Going for Two

by Laura Chapman

  On the other side of Brook’s dad, his mom lets out a shuddering sob. I turn in time to catch his dad, who hasn’t spoken to her since before kickoff, wrap an arm around her shoulders and press a light kiss to her head. It’s a gesture Brook has repeated with me countless times. Now I know where he learned it.

  One of the tears I’ve been holding onto slips out, and I quickly wipe it away with the back of my hand. I take a shaky breath and finally find the strength to cheer with the rest of the crowd.

  Eyes back on the field, Brook glances up to the stands. Like last time, my heart pounds a few beats faster, and my heart fills. His eyes meet mine, and just like a week ago, he taps his heart and points to me. I catch the sob as it comes out and mask it as a cough, then return the gesture.

  The man I’d spoken to briefly during halftime leans forward. “Are you Coach’s girl?”

  I nod, my face hurting from the bright smile tugging on my cheeks. “Yep. I’m his girl.”

  And “Coach” is my guy.

  Chapter Five

  THE ALARM CLOCK ON Brook’s nightstand rings for the third time in sixteen minutes. I know that’s how much time has passed because he’s meticulous about setting each alarm exactly eight minutes apart. Most mornings he gets up with the first one, the second if he had a particularly late night. But not this morning. His alarm is sounding for the third time, and he isn’t making any motion to turn it off.

  Pulling a pillow over my head, I toss to the other side. Even with the fluff pressed firmly against my ear, I can still hear the alarm. And I can’t breathe.

  I toss the pillow aside with a huff. He might be able to sleep through this commotion, but I can’t. Still gasping for a proper breath, I try to reach for the alarm, but it’s too far. The only way I’ll be able to reach is if I get out of bed, and that hardly seems fair. I’m not the one who wants to wake up before dawn on a Sunday.

  With no other choice, I grab Brook by the shoulder and shake.

  “Mmm.” He groans, and mumbles, “Five more minutes.”

  I shake harder. “You have to turn that damn thing off.”

  “Four more minutes.”

  “Get up.”

  “Three.”

  “Now.”

  “Two.”

  Leaning over, my lips within an inch of his ear, I hiss, “Turn the damn alarm clock off, or I’ll log into your fantasy football account and change your lineup while you’re at your meeting.” He tenses under my fingers. Good. Now we’re making progress. “And if you don’t move right this second, I’ll trade your best player to J.J. For his kicker,” I add as an afterthought.

  I barely have time to get out of the way before he bolts up and turns off the alarm clock. Chest rising up and down, he slowly turns to face me. “You wouldn’t seriously give J.J. any of my players? Would you?”

  “It’s a good thing we won’t have to find out. Today.” I kiss his scruffy chin. It still gives me a jolt of delight that I get to wake up next to this delicious specimen every day. “What time is it?”

  “Five thirty-three,” he says without tearing his eyes away from the clock.

  I recoil in horror. “Why are you getting up so early?”

  He picks up his phone and turns it on. “I wanted a few minutes to review the tape again before the meeting.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure you weren’t going to take a few minutes to check the waiver wires to see if there’s anyone worth snapping up last minute?”

  His lips twitch. “Maybe.”

  “You should really stop nitpicking your team and give them a chance,” I advise, grabbing my own phone. I might as well take another glance at my own team.

  “It’s easy to say that when you hogged all the good players for yourself,” he grumbles under his breath. “I can’t believe you won’t trade me even one of your receivers. You have a million and they’re all good.”

  “Technically it’s not a million, but . . . yeah, they’re good.”

  “Ha.”

  “You know we can’t make any trades this season.” I lean against him and rest my chin against his shoulder. “After that showdown last year, we can’t give any indication we’re collaborating to build super teams behind his back.”

  “Only crappy teams.”

