First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

  It’s the running back I traded to Brook in exchange for a new kicker. I push the photo back across the table. “Yeah. What about it?”

  J.J.’s eyes narrow. “Did you or did you not give this running back to Brook?”

  “I did. Trades are allowed until week eight.”

  “That’s true, under normal circumstances,” J.J. concedes. “But was this before or after your relationship started?”

  Brook hands his copy of the photo back and asks quietly, “Define started.”

  “Were you dating?”

  “No,” Brook says.

  “Had you slept with her?”

  “No.” Brook’s jaw clenches. “We hadn’t started dating. Not everyone jumps into bed before they’ve been out on a few dates and developed some sort of emotional connection.”

  J.J. holds up his hand. “Okay, you guys like to take things slow. I get it.” He downs his short drink in one long swallow and signals for a refill. “Had you been on a date?”

  “No,” I say at the same time “Yes” comes out of Brook’s mouth.

  He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I kind of considered going to the game our first date. Even if it wasn’t official.”

  “Okay.” I want to lean over and kiss his chin, but I can wait. “Then that was our first date.”

  “Those are semantics,” J.J. says. He stares at Brook, unblinking. “What was your motivation for the trade?”

  Reclining in his seat, Brook strokes his chin. “Okay. You’ve got me. My reason . . . probably wasn’t ethical or in the interest of playing fair.” He drops his arm onto the back of my chair. “What’s my punishment?”

  “I could kick you both out of the league. Nullify your seasons.”

  Brook leans forward. “She didn’t do anything to beat the system. This one’s on me.”

  “But she benefited from your action.”

  “Wait, what’s going on?” I ask, not following this exchange or how Brook is now somehow admitting he messed up. “I don’t—”

  “Stop harping,” J.J. sneers. “Your boyfriend only traded with you because he was trying to get in your pants.”

  “That’s enough.” Brook’s fist comes down on the table. Giving J.J. a silencing frown, he turns to me and softens his expression. “I didn’t trade you Zimmerman because I wanted your player. I did it because I wanted to help your team. Because I liked you and wanted you to say yes the next time I asked you out.”

  Oh. I should probably be annoyed with him for thinking my team needed help, but his heart was in the right place. Some guys woo women with poetry and flowers. Brook lets me eat french fries off his plate without complaint and gives me better players for my team. That’s sweet. I cup his cheek. “That’s so—”

  “Okay, enough of this lovey-dovey bullshit.” The fury in J.J.’s voice commands our attention. He accepts the refill from the bartender but sets the glass down without drinking. “Contrary to what you might believe, I don’t want to kick you out of the league.”

  “You don’t?” Brook asks.

  “No. But you should pay for manipulating the situation.”

  “He wasn’t—”

  Brook squeezes my shoulder to stop my protest. “What do you want me to do?”

  J.J.’s lip twitches. “Bench Baker this week.”

  I start to protest, but J.J. interrupts me. “And you bench Todd Northwood.”

  He wants us to throw our games? I still might be able to sneak out a win over Tyler with North on the bench, but there’s no way Brook can beat J.J. without his star quarterback.

  “What happens if we say no?” I ask.

  “Then Brook is out of the league.”

  He didn’t say anything about my ownership rights, but I wouldn’t want to play in the league without Brook. I’d be fine never setting another lineup again. But Brook co-founded this league years ago. He loves it. While he could always find another league, he has history with this one. Legacies matter to Brook.

  We exchange another brief glance and I nod. Brook wipes his hand on his jeans and extends it across the table to shake J.J.’s. “You win. We have a deal.”

  WE DON’T STAY AT THE bar long after Brook and I promised to throw our games to ensure J.J.’s victory this season. I’m still not entirely sure why Brook went ahead with the plan, but it’s best not to ask. On our walk to the car, I ask Brook how we’re supposed to set lineups without our best players.

