Going for Two

by Laura Chapman

  “You saw me on Sunday.”

  I ignore his confused expression and usher him inside. “Can I get you a beer?”

  “Sure.” He strides past me and glances around the apartment before settling on the couch next to Blitz. “Where’s Brook?”

  “He’s still at practice,” I call from the kitchen, turning to bring him his beer and the tray of veggies I threw together as an appetizer.

  Scott frowns. “He’s not here?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Oh.” Scott takes the beer and waves off the vegetables, disappointment clearly written across his face.

  My eyes narrow. “Is that okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He stares into the bottle of beer. “I just figured he’d be here. Wanted to pick his brain a little. About the football season.”

  And, apparently, that’s why Scott came over tonight. To spend more time with my boyfriend. There’s another knock before I can fully explore my irritation with Scott. I’m relieved to find it’s the pizza delivery man rather than Christopher. I’m still reeling from Scott’s reaction to the lack of Brook tonight. I’m not sure I’m ready to handle the same reaction from my other brother, which is a real possibility. I’ll need to eat a couple of breadsticks or a slice of pizza before I’m emotionally prepared to disappoint a second brother.

  I’m signing the receipt and calculating a tip when Christopher arrives. He glances between the man holding the pizza and me.

  He sniffs the air. “What kind did you order?”

  “One pepperoni and sausage and a vegetarian.”

  “With a side of garlic bread,” the kid delivering the pizza chimes in cheerfully.

  “Cool.” Christopher takes the cardboard boxes and disappears inside the apartment.

  Sheesh. Maybe spending the night with my brothers wasn’t the best way for me to cope with my bout of loneliness. Apparently they only came for pizza and Brook. At least the one wanting pizza should leave happy. Who knows when Brook will get back from practice? I wouldn’t put it past Scott to delay his departure so he has a chance to talk shop with the coach first.

  I try without much success to start a conversation while we load up our plates. Christopher is preoccupied with eating as much pizza as possible. And Scott only wants to hear more about Brook’s practice schedule and his plans for the upcoming game. Aside from giving him the set hours and my assurance that Brook doesn’t run through the team’s plans with me before the game, I don’t have enough details to satisfy his curiosity.

  Fighting the growing pangs of disappointment amongst our crowd, I turn on the movie to put an end to the awkward question and answer session. We’re barely through the opening credits when the cries of a baby on screen puts Christopher on edge. He taps his fingers on the armrest of the couch for a few seconds then jumps to his feet.

  Turning to face us, he blurts out, “Meg and I are getting married.”

  Once the words are out of his mouth, he lets out a heavy sigh. His shoulders relax, like he’s relieved a heavy weight that had been bearing down on them. Scott and I stare at our brother in stunned silence. The movie soundtrack plays loudly in the background while both of us struggle to process this news.

  Scott recovers before I do. “Seriously?”

  Christopher nods. “We were just hanging out last night, and the question popped out. She said yes, and we’re getting married.”

  Something he seems both excited and terrified about.

  Though I can’t read his mind, I can see a series of questions playing out on Scott’s face. He’s probably wondering if this means they’ll move out any time soon. Or he wonders if Meg is pregnant—a crude, but understandable question. He’s been there before, and it’s where his mind jumps.

  “Anyway.” Christopher sits back down on the couch and turns to us. “I have something to ask both of you.”

  I nod. It takes Scott a moment to adjust, but he gets there. “Go ahead,” he says.

  “Scott, you’re more than my big brother. You’re my best friend.” Christopher clears his throat. “Would you be my best man?”

  “Sure.” Scott offers his hand and they shake. “Of course.”

  I watch the exchange with a mix of amusement and confusion. Shouldn’t they be hugging this out right about now rather than sealing the deal like it’s a business arrangement? They’re brothers, for crying out loud.

  Catching my stare, Christopher faces me. “Harper, would you—” His cell phone rings, and he pauses to check the display. “Sorry. I have to take this.” He answers and nods at whatever the other person is saying. “Yes, I’ll do that.” He nods again. “Yeah, okay, I’ll bring you home a couple of slices of pizza.” He meets my gaze again and mouths, ‘Is that okay?’

