“Probably.”
“Then what is there to be upset about?” I shrug. “The new schedule makes more sense, actually. It must have been hard to start planning out your week before you even processed the game.”
He relaxes again. “Thanks for understanding.”
I shrug. “It’s no big deal.”
“Yes.” He plants another kiss on my forehead before throwing back the covers, much to Blitz’s dismay. “It’s huge to me.”
I wait for him to close the bathroom door and start the shower before I let out a sigh. Wow. Out of all of the possible bombshells for Brook to drop, this definitely wasn’t anything that crossed my mind. Coach Paxton has cancer. He’s a young, seemingly healthy guy. It’s so strange to think that he’s sick. I wonder what kind of cancer he has, not that it’s any of my business.
I can’t even imagine what his wife and kids are going through right now. His youngest kid only started kindergarten this year, and the oldest is on the JV squad at West. They must be terrified, confused, angry. My heart goes out to them. Though, obviously, I’m a horrible person. Instead of giving their feelings consideration right away, there I was thinking about what this meant to my boyfriend and how it would affect our lives. I’ll make it up to them. Starting now.
Pushing myself out of bed, I go to the kitchen to search for the recipe my mom uses to make homemade chicken and noodles and porcupine meatballs. Both of those dishes freeze well and were always popular with us kids. Since I made the decision to go pescetarian—that means I don’t eat meat except for fish, not some new religious fad—back in college, I haven’t cooked with chicken or beef in years, but I’m sure it will all come back to me. It’s still too early to call Mrs. Paxton, but I can at least make a grocery list while I wait. It seems like the right thing to do.
MRS. PAXTON—HER NAME is Anna, I learned—cried when I called to offer my support. When her first sob echoed through the phone, I worried I’d made the wrong decision in calling so soon after her husband’s diagnosis. But once her tears subsided, she thanked me profusely and jumped at my offer to bring over dinner tomorrow after work. I also agreed to watch their two elementary school-aged children next Saturday so she and her husband could have a few hours to themselves. Coach starts treatment next week, and they wanted to go on a date before he feels too poorly.
By the end of the call, I was close to tears myself. I hope I’m not overstepping. That Anna’s not accepting my offer just to be nice. All of this is new to me, and I don’t want to do something wrong to make their lives even more difficult than if I’d just minded my own business. But her plate is overflowing. Two kids, a sick husband, not to mention her own full-time job. I can’t even begin to understand what she’s feeling.
My mind is still preoccupied by the Paxton family when I arrive at Amelia’s house on Sunday afternoon for our biweekly business meeting.
It’s been about six months since we launched Team Stitches. We sell handcrafted baby blankets, hats, scarves, and other notions we’ve knitted or crocheted through our online market. Based on our success at last year’s Lincoln West craft fair, most of our products are done in the colors of college and professional football teams. The whole concept inspired our business plan and our name.
Business isn’t exactly booming yet, but we make enough of a profit to cover our expenses and still have a little extra cash. Which is fine; we both have full-time jobs to pay the bills. Amelia is a full-time registered nurse, and I’m still the office manager at the car dealership. With football season underway, we’re expecting business to pick up. Fortunately, we took advantage of the slower summer months to stockpile our best-sellers.
And now that the professional football season is officially about to begin, my productivity will undoubtedly increase, too. I tend to get nervous watching games—especially when fantasy points are on the line. I like to keep my hands busy, which means I basically turn into a scarf-making assembly line. At least now my obsessive-compulsive tendencies are about a profitable venture.
Amelia drags an oversized plastic tub out of her closet. She shakes off my offer to help, even though she’s about to topple over from the force it’s taking her to pull it a few feet.
“You’re going to love this,” she calls out, nearly tripping over her own feet. I hold my breath, but she doesn’t fall over. “This is going to be a big seller for us this season—especially with local customers.”
“What local customers?”
“The ones at the craft fair.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You want to have another booth at the craft fair?”
“Sure. We were a hit last year.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Now open the tub.”
I cautiously reach for the lid, not knowing what I might find. Given that it’s Amelia, it could legitimately be something for our business, or it could be a semi-elaborate practical joke intended to scare me. It could really go either way.
Oh man, I really hope the tub isn’t full of rubber snakes. Real or not, I’ll scream. Not in a cute or adorable way, but in a we’re-all-going-to-die sort of way. And if she has a hidden camera around here, she’ll have ammo to use against me whenever she likes. I cast a quick glance around the room. No potted plants. No unusually placed books or figurines. Nothing that’s a dead giveaway as being a spy camera.
Holding my breath, I pull the lid off. “It’s a bunch of yarn.”
“Yes.” Amelia clutches her hands together and her face flushes. “But what colors do we have here?”
I dig around and pick up a few of the skeins, calling out colors as I see them. “White. Black. Silver. Forest green. More silver and green. And even more . . .” I trail off and meet her eyes. “It’s the school colors.”
“Bingo.” Her eyes light up and she giggles—an actual fluttering giggle. “We can start now, and we’ll have plenty of scarves made in time to sell at the craft fair. By then, the temperature will be colder, and everyone will want to have their very own scarf to wear for the playoffs and state championship.”
