I leave Blitz contentedly chewing his treats to fire up my laptop in the bedroom. With one day to go until our fantasy draft, I have a lot of prep work to do.
Last year I joined the league a few hours before the draft. My education had been a crash course from Wade on how to use the computer program and a few tips from my brother. I didn’t care at the time. I wasn’t in the league to win. I only joined in a desperate attempt to make my new co-workers at the car dealership like me. By the end of the season, my interest in the game—and Brook—had been piqued. I’d been willing to fight hard for a victory with both.
Winning Brook’s heart had been easier than winning the league championship. Even after a major late-season rally, I finished in fourth place.
Not this year. I’ve spent the off-season studying the game and planning. And I’m determined to go all the way. Even if that means humiliating the man I love when we go head-to-head against each other. The worthy, but humble, opponent he is, I’m sure Brook will ultimately forgive me when I hoist the figurative league trophy over my head.
Unlike last year, I have a legitimate game plan. It’s called, “Study Up On All of the Top Players and Draft Them.” Subtitle: “Within Reason.” I still don’t feel right about having bad boys or total douches on my team, but I’ve made my peace. You have to make tough decisions like that when you’re in charge.
I plan to stock up on top-tier wide receivers and tight ends. In our league, we get points for each catch, which means I need players with good hands. Hands not unlike my ex-wide receiver boyfriend, only I put his hands to a much different, but equally important, use.
The other part, which is slightly more controversial, is my intent to plan one bad week. Theoretically, during one week—in my plans it’s week eight—I’ll have several of my top players out on bye weeks. That means I’ll likely lose, which should suck. I’ll have a total juggernaut team every other week of the season, so it won’t matter if I take a knee once.
In preparation for implementation, I’ve done a few mock drafts online. Okay, I’ve done ten, but I really want to get all of the jitters out of me before the real thing. While it’s been interesting to watch some of the trends going in these fake draft rooms—it seems like we’re in another year of the overrated running back—I’m not going to let that influence the way I pick my team. I have a wish list, and I don’t plan to stray far from it.
We’re a ten-person league this year, so I’ve done a mock draft from each spot in a ten-person league. I have a good idea of who will and won’t make it on my team no matter when I draft. It’s comforting to feel this in control of my destiny.
I’m lost in an article about one of my top wide receiver prospects when the front door swings open. Blitz’s feet patter out of the kitchen along with his whining chirps. Brook’s deep voice responds. A few seconds later, a kitchen cupboard opens followed by the telltale sound of more treats being poured on the floor. Blitz is making out like a bandit tonight. We should coordinate our guilt better. Otherwise we’ll wake up to a puddle of cat vomit every Saturday morning.
I snap the laptop shut and spring out of bed as Brook ducks his head into the bedroom. “Hey, you’re still up.”
“Of course. I wanted to congratulate you properly.” I wrap my arms around his waist and lean my head on his shoulder. He folds me into a hug and rests his chin on my head. “Great game tonight, Coach.”
“Thanks. We hadn’t planned on it being such a nail-biter, but . . .” He shrugs and squeezes me tighter.
“A win is a win. And your boys had an exciting one.”
“I’m not sure that’s the message we’ll give at the team meeting.”
“No, you wouldn’t want to build up their egos too much this early in the season.” I lower my voice to imitate the head coach. “‘Huddle up, men. You showed some hustle there in the end, and that’s good. But we need to go out there and play a full four quarters each week. We need to get back to the basics. Now line up for sprints.’”
Brook chuckles softly. “Better not let anyone else hear you say that.”
“Why?” I pull back to gaze up at him. “Worried I’ll get you in trouble?”
“No. I’m worried you’ll steal my job.”
His head dips, and his lips gently take mine. My hands slide up his back, and I lean up on my toes, pulling him closer. My head spins as every ounce of my being is consumed by him.
