Going for Two

by Laura Chapman

  Yeah, I can definitely make this work. It’ll be hilarious and have the added benefit of driving J.J. nuts.

  Now let’s find out what exactly Vien is proposing. He’s offering up one of his quarterbacks—a gutsy move this early in the season—in exchange for . . . Todd Northwood.

  Like hell I’m giving up North. Everyone knows he’s my favorite fantasy football player. I’d sell my fake oil shares and imaginary home in Mexico before I part with him. I’ll just have to remind Vien of that fact.

  I type out a quick response—You’ve got to be kidding me. Come up with something reasonable or don’t waste my time—and hit the “reject trade” button.

  The next trade request is from Paul, the supervisor in the maintenance department. He at least has the decency to offer me a high-ranking tight end and a low-end running back in exchange for my tight end A.J. Watson and wide receiver Sebastian Richards. I’d planned on starting both men this week, but I’m not married to that plan—or keeping either of them.

  I click on the new tight end’s name to review his stats. He’s a true rookie this year, drafted in the fourth round by the Saints. It sounds like he put on a good show during the pre-season, and he has a lot of potential. If New Orleans’ starting tight end gets hurt or flakes out, which won’t happen. The guy is an all-star athlete and breaks records all the time. I’m not going to get rid of my perfectly acceptable tight end for the star’s backup.

  Not even bothering to check into the running back, I once again press “reject trade.” There’s no need to explain. Paul will understand why. And hopefully he’ll also realize that I’m not just filling space in the league this year. I’m playing to win.

  I select the last trade offer and frown. He wants to trade me? Seriously?

  Scrolling through the address book on my phone, I find the name I want and hit send. Some negotiations require a conversation. Christopher picks up just before his phone goes to voicemail.

  “Harper, it’s early,” he mumbles.

  “It’s after eight,” I reply sharply. “Now, will you tell me what’s going on?”

  His voice tenses. “What do you mean? Did Meg—”

  “Yes, she called me about going to see a movie sometime, and we set a date.” I take a deep breath through my nose. “I want to know why you of all people would have the audacity to send me this bullshit trade.”

  He lets out a heavy sigh, loud enough I pull the phone away from my ear for a beat. “You have a player I want, and I figured you might be interested in—”

  “Someone who is suspended five games for smoking dope in the off season?” I finish for him.

  “He’s a good player.”

  “Who may or may not see game time.”

  “They’ll put him in the second he’s available,” Christopher assures me. “He’s their top wide receiver.”

  “After five games, they might not want him to play anymore. They could get into a nice groove with his replacement. There’s no guarantee.”

  “But if you just give him a chance—”

  “You’re not getting Rosie,” I interrupt. “He’s a solid starter, and we both know that.”

  “Then why didn’t you just reject the trade and save me the early morning wake-up call?”

  “Because you’re my brother,” I explain slowly, hoping each and every word gets through to him. “I love and maybe even respect you.”

  “Aw, sis . . . you’re making me blush.”

  “But I want to make one thing clear.” I pause for effect, and to control the tone of my voice. “I am not an idiot. I can smell a bad trade, and this is a bad trade. Don’t think you can try to pull one over on me again.”

  He sighs again. “Fantasy football sure brings out a weird side of you.”

  I purse my lips together and frown at the wall. “How so?”

  “It makes you all dramatic and, if I’m being totally honest—”

  “By all means, be ‘totally honest.’”

  “You’re kind of being a jerk.”

  I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “So we’re clear then?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Good.” I lighten my tone. “Give my love to Meg when you see her.”

  We hang up the phone, and I take a second to compose myself. I can’t believe my own brother called me a jerk and said I was dramatic. He’s the one who thought he could screw me over on a trade.

  I guess getting trade requests isn’t such an honor after all. Not when people clearly think I’m an idiot.

  My breath is returning to a semi-regular pace when someone knocks on my office door. Gio pokes his head in. “Good, you’re here.”

  I plaster a smile on my face. “I am. Can I help you with anything?”

  “Maybe.” He folds his arms and leans against the door frame. “I had an idea for a trade that I think could really help both of us out. Do you have a minute to talk shop?”

  My left eye twitches, but I manage to keep my smile firmly in place. No one, it seems, is immune from trying to steal my incredible team. If Brook so much as mentions the word “trade” in my presence this week, I’m shutting down all negotiations for the season.

  THE TEAM RUSHES ONTO the field while the marching band plays the school fight song. I keep my eyes focused on the banner the players and coaches are running through, waiting for my first glimpse of Brook for the day. He’d left for his Friday morning breakfast with the other coaches well before I woke up. He sent me a few texts throughout the day, assuring me he was pumped for tonight. He never gave any hint that he was anything but calm and composed.

  But I know better. He’s scared shitless. I’d caught a glimmer of panic in his eyes when we’d watched the news together last night.

  As predicted, local—and even a few regional—media channels were having a field day breaking the news about Coach Paxton. People, I’m not sure who exactly, were already predicting the end of any hopes the team might have for a playoff bid, let alone a chance at the state title.

