you guys have going.”

  Who am I to turn down an offer like that? I can get my figure back after the holidays.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I HIT THE GROUND HARD enough it knocks the wind out of me. Staring up at the gray skies, I’m vaguely aware of the concerned voices calling my name through the ringing in my ears. It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have let J.J. catch me off guard when I had possession of the ball.

  Brook’s face along with my brother’s comes into view.

  “Are you okay?” Christopher asks.

  “I’m fine.” I move to sit up, but Brook gently presses me back to the ground while he checks me over for any injury. The pain is replaced by a different kind of ache. One I shouldn’t have when there’s an audience of our families and friends.

  Deciding I haven’t sustained any life-threatening injuries, Brook helps me up. “J.J. doesn’t get the meaning of holding back or friendly competition.”

  “I’m fine,” I repeat, moving my head from side to side to make sure my neck is working properly. Thank God. The beast didn’t break it. “I should have been better prepared. A pick-up football game is nothing to take lightly.”

  “We shouldn’t be playing tackle football without pads. I have a set of flags, but J.J. insists you can’t play a good game of football unless people are getting sacked. Talking him into prison touch was the best I could do.”

  While Brook gives me a final look-over, Christopher leaves to chew out J.J. I should stop him. I’m the one who agreed to play day-after Thanksgiving football with a male-dominated group of former athletes. I understood the potential ramifications of my participation. But J.J. deserves to be yelled at most days, so I’m not going to get involved.

  Brook’s hands move up my arms, and he briefly cups my face. I stare back at him. He’s shaved his month-long growth of facial hair into a handlebar mustache. As penance for losing last week’s game to Dylan, he was forced to turn his November beard into a ridiculous mustache for the holiday weekend. I tried convincing him that he didn’t have to leave it for the whole weekend. Dylan isn’t even around to enforce the penalty. But Brook claimed it would be dishonest to cheat the system. I’m guessing he secretly likes looking ridiculous for a couple of days. I’ll admit, the more I’m around him, the more I don’t mind it. As long as that thing is gone by Monday. Otherwise I may have to revoke his make out privileges.

  “Sure you’re okay?” Brook asks. “You can switch with one of the girls on the bench.”

  He gestures to the sideline where his sister is seated next to Meg. Amelia is busy keeping an eye on the kids, and Meg is wearing high-heeled boots. No, I’d rather not abandon my post to either of them.

  “I’m ready to kick J.J.’s . . . you know.”

  His hands linger on my face, stroking my cheeks lightly. The gesture warms my frozen skin. “Atta girl. Now go get ‘em.”

  “Excuse me.” J.J. clears his throat to draw our attention. He’s taken a firm stance with his legs spread apart. “If you two are done gossiping, the rest of us want to play.”

  I grunt in response and roll my shoulders one more time, hoping to loosen some of the tension.

  Brook frowns at the motion. “Are you—?”

  “Yes. Go back to your team before J.J. throws you down, too.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being taken down. Not if the right person did the tackling.” With a parting wink, Brook returns to the huddle with the rest of the opposing team.

  “Come here,” Scott calls from our huddle. “We need to talk strategy.”

  Christopher strokes his chin in contemplation. “Using Harper to block J.J. was a mistake. He’s out for blood, and he has her number.”

  “He’s still pissed my fantasy team broke his perfect record.”

  “Your fantasy team is unstoppable right now,” Wade says. “Don’t worry. He’ll get over his hurt feelings. Eventually.”

  The rest of my teammates nod in agreement. I glance across the field and catch J.J. glaring at me. He makes a slashing motion across his neck before turning back to huddle with his team. Great. I am going to die.

  “What do you suggest?” Scott asks. He sends a worried look J.J.’s way. Apparently, he fears for my safety, too. “She’s a target.”

  “Then we use her,” Christopher says.

  Scott frowns. “What?”

  Catching onto Christopher’s idea, I explain. “I go long.”

  “How far long?” Wade asks.

  “All the way long.”

  Christopher nods. “Even if J.J. chases her down the field and tosses her in the slush again, we can put a few points on the board if we get Harper to the end zone first. She managed to hold onto the ball after taking that hard hit.”

  “I’m fast,” I say, convincingly enough even I almost believe it. “I don’t sometimes run three miles on my treadmill for nothing.”

  “But—”

  I wave off Scott’s concern. “When we break, I go long. You guys run enough interference to keep Christopher from getting tackled, and I’ll take care of the rest. Wheel route?”

  Christopher grins. “I can’t even tell you how proud I am of you, BK.”

  “Stop. You’re making me blush,” I say. “Let’s run the wheel route. It’ll confuse them.”

  I divvy up the rest of the assignments and wait for everyone to follow my orders. Instead, I’m met with blank stares. Seriously, guys? Has it come down to this? Taking a deep breath, I plant my fists on my hips and puff up my chest. “Men, do we want to win this game, or are we going to throw in the towel?”

  “Win, I
guess,” someone mumbles.

  “Then it’s time to step up and be bold,” I say, warming up to the subject. “Let’s take a risk. Let’s leave it all out on the field. Let’s show them what we’re made of!”

  Christopher snorts, but slowly, one by one, the rest of my team nods in agreement. Only Scott still looks concerned. “What about J.J.?”

  “Let him chase me,” I say defiantly. “I’ll punch him in the . . . He’ll regret it if he pushes me around again.”

  Christopher claps his hands, and our group splits apart to take position.

  I go to my mark a few yards right of Christopher and a few feet behind Scott. As the slot receiver, when the ball snaps, I’ll run diagonal for a few yards before going around the spot where Scott is standing. After that, if Wade blocks for me, it’s a straight shot down the field.

  True to our expectations, J.J. lines up across from me, while Brook takes his place across from Scott. The two men exchange challenging grins while J.J. practically snarls at me.

  “Ready to lose, Harper the harper?”

  “Not today.”

  “There’s no avoiding it. I have a lot of pent-up anger waiting to be let out. You’re a glorified receptionist with nothing better to do.”

  My eye twitches. “Maybe you should try yoga.”

  Christopher’s audibles grab my attention. “Red thirty-two. Purple ninety-seven. Aqua eleventy-six.”

  Christopher kicks his right leg and claps for the snap. Scott and I take off down our designated paths. Listening for the tell-tale sounds of a tagged quarterback, I take the wheel at full speed. Faked by the play, J.J. runs into Brook, knocking both of them to the ground. I don’t wait to find out if they get back on their feet. Instead, I’m halfway down the field before turning back. Christopher throws the ball then takes the full force of two of our opponents.

  His aim is true despite the pressure from the other team. I make the catch, and with my path clear, I run the final few yards into the end zone. I spike the ball and throw my hands in the air. Spinning on my heel, I find J.J. finally stumbling up to his feet. “How do you like me now?”