  “That’s right.” His body is loosening up more and more with each passing second. His tone is becoming less pissy. He’s still a long way from cheerful, but it’s a vast improvement. “I think Bryant Kilgore is still available. He’s a backup for—”

  “Vien’s receiver who just got put on the injured list last night,” Brook finishes, excitedly typing in the name to select the player for his team. “You’re a genius.”

  “Well, Vien is bad about checking his lineups before eleven.” I take one more glance at my team and decide everyone looks fine just where they are.

  I set the phone aside and debate whether or not to crawl back under the covers.

  Spending a few more minutes chatting with my boyfriend wins out.

  “As long as Kilgore works on avoiding dropped catches or fumbles, you should be in good shape with him for at least a few weeks.” I yawn and stretch, readjusting my pillows. “A few sites have him ranked as a top sleeper to watch. I would’ve picked him up, but my bench is already deep enough on dependable receivers.”

  Brook slowly lowers his phone. “What did you just say?”

  “I said my—”

  “I heard you,” he interrupts, setting his own phone back on the nightstand and pulling back the covers. “I’m not sure I can handle you spouting off any more factoids or projections.”

  “Jealous?” I ask, warily watching him, unsure of his next move.

  “Mmm.” Before I can even blink, he’s covering me, nibbling my neck. His hands move over me. “Smart, beautiful, and a football expert. Did I win the lottery or what?”

  He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. His mouth takes mine, and I reach for him, giving up on any hopes of catching some more sleep. For now, at least.

  My last thought, before I lose control of them, is that I’ve discovered an excellent new form of foreplay. Football to the rescue.

  I’M HAVING FLASHBACKS of the draft. Was that only a week ago? Only instead of panicking that Brook will miss his chance to pick a decent team—which he basically did—I’m worrying I’ll have to host our first official league watch party by myself.

  Why had we thought this would be a good idea?

  I wish we would have consulted a crystal ball before we volunteered to host. At least then we would’ve had a heads-up that I’d be the one handling all of the preparations because Brook would suddenly find himself with extra responsibilities at work. It would be easy if the guys didn’t expect to be fed. I could order pizza, but these guys put a lot of food away. That would cost a fortune every week. And I can’t count on any of them to chip in for the food. They’re only good at bringing beer.

  Oh. Speaking of . . . I set the knife down on the chopping block and run to the fridge. Behind the cans of generic beer, I pull out a six-pack of my favorite, higher dollar booze. I slip each of the bottles out of the cardboard packaging and into the vegetable crisper. Buried beneath a bunch of kale and a head of broccoli, J.J. will never find them.

  Maybe this makes me a bad hostess, but I don’t care. I’m already making the guys homemade brownies. Isn’t that enough?

  I glance at the chrome clock hanging in our dining room. People will be here any minute, and there’s still no sign of Brook. Just like freaking last week.

  With a little more force and vigor than necessary, I chop the last of the red and orange peppers for the vegetable tray. I’m not sure why I even bothered with veggies. I’ll probably be the only one who eats them. And maybe Brook, if he bothers to show up.

  It’s his job. He’s only doing his job. I knew what I was getting into when we started dating. (Or did I?)

  I place the artfully layered plat
e on the table and tap my fingers on the counter. What now?

  Grabbing my phone, I consider checking my lineup once more, but I stop myself. No, I’ve given enough care and consideration to everyone. I double-checked this morning before, well, before Brook was almost late for his meeting. Then I took another glance before I started the food prep, and everything looked exactly the same.

  I need to take my own advice and stop picking at my team.

  But what to do? The food is done. I’m dressed, and look pretty adorable in my new Packers jersey. The living room is set up for optimal game viewing. I suppose I could start working on our Sunday Night Football playlist.

  Last year, Brook and I started a tradition of creating our own Sunday Night Football music to listen to instead of watching the pre-game performance on TV. We listened to a different Bon Jovi song each week. At the end of the season, I discovered the song we heard every week wasn’t actually random, but one Brook had carefully selected. Kind of like a personal you-can-do-it message just for me.

  It’s all super nerdy, but that’s who we are.