  I shrug, because what else can I say? My future sister-in-law already thinks I hate her half the time, because I tend to have resting bitch face. She misinterprets that to mean I’m upset, but really I’m just relaxed.

  While Christopher wraps up his call, Scott and I exchange a glance. He’s managed to contain his emotions, so I can’t guess what he’s thinking anymore. For my part, I’m not really surprised about this news. You kind of know when your sibling or friend has found the person they want to marry.

  “I’ll ask her,” Christopher says, which draws my attention back to him. After a final promise to call with an update, he hangs up. “Okay, back to what I was about to say. Harper?”

  “Yes?”

  “Like Scott, you’re more than a sibling. You’re my friend.”

  Oh my gosh. Is he going to ask me to be a bridesmaid for Meg? Or is he going to nix tradition and ask me to be a groomsman? Or is it a groomswoman in this situation? I swallow hard and fight the wave of emotion. “You’re my friend, too.”

  He grins. “Well, as my friend, Meg and I were wondering if, well . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you go dress shopping with Meg? She loves your sense of style, and you’re organized enough to keep her on task.”

  Oh. Well that’s a little deflating. But like with the leftover pizza, can I really say no? Which is how I find myself saying, “Of course,” before unpausing the movie and picking up another breadstick to stuff in my face.

  Chapter Eight

  ON THURSDAY NIGHT, I receive a series of panicked texts from the owner of the crocheting and knitting shop I frequent.

  Joleen: Our dog injured his leg. Pam is out of town, and I need to take him to the vet for emergency surgery. I need someone to cover tonight’s beginning class. Can you help? Please. I’m desperate.

  I want to help, but it’s Thursday. It’s the one night of the week Brook tends to be home before eight. But Joleen has been good to me. If something was wrong with Blitz, I’d hope someone would provide me a little support if I needed it.

  I’m typing a response when her next message comes through.

  Joleen: I have a new shipment of silver yarn. It’s yours for cost.

  Well, now I’ll feel guilty saying yes. I don’t want it to seem like it’s only because of the yarn. Granted, Amelia and I are running low on the silver yarn for the scarves we’re making to sell at the craft fair, but still. I delete what I’ve written so far and start over.

  Me: I’ll be there. No need to sell us the yarn at cost, but maybe we could take a slight discount?

  Joleen: Name the price, and it’s yours. You’re an angel.

  That seems like a fair compromise. And if I never tell Amelia we were offered the yarn for cost, she won’t be annoyed that I didn’t take the yarn for a song. Everyone wins. Except for Joleen’s dog. Poor thing. I hope he gets through the surgery well and is back to chasing squirrels in no time.

  Brook actually seems relieved when I call to tell him I’m subbing for Joleen. Though I understand his reasoning—he wants to review tomorrow night’s game plan again, and he has a pile of tests to grade—I wish he was as disappointed as I am about missing date night. “Would you want to try that new Mexican restaurant on
Saturday night?”

  He pauses before giving an unenthusiastic, “Sure.”

  “It’s been open long enough we won’t have to wait in lines.” I fight the annoyance building in me once again. “It’d be nice to go out together for a change.”

  “It would,” he agrees easily enough, easing my irritation. “There’s a game on that night.”

  “The Huskers?”

  “Yeah.”

  I let out a sigh. “We could go before. Or get takeout.”

  “We can skip the game, too,” Brook rushes out, finally detecting that I might be a tiny bit irritated.

  “But you love watching the games,” I remind him. “And I do, too. But I have one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No grading or play writing during dinner.” It wouldn’t kill him to take a night off from either of them. It will actually probably do him a world of good. “Please. For date night.”

  He hesitates only a second longer. “Okay. I can take a night off.”

  A scuffling sounds in the background. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” The scuffling crescendos to a loud crash and a couple of shouts. “We’re trying out a new play. I should probably get back to it.”