My knees are shaking when he tears his lips away. “Coach Paxton wants to meet with me before the others get there tomorrow. I need to grab a shower before bed.”
“Okay,” I whisper shakily, determined not to let my disappointment show.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Want to save some water and join me?”
I nod, and he pulls me toward the bathroom before my cheeks completely flush red. Why should I be embarrassed? It’s our civic responsibility to conserve water. And having a little shower time with Brook isn’t a bad way to save the world.
Chapter Two
AS PLANNED, I SPENT Saturday morning lounging on the couch with Blitz watching pre-game coverage on TV. Brook wasn’t home from his meetings in time for the Nebraska game’s 11:05 kick-off. I tried playing it cool, but by halftime I couldn’t resist prodding.
Me: Are you okay?
Brook: Sorry. Meeting is running long. Start lunch without me.
He didn’t make it home for lunch, or to see Nebraska pull out a big win in the end. He also wasn’t around to help me prepare for our draft party.
I’m setting out the last of the food as the first guest knocks on the door. I give the counter another once over and decide it’s fine for a bunch of dudes who won’t care that I crinkle cut the carrots on the veggie platter.
Wade arrives carrying his laptop, a six-pack of beer, and a power strip. Oh. Good thinking on his part. I hadn’t considered how many people we’d have wanting to hook up their computers. I hope our wireless can support the additional activity. Brook said something about having it boosted, and I assume he took care of it.
He peeks around me. “Am I the first one?”
“Yep.” I swing the door open farther and step aside to give him room.
“Good.” He drops his laptop bag on the floor, narrowly missing Blitz’s tail. Wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, he nervously waits for me to close the door. “I need your help.”
“Okay.” I motion for him to sit at the bar while I put his beers in the fridge. I pop off the top on one of the beers and hand it back to him. “What’s going on?”
“I . . .” With shaking hands, he takes the beer. The perspiration springs up on his forehead again.
Panic grips my heart. “Is something wrong? Did something happen to Amelia or one of the girls?”
Oh, God. Is Brook in some kind of trouble? Is that why he’s been MIA all day?
“No.” His brow wrinkles. “What makes you think that?”
“You’re a mess.”
“I am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
I hold up a hand. “Nope. We’re not doing this.” I glance at the clock on the microwave. “We only have a few more minutes before the rest of the Mega Ballerz have sobered up enough after the game to get here. Since you assure me nothing is wrong, you might as well get it out.”
“Someone’s getting a little harpy.”
“Come on!”
“Fine, fine.” Wade takes a deep gulp of his beer followed by an even deeper breath of air. “I’m going to ask Amelia to marry me. On the anniversary of our first date.”
“Oh my God!” My irritation immediately fades, and I let out a shriek like I’m the one who’s getting engaged. “That’s wonderful! Congratulations.”
“Yeah, well.” He runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat. “Here’s the deal. Amelia’s been dropping hints about this for a while. And not just hints, but fairly specific instructions.”
“Like what?”
“Like when and if she gets engaged, the
whole proposal better go off without a hitch and be something she can brag about to her friends now and her grandchildren years from now. And it needs to have romance and,” he sighs, “‘sparkle,’ not to mention a killer ring.”
“She wants fanfare, pizazz, panache.”
He eyes me warily. “Exactly. She wants it to be special.”
Of course she does. I’ve grown to love Amelia like a sister this past year, but as her friend and business partner, I’ve discovered that half-assed and mediocre don’t work for her. Especially not when it’s how she’s being treated. In this time, I’ve also come to look at Wade as more than a co-worker. He’s a true friend. And right now, based on the way he’s staring at me with a mixture of panic and hope in his eyes, he wants my help ensuring he doesn’t botch the spectacle Amelia expects.
“You’re certain you’re ready to sign on for a lifetime of Amelia?” I tease.
“Absolutely.”
“Then we have our work cut out for us.”
Relief covers his face. “You’ll help?”
