Fourth & Inches
A Queen of the League Short
By Laura Chapman
Table of Contents
Title Page
Fourth & Inches (Queen of the League, #3.5)
Chapter 1: Change in the Game Plan
Chapter 2: Scrimmage
Chapter 3: The D-Line
Chapter 4: Game Time
Chapter 5: Off Sides
Epilogue: #Blessed
Three years after Harper Duquaine MacLaughlin retired from fantasy football, she’s back in the league. And with Christmas just days away—and her team in the championship game for the first time in years—she has plenty of reasons to be happy.
Only life is never that simple. With her football coach hubby tied up in preparations for a bowl game, two kiddos who keep her on her toes, and a couple of unexpected holiday arrivals, Harper’s mind is anywhere but on her fantasy championship.
Spend one day with fan favorite Harper as she navigates a hectic holiday season and a football dynasty in this short story/ bonus epilogue to the Queen of the League series.
Chapter 1: Change in the Game Plan
Buzz. My phone rings while I’m washing my hands in the bathroom. With two boys under the age of four, it’s the only place in the house I can steal a moment of privacy. I had to wait until both of them were miraculously down for a nap at the same time before I could even tackle this little chore.
Reaching for the phone, I grin when I see my husband Brook’s name on the display. I’ve barely uttered a greeting when he says it:
“Babe, I hate to ask . . .”
My good mood plummets.
I haven’t done an actual scientific study on this, but I can say with near certainty, there is no other phrase in the English language that can set my teeth grinding faster than that. If my driver’s license didn’t say “Harper MacLaughlin” on it, I might think my name was actually “Babe, I hate to ask,” because I hear it out of Brook’s mouth so often these days.
It’s football season again, which means he’s working twenty-five hour days, eight days a week. And our marriage is on hold until after the bowl season. (Yep, congrats to the team. They’re bowl eligible for the first time in a few years. Everyone is losing their freaking minds about it.) It’s been all football all the time since August. Proud as I am of the team for making it to the postseason, now that the long days and late nights have stretched into December, football has officially overstayed its welcome.
The worst part: I knew what I was signing up for when I married Brook. He was offered a position coaching a college team right after he proposed, and we couldn’t get to the altar fast enough. I can’t even pretend that I’ve been duped.
More, I can’t threaten to divorce him because I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant. Again. You would think after having two babies back to back, we’d get a little smarter with our birth control. But after his team scored an unexpected victory against a top ten opponent—not to mention a sixth consecutive win for my nearly undefeated fantasy football team in its first year back in competition—and we’d been a little generous with the wine. And a little forgetful with the protection.
Okay, quick time out. I should make a couple of things clear.
First, I have zero plans to leave my husband. Brook MacLaughlin—and his progeny—do drive me up the wall. But there are no three humans I love more in this world. And I know I am everything to them. This crazy, busy life of ours is more than I ever dreamed for myself. I have my own business doing what I love, and it gives me the flexibility I want to be with my family.
Seriously, I’m beyond lucky.
Second, if I am in fact pregnant—and I’m just waiting for those two pink lines to confirm it, because the last time the smell of eggs made me want to puke, I was definitely pregnant—our baby will be wanted and loved.
I give a little sniffle, and clear my throat against the lump that’s suddenly lodged there, just thinking about meeting our little boy or girl. And how much they’ll be adored by their brothers.
We always wanted this. I loved having big brothers. And Brook is crazy about his sister. We always said we wanted to have a little football team of our own. I just didn’t think we’d get to it so fast—or take that phrase so literally. Three kids in four years is a lot! If we aren’t careful, we really will have enough people in our family to make up a team.
Maybe this one will be a girl. Even though I kind of think it’s my destiny to be a wrangler of boys, it would be fun to see what a daughter is like. I can teach her how to draft a fantasy football team and make ridiculous trade proposals that tick off her Uncle J.J.
Then I can teach all the kids how to crochet, which would help Amelia—my business partner/sister-in-law—and I build up our inventory of hats and scarves. Okay, I’m joking about putting them to work, but it’d be carrying on the family tradition another generation. And—
“Babe,” Brook calls out, interrupting my thoughts. “You okay.”
“Yeah, I . . .”
I’m tempted to flip over the pregnancy test so I can find out if we’re going to be a family of five. But if it says what I think it’s going to say, there’s no way I’ll be able to keep my chill. I don’t want to give Brook this kind of news when he’s in the middle of asking me for a favor.
Grabbing a hand towel, I toss it over the test and turn my back so I won’t be tempted.
“I zoned out,” I finish, lamely.
He gives a sympathetic sound. “Kids giving you a hard time today?”
Remembering the bout of morning sickness I most definitely had today, I can’t help but look back at the still-covered test. “Something like that.”
“I know it’s been crazy lately, but I’ll make it up to you after the bowl game.”
Then we’ll have exactly one month before he has to hit the recruiting circuit hard. I’m not going to throw that in his face. He’s under a lot of stress, and it’s practically Christmas. Which reminds me.