  He gives a sympathetic smile and rubs my shoulder. “We’ll be fine. And even if we aren’t, it’s only a game.”

  “I never had a chance this season.”

  “That’s weird of you to say.”

  “Why?” I shift to face him again. “Because of my willingness to go with the flow? To be Zen?”

  “For one thing, you’re not ‘Zen’ about any of this.” He shoots me a look that dares me to contradict him. “For another . . . I’m surprised you’ve ever doubted your ability to win the whole thing. You’re Harper Duquaine. The woman who pushed through six months’ worth of web redesigns in three months.”

  “It was eight weeks, actually.”

  “She’s the woman who swapped out her fantasy team’s deadweight for some high quality talent and is now kicking ass in the league. The woman who set a record for best sales in the history of our craft fair.” He presses a kiss on the top of my head before resting his cheek against it. “The Harper I know never concedes defeat. Not when she’s first and goal, and there’s plenty of time left on the clock.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows at his football pun, and I can’t help but laugh. Sometimes, he’s too adorable for his own good. Much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. I’m not the type who gives up easily. Not when there’s still hope of victory.

  A LUMP LODGES IN MY throat when I set my lineup for the weekend. Like the little Internet abuser I’ve become, I pull up my fantasy roster at work. This is it. My last lineup of the season. Well, the last one that matters, as I’ll most likely be heading to the consolation bowl to play Brook for third place next week.

  The wave of panic begins to grow, and I lean my head back against the couch and count my blessings while I breathe in and out through my nose. I have a good relationship with my brothers. I have supportive friends. I have a new business opportunity. I’ve made positive changes at work—for myself and others. I have a wonderful boyfriend. And I’m probably, most likely, in love.

  Whether or not I win this game, I’ve come a long way. That counts for something.

  I gave fantasy football my best, and now I’m taking a knee, as promised. While I don’t care as much about my longevity with the league—I was only ever supposed to be a one-season placeholder—I do care about Brook’s. I didn’t join the league to win a championship. I joined to ease the tensions I’d inadvertently created with my co-workers. With the exception of J.J., I’ve done it. Even J.J. might come around after the season is over. But only if he wins.

  I’ll come out of this season with more than I ever imagined.

  No longer fighting the panic, it’s still hard to move Todd Northwood to my bench. North and I have been through a lot together this season. We dealt with haters like the recap writer from the website and even Christopher. We went through five weeks of under performances from the rest of my team and five weeks of losses. Then we figured everything out and went on a record-setting eight-week winning streak. We made it to the playoffs.

  Through a season where nothing went as expected, North was my constant. But now it’s over.

  “Sorry, Todd.” I highlight his name and move him to the bench. “I still love you, but I love someone else more.”

  GIVEN THE DIRE CIRCUMSTANCES our teams are up against this week, Brook and I made a pact. Neither of us will check our fantasy football scores this week until the end of the last game on Monday night. With our hopes of advancing our teams to the finals dashed, there didn’t seem to be a point in torturing ourselves, thus the pact.

  I’ve held up my end of the bargain. I didn�
�t so much as sneak a peek. Instead of watching the games with the rest of the league on Sunday, Brook and I played hooky. We went Christmas shopping and saw a movie. Keeping with tradition, we still listened to a Bon Jovi song that night. Only this time we listened to our song of the week—“I’ll Be There for You”—while making out in his car in the mall parking lot. It was totally juvenile, and wonderful.

  And with what I now know about the “random” songs of the week, well, I’m touched with his selection.

  By Monday night, we’re both experiencing football withdrawal. Since neither of us have any eligible players in this game, we watch at Amelia’s house with Wade and the girls. For the first time all season, I follow a game without scrambling to my phone to keep track of receptions or yards. Yet, as the game clock runs out my fingers itch from wanting to read this week’s stats.

  I figure it is close enough to the end of the game there can’t be any harm in me checking, right?