“Yes.” Someone else knocks on the door. “But first we need to get through this draft. We can start Project: Perfect Proposal planning during lunch on Monday.”
“Thank you.” He reaches across the counter and grabs my hands. “I’m not sure how I’ll repay you, but I’ll figure out a way.”
I slip from his grasp and leave the kitchen to begin playing the part of hostess. “I’m sure you will,” I call over my shoulder.
With a whole fantasy football season ahead of us, I bet there will be ample opportunity for me to remind him that he owes me big time. No, I won’t go so far as to ask him to throw a game. I’m not J.J., our manipulative commissioner. I don’t plan to win with blackmail. But there may come a day when I send him a trade request that might be slightly stacked in my favor. I may also need to ask him for advice setting a lineup once or twice. He’ll owe me, so his answer will have to be honest and fair.
Trust me, creating a beautiful story to meet Amelia’s high expectations won’t be easy. I’ll earn every favor I ask of him.
DESPITE MY BEST ATTEMPTS at shaking off the pre-draft jitters, they’re in full effect with only fifteen minutes to go before the draft begins. I’m not even worried about the draft. I’m concerned that I haven’t heard from Brook. What if he has to pick his team on auto-draft? That wouldn’t be the most terrible thing for the first few rounds. He’s drafting eighth, which should get him a decent running back, and a good wide receiver in the first two rounds.
But after that, who knows what he’ll end up with? He might not get a quarterback or end up with three kickers or four defenses.
I could text him to find out what’s going on, but . . . no. I’ve already sent one check-in message today. I’m not going to play the role of desperate, annoying girlfriend. Not this early in the season.
J.J. doesn’t bother hiding his glee at the prospect of Brook ending up on auto-draft. Despite considering Brook one of his best friends, he’s obnoxiously competitive. About fantasy football and everything.
Until last season, Brook had finished in first or second place every year in the league’s history. But now that J.J. is the defending league champion, he’s determined to finish on top.
J.J. corners me in the kitchen after he finishes his self-guided tour of our apartment. “So this is it.”
“Yep.” I don’t bother to tear my eyes away from the spinach and artichoke dip in the crock pot.
“It’s not very big.”
“It works for us.”
“Right.” Leaning a hip against the counter, J.J. spoons some of the dip onto his plate. “I’m still surprised you guys got a place together, because, well . . .”
I wish I was strong enough not to take the bait, but I have to ask. “Why?”
“Mr. Perfect never really struck me as the living in sin type. I always assumed he was saving himself for marriage. You on the other hand . . .” J.J. takes a bite of the dip and wrinkles his nose, then takes another bite. “It seems a little hypocritical for a Bible-thumper like him to be shacking up with his girlfriend. But Brook is a changed man since he started penetrating your line on a regular basis.”
Dozens of thoughts flood my head, each wanting to be said. But if I say, ‘Brook isn’t a Bible-thumper,’ it sounds like I’m saying it’s bad he goes to church with his family every week. And then there is J.J.’s obsession with our sex life. He constantly finds new euphemisms disguised as sports metaphors to shock me. He once asked if Brook has ever eaten up my secondary. I’m not even entirely sure what that means, but I don’t want to know.
Through my teeth, I hiss, “You’re amazing.”
“Oh yeah?” He leans forward, invading my personal bubble to the point it could nearly pop. “Tell me more.”
“After last year, I was fairly certain there wasn’t a way you or any person could be a bigger dick. You keep proving me wrong.” I slam the crock pot lid. “Enjoy the freaking dip.”
I leave him gaping—a chip frozen midway to his mouth—and head toward the bedroom. I should’ve known better than to talk with him this close to the draft. I shouldn’t have let him get me riled up, but seriously. How can he say Brook is one of his best friends when he’s always slamming him?
And what’s wrong with me for continuing to hang out with him? And what about Brook? Are we secretly drama addicts? That can be the only explanation.
