Shaking my head, my eyes fill up again. “I just figured J.J. or Booker Swift must have said something.”
“I haven’t spoken to them,” he says. Then he starts to say something else, but freezes, his eyebrow flies up. “Wait. Did you say J.J. and Booker know?”
I nod slowly. “They were both here when I lost my lunch.”
Brook winces. “I should’ve been here to help.”
“But you’re here now.”
Grabbing my hand in both of his now, Brook gives it a gentle squeeze and before holding it against his chest. I can feel the steady beat of his heart.
“I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
A tear slips down my cheek now, and a giggle bubbles out. “A team headed to a bowl game. A growing family. Not to mention I’m sure you’ve noticed that big box waiting for you under the Christmas tree.”
“That’s only part of it,” he says, his voice shaking a little. “Everything good in my life I have because of you. Our kids. A home. The job. I wouldn’t have any of it if you hadn’t walked into my kitchen with a pan of treats a few years ago. So I’ll say it again: I’m the luckiest guy in the world. And I love you. More today than yesterday.”
With that, the dam breaks. A flood of tears rush down my cheeks as I lean forward to throw my arms around Brook’s shoulders. I wish I had the right words to give him in return. All I can manage is “I love you, too.”
And it’s enough. With our boys eating dinner, and our arms around each other, I know Santa was right. Love is the most wonderful, magical force in the world. Brook and I are both lucky we have so much of it.
Epilogue: #Blessed
The following evening, Brook and I are curled up on the sofa at home. Though Wade and Amelia invited us over to watch the game, we’re taking advantage of Brook’s only night off before we depart for warmer weather—and a bowl game.
Booker spoke to the team this morning, and they’re more fired up than ever. It doesn’t hurt that he had “The Abs” and former quarterback J.J. Sanchez there to help with the pep talk. I’d snuck the boys in to watch and not even the overwhelming stench of dozens of sweaty young men—and the accompanying nausea—kept me from loving every second of the chants and cheers.
Heck, by the time it was over, I was halfway ready to storm the field and win a championship. I’ll have to settle for a fantasy victory instead.
Our whole little family took Booker to the airport. And as he thanked me for helping him pick out a ring—though I think he gave me a little too much credit—I couldn’t resist telling him how much it would mean if he could put up some big numbers in passing and maybe even run in a touchdown or two himself.
While Brook had covered his brow in shame, Booker had merely grinned and said, “I’ll see what I can do.” Then he’d promised to text an update on how his proposal went.
Since it’s Christmas Eve Eve, the fireplace is roaring. We have mugs of hot cocoa. I suspect Brook added a little something extra to his own, because he seemed to be overcompensating for something based on how many marshmallows he put in my mug. (I won’t be jealous or blame him. The guy could use some unwinding.) The game is on with the sound muted. The boys are nestled all snug in their beds while visions of Christmas with palm trees dance in their heads.
And for this little chunk of time, with family under one roof and Brook’s arm around my shoulder, everything feels right. I know that no matter what happens—whether I win or lose tonight—everything will be fine.
I even have reason to hope everything will be better than fine. Right now Booker and his team are lined up in the red zone. If he passes the ball to a receiver and they score a touchdown—or he takes my advice and runs it in—I’ll have enough points to eek out a victory.
The game clock counts down and the center snaps just before it hits zero. Booker steps to the side and fakes a handoff to the running back. My breath catches in my throat as the defense falls for it. They surround the running back. The offensive line holds. And as my heart races, Booker Swift finds a hole and races into the end zone.
My breath hitches, and I cover my mouth to silence the scream. Brook’s hand tightens around my shoulder.
“You did it, babe,” he whisper yells. “You freaking won the championship.”
All I can do is nod, fingers still laced over my lips, my eyes wide. My racing heart pounds in my ears as my eyes fill with unshed tears. My phone buzzes—surely with words of congratulation from J.J. and my brothers and a concession from Wade. I’m powerless to move or to tear my eyes from the screen.
The camera zooms in on Booker, who is being hoisted in the air by a few of his fellow players. He catches the camera and points at it. I can’t be sure, but I’m almost positive he yells “That one’s for you, Harper.”
Brook tightens next to me. “Did he just give you a shoutout on national TV?”
My lips curve into a grin under my fingers, but I give a nonchalant shrug. I’ll gloat later. But right now all I can think about is how much my life has changed in the past five years. From a lonely woman living in her brothers’ basement while she got over a jerk boyfriend to a friend and businesswoman to a woman with so much to be happy about, she might burst.
I’ve gone from being a sleeper to a keeper. Strange as it is to say it, I owe it all to fantasy football, with an assist from Santa.
It’s going to be a very merry Christmas. And the new year isn’t looking so bad either.
By Laura Chapman
First & Goal
Going for Two
Three & Out
Fourth & Inches
The Marrying Type
Smyth Saves the Date
Playing House
Counting on You
Let It Be Me
Making Christmas
What Happens at Midnight
Who Needs Mistletoe?
About the Author
Laura Chapman is the award-winning and Amazon bestselling author of contemporary romantic comedies. When she isn’t penning her next story, you might find her listening to a true crime podcast, experimenting with recipes in her kitchen, and hanging out with her cats, Jane and Bingley.
Connect with Laura on Facebook, Twitter,and Instagram. You can also join her Reader Group.
Subscribe to her newsletter for new release updates, recipes, and other free content. You can also drop her a line at PO Box 22401, Lincoln, NE 68542.
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