  It’s a good thing I don’t know these naysayers or where to find them. It would be entirely too tempting to go mama bear on them to defend my boyfriend’s honor. Not that he needs or wants me to do that, but the impulse is still there. Just this morning, I had to fight the powerful urge to storm into a newspaper office and slap the guy who called Brook, “a questionable replacement for a local high school coaching legend.” They’re not even giving him a chance. They’ve already written him—and the team—off.

  Brook says the team and coaching staff are using the negativity as motivation. They’re more determined than ever to prove the haters wrong. To not only make it to State, but to win it. For themselves and the coach who built their program into the powerhouse it has become.

  While he can pretend the scrutiny doesn’t bother him, some of us aren’t as willing, or able, to pull that off.

  I’m not the only one on edge. Brook’s usually even-tempered mom has snapped at his father at least five times tonight, and the game hasn’t even started.

  The adrenaline inside of me is churning my stomach. I hope I don’t throw up. It wouldn’t do much to support the team’s ‘we’ve got this’ attitude. I’m about to join Mrs. MacLaughlin in snapping at the Major’s sideline commentary when I see Brook jogging alongside a few players, in his usual spot toward the back of the pack. I guess he hasn’t decided to take on all of the head coaching responsibilities. Then again, maybe he’s trying to keep everything as normal as possible for the moment.

  Somehow seeing him eases some of the nerves. My stomach settles like I just downed Pepto-Bismol or TUMS. I wish he’d glance up at the stands to find me, just for a second. It’s a ridiculous expectation on so many levels. His heart might be mine every other day of the week, but on Friday night it belongs to the team.

  “This has to be tough on them. The players and the coaches,” Major MacLaughlin says in a low voice.

  Though his gaze is set squarely on the field, I check around and realize he must be
talking to me. As of five minutes ago he isn’t speaking to his wife, and I’m the only one within earshot.

  I’m not sure Brook’s dad has ever struck up a conversation with me. He’s politely answered my questions, but he’s more likely to grunt or give a one-word answer than actually express a full idea. Especially out of the blue like this.

  The pressure of coming up with a suitable response to this potentially once-in-a lifetime situation is making my palms sweat.

  Taking a quick breath, I keep my tone light. “Brook said a few of the kids took it pretty hard. They had counselors available for anyone who needed to talk to someone. I guess one of the kids lost a parent to cancer over the summer.”

  My throat clogs remembering the sadness in Brook’s voice when he’d relayed the story to me. “He hasn’t said much yet, but they’re keeping an extra eye on him.”

  More precisely, Brook is keeping an eye on him.

  “It’s not always an easy thing. Talking about what’s going on inside of you.” The Major clears his throat and rolls his shoulders and neck. “It’s a good thing, though. That my boy is looking out for them.”

  “He’s good at noticing the little things,” I agree. “He’s even better at understanding what to do about them. That’s no small task.”

  Major MacLaughlin casts a sideways glance at me. “No. It’s not.”

  He turns his attention back to the field, ending our breakthrough conversation.

  The teams’ captains run out to the center of the field. The crowd stays on its feet, cheering through the heaviness that has blanketed our side of the bleachers. It’s just a coin toss. Most people here have probably seen dozens or hundreds in their lifetimes. Still, everyone seems to be watching this exchange more closely. Like somehow winning or losing this toss will set the tone and outcome of the game.

  The coin flips in the air as the opposing team calls heads. It lands on the turf.

  “Tails,” the referee calls out. After speaking to the players, he motions that the Warriors defense will take the field first.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans. It’s a text from my brother.

  Scott: We made it. We found seats in the back row next to the concessions stand.

  Following his directions, I glance up at the stands and find both my brothers, my nephew, and Meg waving. They’re not alone. The rest of our fantasy league came—even J.J. I raise my hand back in silent greeting, and a slow smile spreads across my face.

  The backs of my eyes burn, and I blink furiously to avoid crying. I’m such a sap, but I can’t help it. The guys in the league are some of our best friends, but sometimes the nature of competition makes us forget that. And even though the fantasy season officially kicked off last night, it doesn’t matter. For the moment, we’re all in this together to support one of our own.

  THE SHRILL, PROLONGED whistle on the field signals the end of the half, and both teams run to the fieldhouse to hydrate and regroup.

  The first half went . . . okay. There were a few fairly significant errors on our part. After the defense forced the opponents to a three and out on the first possession of the game, our quarterback threw a pick six leaving us behind by seven only three minutes into the game.

  While the other team lined up for the point after attempt, Brook pulled the quarterback aside for a one-on-one talk. The player left his helmet on, but his shoulders were hunched over. The poor kid had to feel terrible about blowing the defense’s strong start. Brook rested his hand on his shoulders and leaned in. His back was to me, which made it impossible for me to try to read his lips. Not that I know how, but I would’ve given it my best shot.

  Eventually the player straightened his shoulders and nodded. Brook tapped his helmet, and our offense jogged back out onto the field. The quarterback seemed more confident, or at least louder, as he shouted his audibles.

  The other team held us to a field goal, but our kicker, one of the younger players on the team, sent the ball sailing perfectly through the air.