It’s a good idea. And if we use my simple scarf pattern, we should be able to make more than a hundred by the craft fair. Even more if we keep making and selling them throughout the playoffs. Assuming the team makes it. Are we jinxing their chances by making a bunch of scarves for State when there’s still a whole season ahead of us?
No, it’s silly to be superstitious. Not to mention I’m hardly the supportive girlfriend if I have any doubt of Brook’s ability to lead a team to the championship game. Of course he can. I need to have more faith.
“We’ll want to price them right,” I say. “High enough that we make back the money we spent on them.”
“Easy. I bought in bulk and got a great deal on everything.”
“Good.” I dig around the tightly packed tub more. “We might need to put in another order—in case these are big sellers.”
“Which they will be. And even if we don’t turn a huge profit on each one, it’s still a great promotional opportunity for us.” She pulls out a bundle of small fabric patches. “Especially if we attach these to each one.”
I take the offered pile and remove one. “They have our logo embroidered on them.”
“Yep. And we can sew them on with only a few stitches. Even if the buyer eventually removes it, at least they’ll know for sure where it came from.”
Tracing the stitches, I admire the way our logo and website look in white thread on the black patch. “This is great. You’ve been busy.”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I catch the proud grin she’s trying to mask with indifference. “You’ve been managing the website almost single-handedly since we started. I was due.”
“Well, you paid that back tenfold with this idea.” I pick up one of the silver skeins of yarn. “This is such a good idea. Brook is going to love it.”
“Speaking of my brother.” She lowers her voice and casts a worried glance to the other end of the room, where her daughters are watching cartoons. “Is he o
kay?”
“He’s fine,” I say, because it’s not a complete lie. Somehow I manage to keep my face neutral, but it isn’t easy. “Why?”
“Well, he missed church today . . .”
“He was sorry about that. His football meeting schedule changed at the last minute, and he had to be at the school.”
“Wade said he almost missed the draft yesterday.”
And the guys think Amelia and I are the gossips. “Another late meeting.”
“What’s with all the team meetings? They’ve only had one game and they won.” Her jaw drops. “Is there some sort of scandal going on with one of the players? Are they shooting up on performance-enhancing drugs or did someone impregnate the principal’s daughter?”
“Slow down there, Nancy Drew.” I drop the yarn and hold up my hand. “This is real life. Not some fictionalized TV drama that’s after ratings.”
“But those shows are based on real life.”
“Everything is fine. Your brother is fine. The team is fine. Everything is—”
“Fine?” Amelia interrupts. “You already said that. Several times in fact.”
“And I mean it.” I let out a heavy sigh and push my hair over my shoulder. “I can’t say much—”
“So there is something going on. I knew it.”
“But what I tell you has to stay between us.”
She crosses her arms. “Promise.”
What can I say that will satisfy her curiosity, but doesn’t give away too much? “They’re making a few staffing changes amongst the coaches. Your brother still has a job,” I rush out, when her eyes widen. “He’s actually taking on a little more responsibility.”
“Why the secrecy?”
I shrug. “It’s all still in the works. With all of the media focused on the team—”
“The State hype?”
“Exactly,” I agree quickly. “With so many eyes on the team and the program, they don’t want to give anything major away until it’s absolutely necessary. Your brother will tell you everything when he’s ready. Please be patient.”
Amelia opens her mouth—undoubtedly to ask another question I’ll have to deflect—when Wade walks into the room. His eyes fly between us, and he swallows nervously. “Hey, Harper. I didn’t realize you were here.” He swallows again. “What are you doing?”
“We’re having a business meeting,” Amelia reminds him. “I told you she was coming over for the afternoon.”
He lets out a gust of breath, and his shoulders relax. “That’s right. Sorry. I forgot. She’s just here to talk about business.”
What did he think I was doing? Telling Amelia her boyfriend wanted my help planning the perfect way to pop the question? Because I’m just dying to ruin that special moment for them.
Wade wipes his palms on his jeans. Maybe I should cut him some slack. He is under a lot of self-inflicted pressure.
He clears his throat. “Well, I, uh . . . guess I’ll go back outside. To mow the lawn.”
“Make it pretty,” Amelia calls out after him.
We exchange a glance when we’re alone again. “Speaking of guys acting strange . . .”
“I’m sure he was surprised to see me here,” I say quickly. “He probably forgot. You know Wade. He’s good at remembering big, important things, but the little tidbits tend to slip his mind.”
I’m rambling, but I’ll be damned if I cave right now—after being all smug and self-righteous about being able to keep this secret just two minutes ago. Maybe I understand this pressure.
Amelia’s eyes widen again. “Was there something in the beer you guys drank yesterday? Because you guys are all acting crazy.”
“That must be it.” I pick up the yarn again. “Now how about we make a production schedule so we can turn into little worker bees for the next month.”
Taking the bait, Amelia goes into a speech—one she’d probably practiced once or twice before I arrived here—about how we should put a hold on making any other inventory until we finish this project. I nod along, even though I only half hear her. Now I’m starting to worry. Keeping a secret from Amelia is going to be harder than I imagined.
