“You’ll do it?” He looks at me hopefully.
“Sure.”
“I’ll forward you the emails with the information,” he rushes out, grabbing my hand, linking his fingers with mine. “I should have told you sooner. I forgot until our meeting today.”
“It’ll be fine. You and the other chaperones will be there, too. It’s not like you volunteered me to coordinate the whole thing.” He winces, and my spine tenses again. “Tell me I’m not going to be the only one making sure these kids don’t kill each other.”
“You won’t be the only one,” he assures me. “But . . .”
“But what?”
“I kind of told the boosters you’d help run the fall craft fair.”
My eyes narrow into slits. “Help how?”
“With arranging some of the details.” Brook’s hand tightens on mine, before I can pull it loose. “I know, I know. I should have asked you about that, too, but it just came up. I guess Pax’s wife was one of the lead people in charge. With everything going on, it seemed like we might need another set of hands. And since you’re so organized and creative . . .”
“Fine, just get me in touch with whomever I need to be in touch with,” I mumble.
He lifts my chin and plants a light kiss on my lips. “You’re a saint.”
“And you’re going to owe me so much when this football season is over.” I slip out of his hold and try to focus on the game playing on the TV. “How did I end up becoming a PTA mom when I don’t have any kids?”
“Because you love me.”
“It’s a good thing I do.”
Brook chuckles lightly. “I think the same thing every day.”
If he thinks being cute is going to get him off the hook, he’s probably right. It’s entirely impossible to stay mad at him. So instead of complaining about any more of it, I watch the game unfold on the screen even though I already know how it ends—with a third consecutive victory for me and my fantasy team.
Maybe this—my helping out more with Brook’s team and exercising extreme patience—is my penance to the fantasy football gods and goddesses in exchange for victory. Or it’s the love of a man who is practically perfect, when he isn’t volunteering me for active duty. Either way, the imminent headaches might ultimately be worth the trouble.
Who knows? Maybe this will be fun. Maybe I’ll embrace the whole thing and get one of those buttons that football moms wear on the sidelines. Only instead of having one of the players’ faces on it, I’ll have Brook’s photo. Yeah, I’m definitely going to make one of those.
And I suppose it’ll be nice to spend extra time with Brook.
Week Three Recap: North’s Lady Goes 3-0
Despite a rough start with star wide receiver Matthew Prince being pulled only minutes before his Thursday night game (pulled hamstring during warm-ups), North’s Lady managed to score another impressive win over her opponent. Starting rookie receiver Shawn Woodson in lieu of Matthew Prince paid off. Her backup wide receiver made nine catches and scored two touchdowns. It must be nice to have that kind of depth on her receiving chart.
Some people say Defenses win championships, and in this case, the Denver Defense won North’s Lady the game. With two forced fumbles, one blocked punt, one interception, a returned touchdown, and holding an opponent to zero, her defense put up one of the most impressive performances seen in recent history.
RECORD: 3-0
Chapter Nine
OKAY, THIS ISN’T SO bad. I glance around the yellow school bus, appreciating that the green faux leather seats appear to be clean. Maybe they were even replaced over the summer. The air does kind of have that new bus smell to it. And even though I’m just a lowly chaperone, I’ve been granted permission to sit next to Brook for the drive halfway across the state. He even gave me the window seat.
Really, my job is simple. I have to make sure the boys are fed and on the bus before it leaves. The first should be easy. They’re teenagers. It’s not like I have to cram their mouths full of pureed beef and sweet potatoes. And Brook says the boys are usually so tired by the time the game is over, they’re ready to crash on the bus for the drive home.
I’m essentially a placeholder to ease the minds of the parents who weren’t able to make the road trip. And depending on how you look at it, being a chaperone is more of a perk. I’m able to go to Brook’s game without having to spend money on gas or find someone to ride along with me.
Rolling his wide shoulders, Brook leans back against the seat. He turns his head to the right and grins. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
I shrug. “It’s not so bad. I was trying to remember the last time I went on a school trip.”