  With a quick glance to ensure Brook is occupied with the game, I open the app. No real surprise, I lost. I click on the full roster to find out how Blackwell performed compared to North. It’s salt on a wound, but . . . maybe it’s the closure I need. As expected, Blackwell choked against the top-rated defense in the league. Thanks to him, I earned a whopping twelve points. I’m behind by eleven. Todd regularly gives me more than thirty points a game. If he did this week, well, it would’ve been closer. I maybe would have won.

  Would it do me any good to find out at this point?

  My fingers say yes, and I scroll down to the bench.

  Todd Northwood – Points Scored: 8

  What? That’s impossible. North hasn’t played that poorly . . . ever. I refresh the list, but the number stays the same. Frowning, I pull up his game stats for more details.

  In a blowout shocker, Northwood set a new personal record—in a bad way. North threw three interceptions and passed only one touchdown before sustaining an injury at the top of the second quarter. Though coaches are awaiting an official MRI before making any announcements, preliminary reports indicate it may be a fractured collarbone.

  If this is the case, playoff contending fantasy football owners should be worried. A quarterback with a fracture is unlikely to play any time soon—even in the post-season. Not that his team stands a chance of making it without him. Consider his season—and any bid for a championship—over.

  “It wouldn’t have mattered,” I whisper.

  “What’s that?” Brook tears his gaze away from the TV.

  Sheepishly, I hand him my phone. “I know we promised we wouldn’t check anything, and I didn’t. Until now.”

  Brook takes my phone. “What did you find out?”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d played North,” I say. “He threw a few interceptions, before he was knocked out of the game with an injury. He’s probably out for the season. I would’ve done even worse if I’d played him as planned.”

  “That’s a relief.” Brook returns the phone and lifts my hand to his lips. “I’m glad you don’t have to wonder if you made the wrong choice.”

  “Listen to me.” I stroke his cheek. “I wouldn’t have regretted my decision even if North would’ve scored sixty points. We’re in this together. This is where I want to be.”

  “You’re happy slumming it in the trenches with me?”

  “Absolutely. No question.” I kiss him lightly and curl up next to him, leaning my head on his chest.

  Wade shakes his head. “It sure didn’t take you guys too long to make the crossover.”

  “What crossover?” I ask.

  “From under wraps romance to one of those lovey-dovey couples that grosses out everyone who sees them.”

  “Pot meet the kettle,” Brook murmurs against my hair.

  “Did you want something?” I ask Wade, who is still watching us nervously.

  “Before J.J. calls to gloat, I figured I should tell you the game is over. And . . .” Wade coughs into his sleeve. “And you were both eliminated.”

  “We know,” Brook says. “We don’t need to rehash it. We’re not upset.”

  “Brook, you would’ve won if J.J. hadn’t made you bench Baker,” Wade says.

  “It’s okay.”

  “We—wait . . .” I crane my neck to look up at Brook. “You know? About your team?”

  He nods.

  “And you would’ve won?” He nods again, and my heart sinks. Though he’s given no indication, he must be disappointed.

  “When did you find out?”

  “I had an inkling this morning. I didn’t look,” he assures me. “The other coaches were talking about Baker’s game. Apparently he had a big one.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Wade said. “Chad Baker set a team record for most passing yards and touchdowns scored in a single game.”

  “You’ve known all day, and you didn’t say anything?” I ask.

  Brook shrugs. “Why complain about something I can’t change?”

  “But you should be pissed.” I frown. “Even a little.”

  “Why?” Brook plants a kiss on my forehead. “Any guy can win a fantasy football tournament, but how often does he find the woman of his dreams?”

  PLAYOFFS WEEK TWO RECAP: Queen Harper Sustains Heartbreaking Playoffs Loss

  Well that sucked. After a storybook Cinderella season, Queen Harper’s fight to finish on top has come to an abrupt end.