  There were a few other little hiccups. The offense missed opportunities to make more yards, and the defense gave up two touchdowns. The refs threw too many yellow flags for bad formations, false starts, and even a facemask—on the other team, not us, thank goodness.

  It was hard-fought, but our team managed to bring the score within one touchdown by the end of the first half. We’ll get the ball to start the second, and if we can score, we’ll take the lead—17 to 14—for the first time in the game.

  “That wasn’t pretty,” Major MacLaughlin mutters under his breath.

  “No,” I agree, watching the band march onto the field. “It wasn’t.”

  The drum majors are still leading the band out when I hear a little voice shouting, “Ha-paw! Ha-paw.”

  I turn in time to catch my nephew as he flings himself into my arms. “Hey there, buddy. Are you having fun watching the game?”

  He nods and, at maximum speed, tells me all about his impressions so far. He’s talking so fast, and still struggling with some of his pronunciations that I’m only able to make out a few words, like “Bwook,” “football,” and “touchdown.”

  A few minutes into our talk, Scott and Christopher finally catch up, with Gio and J.J. following close behind. A lump settles in my throat. I still can’t believe they came. My brothers maybe. They both have serious man crushes on my boyfriend. But the guys from the league usually come and go to the games as they please. They don’t have the sense of family obligation either. I’m glad they’re here.

  Especially J.J. I’ve always suspected that behind the rude comments, heavy sarcasm, and general hostility, he must have a deep and abiding love and respect for Brook. Why else have they been friends for the past decade?

  Coming to a stop in the aisle next to my seat, J.J. winks and says, “You’re going down this week, North’s Lady.”

  I blink in surprise, taking a moment to realize he’s talking about fantasy football rather than the game we’re watching. “Okay . . .”

  “Even though your nobleman had an impressive game last night, the rest of your team is going to lay an egg on Sunday.”

  “You’re just mad I wouldn’t trade you Duke.” My eyes narrow. “And you’re not going to talk me into it now.”

  “I don’t want him anymore.” He folds his arms and his jaw sets. “He’s overrated. I—”

  Gio chuckles lightly. “You’ll have to forgive J.J. We forgot to feed him before the game. He can get a little crabby—”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “He’s so crabby,” Gio continues, ignoring J.J.’s outburst, “that he’s completely forgotten any manners he might have. The kind that would prompt him to give a proper greeting, like, ‘Hi, Harper. How are you enjoying the game?’”

  “I just saw her at work a few hours ago. I said hi to her there.”

  “No, you didn’t.” Gio shakes his head. “You started in on the fantasy trash-talking there, too. Give it a rest, man. Let her focus on this game.”

  “No one cares about this game.”

  “I care.”

  “I do, too,” I add.

  “Me, too,” the man seated behind me chimes in, his booming voice drawing our attention.

  J.J. turns to the man. “What’s the point of playing armchair coach? Unless you’re going to call MacLaughlin and offer him tips, we might as well save our breaths.”

  The man looks ready to argue, but his wife gently places her hand on his arm. She murmurs in his ear, “You realize who this is, right?”

  The man carefully inspects J.J. from head to toe. When he reads the college logo emblazoned onto J.J.’s hat, awareness lights his eyes. “Son of a bitch. You’re . . .”

  J.J. sticks out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’ll say.” The man takes the offered hand and shakes. “We had a lot of fun watching you play back in college.”

  “I appreciate that.” Catching the annoyance written pla
inly on my face, J.J. lets out a short sigh. “Sorry about earlier. I get a little carried away when I talk fantasy football.”

  “I completely understand.” Now the man gives me an appraising glance. “You’re in a fantasy league with the J.J. Sanchez?”

  “So he keeps telling me.” I plaster a smile on my face. “We all came to show our support for Coach MacLaughlin. He’s in our league, too.”

  “That’s right,” the man muses thoughtfully. “I keep forgetting he played with J.J. back in college.”

  “They’re old friends.” I send another threatening glare J.J.’s way. “But these guys were just heading back to their seats so they can be ready for the second half.”

  “We were?”

  I nod. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  Scott takes Jackson’s hand and mouths a ‘sorry’ behind J.J.’s back. I go back to watching the halftime show, which is actually good. I’ll have to pay better attention next week. It’s good to support the students who are out here with our team every week. Right now, I’m too busy trying to ignore the murmurs of the couple behind me. If I hear the guy say “I can’t believe Coach MacLaughlin plays in a fantasy league with his old college quarterback” one more time, I might snap.

  Next to me, Brook’s dad laughs lightly. “It’ll be okay, kid,” he murmurs. “Our boy will take care of business in the second half.”

  We exchange a grin, and I lose the steam behind my anger. Tonight isn’t about J.J., or how little it takes for him to drive me completely crazy. It’s about our boy and his team.

  THE LAST WHISTLE BLOWS, and I release a sigh of relief while the crowd around me cheers. We won. By three points, but we won all the same. I catch the grin on Brook’s face as he shakes one of the assistant’s hands then hugs the quarterback.

  My eyes are burning again, and I’m fighting the urge to cry. I’m just so proud of him. He did it. He proved he could coach a team to victory. Then there’s the team; they did it, too. They proved they could play through adversity. That they are resilient no matter what the pundits say.