“High school?”
“Probably.” I was in the marching band, and we spent most weekends in September and October driving to invitational marching competitions around Wisconsin, Minnesota, Michigan, and occasionally Iowa. We chartered buses. The kinds with toilets in the back, reclining seats, and TV screens. It’s a little weird we band nerds traveled in better style than the football team. I suppose we were stuck on board for longer periods of time. Giving us bathrooms and in-ride movies was probably the only way to maintain some sense of order.
I glance behind us to find the players still sitting quietly. A few of the young men are talking in hushed voices, but most are wearing headphones and staring out the window. No, we were nowhere near this well behaved.
“I can’t believe how quiet everyone is,” I whisper. “On our band trips, you practically had to yell to be heard. The latest, hottest couple was usually making out in the back, and we were playing ‘never have I ever’ and hoping none of our parents or teachers could hear us.”
He chuckles softly. “I remember band trips. They’re a totally different experience.”
That’s right. I keep forgetting that Brook played trumpet in his high school band. We didn’t have very many slashies—band and football players—at my school. It seems like it’d be a lot of work.
I wonder how he managed. I’m about to ask him, when I notice that he has his tablet out, and he’s reviewing footage of the opposing team while carrying on a conversation with me. Well, I suppose that answers that question. I forgot I was dealing with Brook. He can multitask like no one.
Instead of distracting Brook to curb my boredom, I glance around the bus to watch the activity. I am the chaperone; I probably should monitor the rest of the passengers. The remaining seats in the front of the bus are filled with the other coaches and chaperones. Like Brook, the other coaches have their heads buried in game footage and playbooks. Unlike me, the other chaperones seem more than capable of staying occupied with books or mobile devices.
If only I’d thought to bring my crochet hook and yarn. I could be mass producing scarves for Amelia and me to sell at the craft fair.
I turn my attention toward the back of the bus. Most of the athletes are still quietly listening to their music or staring at their cell phones. Like the coaches, they’re probably reviewing game tape. Or maybe they’re watching TV like the other chaperones, who are catching up on the latest episodes of Real Housewives.
One of the players seated a few rows behind catches my notice. He’s wearing a neck brace.
I can’t resist nudging Brook lightly and nodding toward the player. “What’s his deal?”
Brook tears his eyes away from the screen and glances back. “That’s Noble. Jayce Noble.”
“The wide receiver?” He nods. I frown at his brace. “I don’t remember anyone getting injured at the game. Did it happen at practice?”
“Nope.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“His mom is afraid he got hit a little too hard during practice.” Brook releases a heavy sigh. “The doctor gave him the all clear, said there was no sign of a concussion, but she wants him to wear that for the next couple of weeks.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s obsessed with worrying. Like several of the mothers.�
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I’m taken back by the irritation in his voice. If my memory also serves me correctly, Jayce lost his father over the summer after battling cancer. He’s the oldest of her sons. It makes sense she would be extra concerned with his well-being.
Brook catches the surprise on my face and closes his tablet cover. “That didn’t come out right.” He sighs and reaches to massage the back of his neck. “I can appreciate her concern. Even without everything going on in their family, I’d understand where she’s coming from. There’s new research, lots of stories coming out about the long-term effects of concussions and brain injuries. It’s scary stuff. And as a parent, it’s your job to worry about your kids. Why wouldn’t you freak out when your son takes a hit?”
Earlier this week I read an article about a former professional player who was recently diagnosed with early-age dementia. Some of his doctors believed there’s a link to the injuries he received earlier in his career. There are still a lot of unknowns in his case, but it does raise the question.
“Did your parents worry about you?” I ask.
“No more than any other parent on my team. But it was a different time.” Brook grips his chin. “We didn’t know what we do now.”
“Would it have changed anything?”
“For my parents? Maybe. For me? Nah.” He taps his chin three times and releases his hold. “Football was my world, even when I was a kid. I would’ve found a way to talk my parents into it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Sure. Besides, a lot of jobs come with occupational hazards. That’s why this research is important. We can make the game safer, or at least take out some of the risks.”