I’m going to have to get better at lying. I’ve worked at car dealerships long enough to be good at spinning, but lying is another game. Maybe I should see if J.J. would be willing to give me lessons.
Chapter Four
LIKE USUAL, I’M THE second person to arrive at the car dealership on Monday morning. Only Anderson, the general manager, is already sitting at his desk.
“Morning, Harper,” he calls out as I walk past his office. “How was the weekend?”
“Good. Brook’s team won their first game of the season.” And because I can’t seem to keep myself from playing the part of gloating girlfriend, I add, “One of the local sports columnists said his play calling was the most inspired and cunning he’s seen in years—in high school or college ball.”
“Nice.” He gives a toothy grin. “How did your fantasy football draft go? Do I have to worry about any of my salesmen mysteriously turning up in a dumpster, or were you able to outwit them?”
I give a dry laugh. “Much as I enjoy the prospect of committing a sloppy murder, I managed to secure a decent team on my own.”
He arches a well-manscaped eyebrow. “Just decent?”
“Okay, maybe it’s better than decent,” I concede.
“How much better?”
“According to the little punk who writes our recaps and projections, the best one in the league.” I almost manage to keep my tone casual, but I’m sure I still came off sounding smug. And so what if I did? I drafted an amazing team. On my own, with no help from anyone else. I deserve to be proud.
Anderson taps his chin. “Are you’re saying I should probably be on J.J. Terror Watch for the next few months?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to throw a few elbows.”
“Or changes all of the clocks in the building so you can’t set your lineups on time,” Anderson muses. “Oh, what a wonderful time of year.”
“If you asked the guys, I’m sure they’d agree.”
“And you? What would you call it?”
“I like fall, and I like football.” I shrug. “But I suppose you’ll have to ask me how I feel about both after we get through this season.”
It’s the best answer I can give without giving away the whole story. I’m sure the local media will pick up the story on Coach Paxton once they realize Brook is acting as the interim head coach, but I don’t want to be responsible for tipping them off. Even with college football season in progress and the NFL season about to begin, high school sports get plenty of attention around here. It’s both a good and bad thing depending on the day.
The Paxtons have enough going on this week without having to worry about phone calls. Which reminds me, I need to stop by the apartment after work to grab the casseroles I made for the family. And I should probably rehearse a few things to say. I don’t want to go in there and accidentally say something wrong just because I’m nervous.
I’m not the only one with nerves today. Anderson is tapping his fingers on the desktop the way he does when he’s worried about something. He also has an exceptionally large stack of papers, even for him. “Do we have anything special going on today?”
“No.” He clears his throat. “The owners just asked me to assemble a few documents for them. Financial reports. Personnel records. Boring stuff.”
All paperwork he’d usually ask me to compile. “Do you need help?”
“Eventually.” He gives a tight-lipped smile. “For today, I’ll be able to manage.”
“Well, let me know . . .”
“I will.”
A cool tension settles in the office, and I’m not quite sure where it came from or why I have this nagging urge to straighten the messy papers on his desk. Papers that only a year ago would have prompted me to send out another staff email reminding everyone to cut back on their paper usage. Today, I’m more acce
pting that some people will never change. It’s a pity our poor environment has to suffer.
With a forced friendly grin farewell, I head toward my office. I still have a good hour before the weekly reports need to be sent out, and I only need to give them a final glance before I hit send. That gives me plenty of time to read the latest player projections for my fantasy team.
I log in to my fantasy profile, and find I have three new trade offers waiting for me. Come on, guys. It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours since we drafted our teams. Why can’t we live with our players a little before we go and mess with them?
But it doesn’t hurt to see what’s being proposed. And, okay, I’m actually kind of excited people want to trade me. Last year I received zero trade offers—except one from Brook—while everyone else was making deals throughout the season. In hindsight, I realize they didn’t pay me much attention early on because they didn’t take me, or my team, seriously.
And now they want my players. I’m like Cinderella dressed in glass slippers and pulling up to the ball in a pumpkin carriage.
The first trade comes from Vien. He’s a self-professed trade whore. I’ll admit, I’m halfway flattered he chose to kick off his season of deal-making with me. It’s like I’m officially in with the league now.
Once he told me that while he’s never been close to winning the fantasy tourney, he doesn’t care, because he has so much fun making deals. Maybe he likes to pretend he owns a real team, and these trades actually matter.
I’ve channeled my inner league owner a time or two in the past, and it does help. Oh. Maybe I should take that to a new level this year. I can buy some faux fur, a gaudy cubic zirconia ring, and wear stilettos to each of the league’s watch parties. Then I’ll start talking about my fake vacation homes in Vail and Los Cabos and how we’re looking to fake invest in natural gas and crude oil.
Oil. Black gold. Texas tea. Maybe I should get a cowboy hat to wear with my heels and furs. Or I could develop an accent. Like the one the Kennedys have. I’ll use it every time someone brings up league business at the office. “Ah pa’ked tha cah by tha bahhhh.”
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