  “You should.” I chew on my cheek. “Sorry to call and bother you while you’re working.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Talk to you later.”

  The call disconnects and I’m left staring at my phone. I can’t decide if this is a major victory or an indication of what my life will look like.

  TEACHING A THURSDAY night class means I’m a little rushed setting my lineup for the game. I have Matthew Prince—the nobleman himself—scheduled to play. Last season he was usually good for ten to thirty points, so I should be starting off week three with a decent amount of points.

  J.J. is going to hate if I win again. He’s made no secret about his desire to see me lose after I handily defeated him in week one. At some point, you’d figure he’d let it go and focus on winning his own games. Instead, he seems almost as obsessed with my schedule, with my lineup, as I am.

  Turning down his trade offers earlier this week had only stoked the fire. I’ve taken to watching my back—literally—at work to make sure he hasn’t stuck a “kick me” sign to it. I also had Gio double-check my office chair to ensure J.J. hadn’t tampered with the screws in it. It’s overly cautious, and probably a little paranoid, but this guy is serious about victory. You can’t be too careful when he’s involved.

  I arrive at the store fifteen minutes before class starts. In the car, I make certain I have Prince set in my lineup before his game starts. More relaxed, I go inside to set up the studio we use for lessons. This week, the students are working on a potholder pattern, and they’ll need a printout of the directions.

  A basket of fluffy lime green yarn catches my eye in the corner of the shop. Wouldn’t that be a cute color for a sweater to give Meg as a “welcome to the family” gift? Even though I’ve agreed to go wedding dress shopping with her, I should still make an effort to show that I’m happy for her and Christopher.

  If not for Meg, Amelia, and the girls coming over most Sundays—and Kelsey who works the front desk at the dealership—I’d spend my whole life surrounded by dudes. Which is fine, I guess. I love my boys, but sometimes I need a little girl time.

  I’m cradling my future purchases when the first of the students trickle in. I ignore the cell phone buzzing in my pocket and double up on my efforts to pass around the materials. I wave at a woman I recognize from special events at the store. Almost everyone else is a stranger to me.

  Though it requires more mental energy than I have to spare on a Thursday night, I put extra effort into remembering their names. Even if I never see any of these women again, it’s these personal touches that set Joleen’s shop apart from shopping at a chain or online. Just because I’m a last-minute sub doesn’t mean I have to act like one.

  I try using word associations. Brenda is wearing blue. Georgia is a peach. Carol has a voice like a carol singer. Kitty is . . . cunning like a cat. And Linda, well, she’s just lovely.

  Nope. There’s no way I’m going to remember these names. All of them remind me way too much of my dear, sweet mother in Wisconsin.

  Standing in front of the class, I ignore the cell phone that is buzzing once again. Go figure. No one ever wants to talk to me when I’m sitting around at home binge-watching crappy TV while I wait for my boyfriend to get home from work. The second I actually have something to do, I’m Miss Popular.

  Well, whoever it is, he or she—but knowing my limited contacts, it’s probably a he wanting to trade a player before Sunday’s games—can wait until after this class. Brenda and Linda didn’t pay a hundred bucks for an eight-week course to watch their substitute teacher broker fantasy deals the whole time. They’re here to learn how to properly do a scallop border around a potholder, and that’s what they’re going to do.

  Fifteen minutes into the class, I’ve turned off my phone and tucked it away in my purse without checking who was trying to reach me. I’m coaching Linda as she starts the board when the woman working the front desk pokes her head around the corner of the studio.

  She shoots me an apologetic look. “Harper, you have a phone call.”

  “It can wait,” I say through my teeth. After so many times of being duped into believing there was an emergency only to discover it was my fantasy football league-mates wanting to broker trades or Wade getting hysterical about proposing to Amelia, I’ve learned my lesson. “We’re busy here.”

  “It’s your boyfriend.” Her voice is nervous. “He said it was urgent.”