“You’re still going to be able to make it to see Santa tonight, right?”
The phone falls silent for just long enough.
“Brook!” My eyes well up with tears, which I’m going to blame on hormones rather than actual anger. “This is the third time we’ve rescheduled. Christmas is just a couple of days away and we promised the boys.”
Of course only Clay is the only one old enough to care. But we wanted to get a photo with the whole family. The kids will only be this age once.
“I know, I know.” He gives a heavy sigh. “I’ll be there, but I’m going to have to meet you.”
“At six?”
“Could we make it seven?”
Which would put us a little too close to bedtime for comfort. But if it means having him there . . .
“Seven works.”
I’ll just take Clay and Tate early so we can get a good spot in line. I’d already planned on doing that in the first place, because there’s zero chance the mall won’t be a hot mess this close to Christmas. And—heaven forbid—if things get out of hand, I can always call in for some reinforcements while we wait. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but whatever.
Maybe after the photos, and after we put the kids to bed, we can get the fireplace going. We can curl up with our orange tabby Blitz—who may be the world’s most patient cat and big brother—and the Christmas tree lights on and some music playing in the background. Brook can put is iPad away for half an hour. Then, I can tell him we’ll need another stocking next Christmas—
“Babe?”
“Hmm?” Then I remember. He called for a reason.
Yeah. I’m totally pregnant. I’ve always been easily distracted, but it’s even worse when I’m pregnant. Maybe I should try pregnancy yoga again. I did it
when I was carrying Clay, but I was too tired with Tate. But I felt a lot better and like I could keep a thought in my head for more than a second. I should call Amelia and see if she—
Brook clears his throat. Right. “So I hate to ask.”
I try not to sigh, but a little one comes out. “What’s going on?”
“You know how the team is pretty nervous about the bowl game?”
“Right.”
Of course they are. After going several years without being bowl eligible, everyone feels the pressure. The players. The coaches. The fans. It doesn’t help that it’s all over the national news.
“And some of the guys are feeling a little homesick with it being Christmas.”
“Right,” I say again, toying with the hand towel, itching to flip it over.
“Well, someone had the idea that we should bring in someone to pump up the players. Give them a motivating talk.”
“With you.”
“And Booker Swift said he could come in for the day.”
My hand freezes. “Did you say Booker Swift?”
“I did.”
“Like, the three-time first team All-American, a finalist for the Heisman, and the league’s Rookie of the Year?”
“The very same.”
“You mean—”
“Don’t do it.”
“Bbbboooooooooooooooookkkkk.”
Brook sights. “Yeah. That’s him.”
When he played for the university a few years back, that’s what fans would call out every time he made a great play. I’ve always assumed Brook—who is usually so even-keeled—gets a little embarrassed when he hears that, because when he was a wide receiver in college, people shouted “Bbrrrrooooookkk” at him.
Besides being a decorated alumnus from the university—and a sure motivator for the team—Booker Swift has another claim to fame. He’s the stud quarterback that has lead my fantasy football team all the way to the league championship. Which reminds me . . .
“Shouldn’t he be practicing for his game?”
His team plays on Christmas Eve. And I’ll need him to put up some pretty big numbers if I’m going to beat Wade to win the fantasy football championship. It’s my first year back with the MegaBallerz after a three-year hiatus. It would make my Christmas to hoist that trophy in the air.
“He’s flying in this afternoon after practice and leaving after giving our guys a talk in the morning,” Brook says. “It’s a surprise, so we’d like to keep it under wraps if possible. And everyone here is tied up with meetings and logistics . . .”
Wait, is he asking what I think he’s asking?
“You want me to pick up Booker Swift from the airport?”
“If it’s not too big of a deal,” Brook rushes out. “I know it’ll make your afternoon a little crazier, but I hate to make the guy take a cab or Lyft when he’s coming in as a favor.”
“I’ll do it.”
I maybe say that a little too eagerly, because Brook sounds nervous when he asks, “Are you sure? I could call someone else. J.J. would get a kick out of it—”
“I’ll be cool. I promise.” I give a huff a little huff. Doesn’t he remember that I sat next to Todd Northwood for a whole plane ride years ago? I not only kept it together, but the guy helped put Amelia and I’s crocheting business on the map.
“I’ll send you the flight details,” Brook says. “We really appreciate it.”
“Yep.” I wonder what I should wear. Do I have time to vacuum the car?
“And I’ll see you and the boys at the mall.”
“We’ll be the ones standing in line to see the big guy in a red suit.”
And, suddenly, I’m feeling pretty good for someone who hasn’t been able to keep much food down this week and has to get two toddlers camera ready for Santa in a couple of hours.
I’m halfway down the hallway when I remember why I was in the bathroom to begin with. I double back, toss aside the hand towel, and pick up the test. A grin already playing on my lips, I flip it over.
Chapter 2: Scrimmage
Oh my God, he’s beautiful.