  For some reason—maybe some of the misguided intuition she had in the first part of the season—Queen Harper veered off her usual path. She started rookie quarterback Andre Blackwell in favor of veteran Todd Northwood. Ultimately it didn’t make a difference. North went out of the game early on with an injury and never returned.

  Unfortunately, early reports he’d fractured his collar bone turned out to be true. He’s listed as questionable, but it’s doubtful he’ll play the rest of the season, let alone when Queen Harper faces Brook’s Bros in the consolation round.

  This turn of events has to be disappointing for the comeback kid. You might not have been able to tell from our tone all season, but we were pulling for you. Better luck next year.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THE NEXT MORNING, J.J. strolls into my office before I have a chance to remove my coat. He’s undoubtedly here to gloat about his spot in the championship game. That can be the only reason he’s here before eight.

  Taking the empty guest seat before I offer it, J.J. leans back and folds his arms behind his head. When I still haven’t greeted him, he kicks his feet onto my desk. Not wanting to take his bait and give him my animosity or annoyance, I pretend I’m checking my empty inbox.

  “Can I help you?” I ask.

  His lip curves up in a smirk. “No, I figured I’d come in for a chat. Find out what’s new.”

  I shrug. “Not much since yesterday.”

  “What did you do last night?”

  “Brook and I watched the game at Amelia’s. He actually cooked for us. Have you had his mushroom marinara?” I pull the files out from under J.J.’s feet and make a production of dusting imaginary scuff marks from the folders. “Of course the omelets and French toast he makes for breakfast are even better.”

  Maybe that last part was unnecessary, but I couldn’t help myself. Watching the smug grin slip away from his face was worth it. “Breakfast?”

  “Yep. That’s what we had on Saturday morning. We went out for breakfast on Sunday with his sister and the girls.” I stick labels on each of the folders, stealing only a brief glance at J.J. to assure myself he’s fuming. “The MacLaughlins are such nice people. Brook and Amelia invited me to spend Christmas Eve with them when their parents are in town. It works out perfectly because then Brook and I can hang out with my family on Christmas. And then for New Year’s—”

  “You aren’t mad about your team losing yesterday?” he asks.

  “No. They would’ve lost even if North had been playing. The poor guy hurt his collarbone.”

  “That’s makes som
e kind of sense.” J.J. chews on his lip. “I bet Brook is pissed.”

  “I mean, he’s a little disappointed. No one likes losing, but he says I’m worth it.”

  “You realize you didn’t have to bench North, right?” J.J. sets his feet back on the ground and crosses his arms. “As league commissioner, I didn’t find that you had acted inappropriately. Brook was the one who initiated the trade. You only got a kicker out of the deal. I wouldn’t have pushed the issue.”

  A kicker who has shown his worth more times than not. “As we already established, it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d started North. But, yeah. I did have to. When you’re in a relationship you go through tough times along with the good. And since you’d decided to make Brook’s bad . . . my choice was pretty clear.”

  “Does that mean you’ll throw your games next year if Brook’s team sucks?”

  I roll my eyes because whatever. “For one, that isn’t going to happen. Brook is the best manager in the league, and you know it.”

  “He gets lucky.”

  “For another, no. I won’t throw games for him. We’re both grown-ups who can handle winning or losing.”

  J.J. opens his mouth, probably to make some other smart-assed remark, but I cut him off. If he says something rude about Brook, I might not be able to control myself this time. “Here’s the deal, J.J. You’re going to win this game, which means you’re probably going to win the league championship this year. Congratulations. Seriously. You’ve wanted this for long time, and I’m happy for you.”

  I set the files aside and fold my hands on the desk. “But while you’re busy counting your prize money and planning the many ways you’ll try to reign supreme next year, consider this: I’m walking out of this experience with at least the money I put in. I have a job and co-workers I enjoy well enough—present company included, when he isn’t being a jerk. I have another business venture in the works. I have brothers and parents who love and support me. A new set of friends.”