  My stomach drops to my knees. Oh God. Is he hurt? Did something happen to one of my brothers? He definitely wouldn’t call and say it was urgent unless it was.

  “You’d better go answer that,” Linda (or is it Brenda?) urges.

  “Hope everything is okay,” Georgia or Kitty adds.

  I walk hurriedly to the front desk, not wanting to give off any more alarm than has been raised by breaking into a full run.

  I’m still nearly out of breath when I pick up the line. “What’s wrong?”

  “Prince is out,” he says without preamble.

  My eyes widen. “WHAT?”

  “He apparently had some sort of an injury flare-up during warm-ups, and the team doctor pulled him out.” Brook lets out a heavy sigh. “This almost never happens.”

  “How much time do I have until kick-off?”

  “Five minutes. If you hurry, you can throw in one of your subs. Woodson and Luck don’t play until Sunday, but you’ll want to deactivate him stat.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” My heart is still pounding faster than it should, but at least I don’t feel like I’m about to have a heart attack. “Seriously. Thank you.”

  “Go get ‘em, North’s Lady.”

  I walk back to the studio room even faster and reach for my cell phone. My foot taps impatiently while it turns back on.

  “Everything okay?” Brenda or Linda asks.

  “Yes.” I struggle to come up with a story believable enough to merit an urgent phone call, but not so urgent that I can keep teaching. “The cat threw up. Just a hairball, but my boyfriend was worried it might be something more serious. He didn’t realize it happens. That’s what I get for always cleaning up after the cat.”

  “Poor kitty.”

  I nod mournfully, relieved my lie worked. It’s not a total lie. It actually happened once. Only, I’d been the one to call him because Blitz had made a horrible hacking, gagging noise and I freaked out. Brook had patiently explained that hairballs were a normal part of Blitz’s life, and all we could do was check to make sure it came out okay.

  My phone screen flashes on, and I swipe left then click to open up the fantasy app. Only two more minutes until kickoff. My stomach flips while I wait for the page to slowly load.

  With less than a minute to spare, I deactivate Prince and substitute Woodson. I let out a si
gh of relief. I can always decide whether to start him or Luck on Sunday, but this saves me from scoring a big fat zero from a wide receiver.

  My team’s perfect streak saved for the moment, I slip the phone back in my purse and plant a smile on my face. “Sorry about the interruption, ladies. I had to make a note to pick up some more hairball medicine on my way home.”

  “It’s what being a good cat mama is all about,” Georgia or Kitty says.

  I thank her for understanding. Clearing my throat, I instruct everyone to turn their directions over to the other side to start the next part of the project.

  BROOK ALREADY UNDERSTANDS he’s messed up when he drops the first bomb on me while we’re watching our recording of Monday night’s game half an hour after it’s already over.

  “You did what?” It’s at least the fifth time I’ve said that, but I’m still struggling to comprehend exactly what he’s saying. It’s unprecedented, unimaginable, and frankly uncalled for.

  Brook has the good grace to wince as he repeats himself. “I said you’d be a chaperone on our two road trips this season.”

  “Is that even allowed? By the league or commissioner or whoever monitors these sort of things.” My voice raises half an octave higher than normal, and I’m talking way too fast. It’s all I can do not to spiral into a full-blown panic attack. “I mean, it’s not like I’m a parent, or a member of the boosters, or even your actual wife. I could be a total creeper. It seems like there would be some sort of rule against this.”

  “I vouched for you.” He gently rubs my shoulder. “I assured them you were not only not a ‘total creeper,’ but an amazing person. Who is the best, nicest, most supportive girlfriend in the whole world. Who would never let us down even if we were a jerk who forgot to tell her about it sooner.”

  And now, after finishing his own high-speed rant, he has the audacity to give me an injured look like I might actually say no to him. I shake my head and let out a sigh. I never had a chance.

  “When do I have to be at the school to catch the bus?” He should have given me more notice. I need it to request time off work and get a prescription for antianxiety meds to take the edge off what might possibly be a mobilized version of high school hell.