  With the chaos that has surrounded this season so far—and it’s only the first week—we still haven’t gotten around to picking our band of the year. I wouldn’t be surprised if Brook forgot.

  So instead of sitting around and waiting to decide by jury, I’m making the call. And like Brook did last year, I can pick a song each week to cheer him on. He definitely needs the musical pep talk more than I do this year.

  Now for the million-dollar question: Who to pick? Bon Jovi was such an obvious choice last year. It was like the boys from New Jersey magically appeared before us when they entered our brains at precisely the same time.

  I could try to shake things up a bit this year. Go with someone newer, like Bruno Mars or Beyoncé, but that would probably drive Brook crazy after two weeks. Though we didn’t watch either of those Super Bowl performances together, they’re just the sort he would roll his eyes at while I’d actually enjoyed them.

  He doesn’t have the sophisticated musical palette that I have.

  Still, there has to be another group we both like. I like almost everything, and he likes . . . ’80s rock bands. I’m sure he likes other types of music, too, but most of his playlists favor rockers from the ’80s. He mostly listens while he works out. I suppose they must motivate him or something.

  That settles it. This is about motivation, so I should pick someone that fits.

  Do I go with another hair band variety, something like Poison, Van Halen, or Mötley Crüe? Or do I go with a slightly softer approach with a band like Journey?

  Journey would be good. They have some songs you can rock to and a few ballads, which is nice for the weeks when you want to slow things down a little bit. I’ll have to limit the playlist to their earlier works, before Steve Perry left the band. Has the band produced new albums since then? I know they’re still touring, but . . .

  Nope, not going down that rabbit hole today. There’s not enough time before the league-mates get here. Congratulations, Journey, you’re our band. Now to make the playlist. I’ll need sixteen songs, one for each week of the regular season plus the playoffs. Brook always makes it to the playoffs, and I fully intend to be there, too, so I have to include them.

  I take all of two minutes to compile the list. I grin stupidly at my phone, a little too pleased with myself for this latest achievement.

  Quick, heavy footsteps grow louder in the hallway and stop at the door. Someone must be here. I slip the phone into my jeans pocket and stand to let in our first guest, but stop at the distinct rustle of keys.

  Blitz races out of the bedroom, beating me to the front door as it swings open.

  Brook enters and, nearly out of breath, calls out, “Babe.” He closes the door and turns around, nearly taking me out in the process.

  “Sorry.” He reaches out to stop me from stumbling over. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I assure him, regaining my balance. “You didn’t see me.”

  “No, not that.” He winces. “Well, that, too. Sorry I ran you down, but . . .” Stepping back, he pulls off his hat and runs his hand through his hair in one swift movement. “Sorry I’m late. The meeting ran over. Again. I wasn’t watching the time. Then one of the conditioning coaches and I got into it—but that doesn’t matter. I screwed up. I should have been here to help you set up. I was the one who volunteered us to host.”

  He looks genuinely distraught. Now I feel bad for resenting his absence a little bit ago.

  “Hey. I was on board for hosting, too. We made the decision together.”

  “All the more reason I should have been here.” Tossing the hat aside, he gathers me close. “Forgive me?”

  I chew on my cheek to avoid grinning as he squeezes tighter. Sheesh, you’d think I browbeat him regularly based on the way he’s carrying on. I didn’t even give him a hard time about last week. All the same, I’m kind of enjoying this warm greeting. Him holding me close, swaying back and forth like we’re moving to a silent song.

  “It’s okay,” I say again, my voice muffled against his shoulder. “You made it, which is all that matters. And before kickoff. That’s a bonus.”

  He glances behind me. “Is anyone else here yet?”

  I shake my head. “Just me. And Blitz,” I add, because he’s wailing at our feet.

  “Good.”

  “Go get changed. If anyone asks, I’ll say you were here all along and that you made the wing dip.” With a parting squeeze, I pull back. “I’d like us to at least keep up the illusion that we’re a household that distributes work equally.”