I pretend not to hear Gio call my name and close the bedroom door behind me. Leaning my back against it, I close my eyes and take a shaky gulp of breath. It’s going to be okay. In a few minutes, everything will be okay. Through the closed door, I can barely detect J.J.’s voice, loudly telling an unknown person that, “Maybe Harper and Brook could get a bigger place if he wasn’t so committed to teaching the next generation of losers how to achieve mediocrity.”
My teeth grind. Maybe I need to give myself a few more seconds alone to compose myself. I’m in very real danger of snapping at the next person to even breathe within an arm’s length of me. And yelling at one of my friends to the point of making them cry wouldn’t be nice. Especially because they aren’t the person I want to verbally punch. It isn’t their fault J.J. is an idiot.
Someone taps on the door softly. Isn’t it obvious I want to be alone?
“Harper?” Scott calls out gently. “The draft starts in five minutes. Do you want to come out and set your wish list?”
At the moment? Not particularly. But I doubt my need to have a childish meltdown would be a good enough reason for J.J. to delay the start time. Especially when Brook’s totally legit absence of being at work isn’t valid in his eyes.
Have I mentioned how much I detest J.J. sometimes?
“Harper?” Scott repeats. “Come on. You have the first overall pick. Don’t let J.J. ruin this for you.”
He makes an excellent point. With this draft placement, I’ll have the first and last pick. That means the number one projected point earner of the season—star running back Duke Smith—is all mine. I’ll be damned if anyone else snaps him up because I was too distracted by J.J.’s attempts to psych me out.
I swing open the door and step out into the living room, plastering a smile on my face. “Sorry. I . . . was toying with the idea of changing my shirt.”
Scott raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
I stare down at the football T-shirt I’ve been wearing most of the day. “Yeah. I decided this one worked.”
“Right.” Scott slips an arm over my shoulder. “How about we make this season a Duquaine dynasty year? You, Christopher, and I finish in the top three and leave everyone else behind us.”
“An interesting idea.” I purse my lips, playing along. Of course, neither of us really plans to form any kind of coalition between the three Duquaine siblings in the league. We had to promise J.J. nothing like that would happen when I invited both of my brothers to join the league to replace the members from Houston who left to join a local league. “There is certainly some stre
ngth in numbers . . . But who gets the gold trophy?”
“Well . . . I am the oldest.”
“But I’m the smartest and the prettiest.”
He chuckles lightly. “I guess we find ourselves at odds.”
“I guess.” I nudge him in the ribs. “But maybe if you’re really nice to me, I won’t beat you too badly when we go up against each other in a few weeks.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
And so, thanks to my brother, I’m smiling when I take my seat at the row of card tables set up in the middle of the living room. It’s hard to stay blue for long when I have at least a few people in my corner, just as determined as I am to knock J.J. out of the top spot.
MY REDISCOVERED GOOD humor doesn’t last long. Even though I’ve managed to secure three of the five players in my wish list already, I’m having a hard time keeping my smile when Brook still isn’t here. The auto-draft robot has done an okay job, but if he doesn’t get here soon, he’s in real danger of drafting a kicker in the fifth round. I may only have one season of fantasy football experience, but even I understand how lame that would be. Where is he? Maybe I need to get over my reservations of being a clingy psycho girlfriend for the good of our joint franchise. Besides, if the gnawing discomfort in my gut is any indication, I’ll never be able to truly enjoy the brilliant fake football team I’m assembling as long as I’m worried about his whereabouts. No, not even scoring Duke, Matthew Prince, the Pope, and North—also known as running back John-Paul Massa and quarterback Todd Northwood, both rock star alumni from last year’s team and definitive powerhouses on their own—will make up for that anxiety.
Particularly not when my brothers and Wade keep sending nervous glances my way when they aren’t busy plotting their own fake empires. For his part, J.J. has managed to keep any snide comments to himself. I’d still like to smack the smirk off his face, but I’m holding strong.
Going for Two Page 2