I’m about ninety percent sure I didn’t just say that out loud. If I had, I’m sure no one would blame me. And I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first person to say it to his face. The truth is, Booker Swift is maybe the most stunning human I’ve ever seen.
And right now, this broad shouldered, big armed, quick-smiled man with the most piercing pale blue eyes has just settled into the passenger seat of my car. A seat which is currently being kicked by an overly rambunctious toddler.
“Sorry for the wild kids,” I say through gritted teeth. “I had to get them up early from their naps and, well, they’re a little wild now.”
There’s no sense in telling him this is par for the course as far as Tate and Clay are concerned. He’ll never see us again after this drive from the airport to his hotel room. He might as well think my kids are little angels every other day of the year.
“It’s not a problem. I’m the second of five, and my older sister has three kids.” Booker Swift flashes a megawatt smile, and for a moment I can’t draw a proper thought in my head.
But I can come up with at least eight or nine improper thoughts. I feel my cheeks flush and distract myself by putting my SUV in drive and pulling away from the curb. And nearly straight into an oncoming sport car going way faster than the posted ten miles per hour speed limit.
“Shit.” I slam on my breaks and wince as I hear Clay pause in his kicking long enough to repeat the profanity.
Gripping the steering wheel even tighter, I let out a breath and give Booker another glance. “Sorry,” I say for the second time in under a minute.”
“Don’t worry about it. That guy came out of nowhere.”
I look away before he gives me another one of those toothpaste commercial smiles and take a few deep breaths to calm my racing heart. Okay, I need to set a few ground rules for myself if I’m going to survive the next twenty or so minutes.
First, difficult as it may be, but I have to stop staring at this man. Yes, he really is the most beautiful human I’ve ever seen in the flesh, but he’s not a piece of meat. He’s owed my respect and kindness for the duration of our time together.
Second, I need to say nothing about my fantasy football team. Not that I’m playing in the championship game tomorrow. Not that I’ve had one of the hottest winning streaks in the league history. And I absolutely can’t say that he’s my quarterback and I owe it all to him and that strong, firm arm of his.
Third, under absolutely no circumstances can I be involved in a motor vehicle infraction of any kind. No car accidents. No speeding tickets. No failures to yield. If I do, my name and face will almost certainly be in every local newspaper—not to mention at least a dozen sports related websites—as the woman who put Booker Swift’s life—and arm—in danger.
That last one does nothing to ease my nerves, but it’s the most important of all the rules to keep in mind.
For one, not only am I chauffeuring one of the best quarterbacks in modern professional football history, but I also have my kids with me. Clay, Tate, and the one on the way. (Yep, I’m pregnant. The egg-induced morning sickness, sore boobs, and pregnancy test have confirmed it.) As far as precious cargo goes, I’m pretty much maxed out.
Two, I’m fairly certain the university’s athletic program would frown upon any headlines involving illustrious alumni and one of their coach’s wives. Not only would I spoil the surprise of having Booker Swift here to pep up the team, but it wouldn’t be a good look for the team. I can’t let a momentary lapse in judgment leave me permanently in the dog house.
And three, I’m almost positive I won’t get to choose the photo the press uses of me in their stories. I’ve watched enough true crime shows to know they’ll somehow get their hands on the photo of me doing tequila shots on a beach in South Padre during Spring Break my senior year of college. And that is not a picture I want my children to see when they one day inevitably d
o a Google search of their mother.
This time, as I pull away from the curb, I check my rearview mirror and blind spots three times. As I keep my eyes focused on the short road that curves away from the Lincoln airport and toward the highway, I’m vaguely aware of the conversation Booker Swift is now having with my three-year-old. It’s pretty limited. Though Clay was an early talker—unlike his little brother who seems to be waiting until he’s mastered the English language before saying much—his vocabulary and ability to have a conversation about anything other than his favorite foods and toys don’t lend themselves to anything robust.
Luckily, these two have football—and a love of burritos—in common. When Booker mentions the name of a local drive-thru restaurant famous for serving up burritos twenty hours a day, I find myself responding before the thought even fully develops in my head.
“We could stop and grab you one if you like.”
Booker perks up that. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course not.”
Though, not that I’ve offered, I realize none of the locations are remotely close to the hotel. But, if Booker isn’t overeager to get to his hotel room—and we still have plenty of time before we’re due to meet Brook at the mall—there’s no reason we can’t make this detour.
I change directions and Booker and Clay have also moved on to talk about Christmas.
“Have you been a good boy this year?” Booker asks.
“Yeah!” Clay replies. “Good boy.”
“So you’re sure Santa will be visiting you this year.”
“Yep.”
“And what did you ask Santa to bring you?”
“We go see Santa soon!”
I can feel Booker’s eyes on me, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t make my hear flutter a bit. “Are you going to see Santa?”
“We’re meeting Brook at the mall for photos with Santa. Tonight. Things have been pretty crazy the past few weeks so we’ve procrastinated our visit to Santa.”
He nods in understanding. “There’s a lot of pressure on the team right now.”
Fourth & Inches Page 1