  His lips twitch. “You made wing dip?”

  “Yep.”

  And it had been gross. I don’t eat meat—aside from the occasional piece of fish—and I really hate working with raw chicken. But if we didn’t offer a few carnivorous options, our guests would revolt. The grossness was worth that smile.

  “You’re an angel.” He kisses me soundly. “Give me two minutes to change.”

  “I’m in a good mood. I’ll give you three.”

  He removes the stopwatch from around his neck and thrusts it in my hands. “Time me.”

  I press start. “Better hurry.”

  He jogs to the bedroom with Blitz following hot on his heels. I suppose that’s another added perk of living with a coach. There’s always an opportunity to make life a little more interesting by turning even the most mundane activities into a competition.

  THE FIRST WATCH PARTY at the MacLaughlin-Duquaine household went well enough. J.J. managed to keep his anger in check, which is pretty impressive. I’m already leading by thirty, and I still have Todd Northwood and a running back playing tonight and tomorrow.

  It must’ve killed J.J. to be nice. Relatively speaking. Either he’s growing up or he’s discovered it doesn’t pay to piss off the woman who will likely feed you every Sunday for the rest of the football season.

  Aside from his two snide remarks and the cramped quarters—made even fuller with a few wives, girlfriends, and kids—it was a fun afternoon.

  We only had one fistfight. Marley slugged Ellery, because they both have decided they want to marry Jackson. The future groom just grinned and said he’d marry whoever won. Pre-K dating is a lot harder—and more violent—than I remember.

  For the Sunday night game, the league members with little kids are going home while everyone else will meet at a bar. Everyone except for Brook and me. I’m a little relieved we can spend the night together. Alone. It’ll be a nice change of pace.

  It will also give us a little privacy to launch this year’s pre-game song tradition. With twenty minutes to go before kickoff, Brook plops down on the couch next to me.

  “The dishes are done,” he says. I swear, those might be the sweetest words any man has ever said to me. It might even beat out ‘I love you.’ Picking up his tablet and pulling up some game tape, he glances at the screen. “It’s almost time for kickoff.”

  “It
is. On Sunday night.” Trying to contain my excitement, I grab my phone and headphones as casually as possible. “Know what that means?”

  Playing along, he clutches his chin thoughtfully. “That J.J. is about to lose any chance of beating your team this week?”

  “That too.” I wave the phone in his face and hand him an earbud. “It’s time to play our Sunday Night Football song.”

  His eyes move back and forth between the phone and earbud for a few seconds and slowly recognition lights his eyes. “Oh yeah . . . our Sunday Night Football music.”

  “Did you forget about it?” My brow wrinkles. “Or do you want to skip it this year?”

  “No, I remember. We talked about doing it again this year.” He takes the headphone and gives me an apologetic glance. “I can’t believe I spaced it.”

  “I’ll give you a pass on this one,” I tease. I pull up the playlist and prepare to select the song I’ve decided will be our “random” tune of the week. “I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of assembling the playlist.”

  “That’s great.” He slips the earbud in.

  “I’m pretty sure you’ll approve.” I put my own headphone in. “It was my turn to be DJ anyways.”

  I wait for his nod and press play. The band’s voices sing the first bars of “Any Way You Want It.” My shoulders move up and down with the music, and I mouth the words of the chorus with Steve Perry.

  I’m so caught up in the music, it isn’t until the guitar break halfway through that I realize Brook isn’t joining along. Not that he ever shared my total enthusiasm for dance breaks, but he would usually at least bop his head along to the music. Instead, he just sits there—expressionless.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Brook meets my gaze and raises his eyebrows. “Journey, huh?”

  “I thought you liked them.”

  “Yeah, they’re good, but . . .” He clears his throat, and removes his earbud. “I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t expecting Journey.”

  My grin slips a bit, and I pull out my headphone, too. “They’re on your workout playlist. They’re a rock band from the eighties. I figured that would make them a good Sunday Night Football band.”