“So you would’ve been willing to take the risk, because it’s an occupational hazard?”
“I suppose. Then again, I always figured I’d end up on the sidelines.”
I hesitate a moment before posing my next question. “Will you feel any differently when you’re a father?”
“Do you mean will I worry about them playing football?” He shrugs. “As a parent, there are a lot of things to worry about. Mostly, I hope our kids will make their own decisions and become their own people. As their dad, it’ll be my job to keep them as safe as possible whether they’re playing football or in the band.”
Brook always has a sensible answer for everything. If he wasn’t already the world’s best teacher and coach, I’d push him into becoming a motivational speaker. Or maybe he could go into politics and talk some sense into the world. I would be a really good First Lady. The kind who gets involved in programs. Or maybe I can run for office, and he can be my First Husband—or whatever you call it.
“What about you?” he asks. “Would you try to talk our kid into joining the band instead of going out for the football team? To avoid injury?”
“I’ll have you know, band can be dangerous, too. I once had my foot run over by an equipment cart during practice,” I say, folding my arms across. “I had to use crutches for two weeks.”
Which hadn’t been as bad as the sprained ankle I sustained last fall. It served me right for excessive celebration.
Brook’s eyes crinkle, and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh at my misfortune from years past. Or maybe he’s making the same connection to my sprained ankle.
He clears his throat. “So that’s a no? Because band can be just as dangerous?”
“Hopefully when the time comes, I’ll be able to push aside any reservations I might have about contact sports or the arts. And I’ll support our children with whatever they want to do. As long as it’s legal and doesn’t hurt anyone,” I add as an afterthought.
Brook lets out his long-suppressed laugh. “Yeah, let’s try to keep our kids from doing anything that requires us to lawyer up or post bail.”
“No bank robbery or arson. Got it.”
Brook links his fingers with mine, then turns back to reviewing his game plan. I turn my attention to the window and daydream about what Brook’s and my future children will be like as I watch the Nebraska countryside roll by.
MY STOMACH LURCHES when a defender from the other team lays out one of our receivers. I check his number and let out a sigh of relief. Good. He isn’t the player with the nervous mother. My attention stays firmly focused on him as he slowly sits up and shakes off the offers of assistance from other players.
Once he regains his footing, Brook motions for him to run off the field. He sends out another player in his place. While the player doesn’t look too thrilled to be called out of action, he’ll feel better if he takes a few minutes to catch his breath.
While the officials move the chains down field, Brook stares at the field a few seconds before signaling the quarterback. He flashes a few fast hand motions. With less than two minutes left in the game and our team ahead by a field goal, we could do with a touchdown. It would mean the difference between winning the game outright or biting our nails while the opponent takes possession of the ball.
I hate that. It’s why I haven’t bothered trying to get a manicure in weeks. I’ll only chew it to pieces by the end of Friday night.
The opposing team’s band loudly plays a variation of “December 1963,” and I narrowly resist the urge to sing along with the chorus. Hopefully no one notices my toes tapping along to the “oh what a night.” I’d hate for any of our fans to mistake my enthusiasm for a well-played oldie as being a traitor.
Our boys break out of the huddle and line up to snap the ball.
“Red nine. Red nine,” the quarterback calls out from side to side, and one of the wide receivers goes into motion behind him.
He claps his hands twice and the center tosses the ball back to him. He hands it off to a running back. No—it’s a fake. He’s actually holding onto it while the running back heads toward the goal line with two defenders hot on his trail. The receiver also runs for the goal line.
The quarterback dances to the side, narrowly avoiding a hit from a linebacker. He steps back when another defender lunges toward him. His head flips back and forth, and he sees the same thing everyone in the stands does: no clear. Out of options, he fakes a pass down field and tucks the ball under his arm while he runs.
He crosses the end zone and falls on the ball a second before one of the safeties catches up to him. I flinch as he takes the hit and everyone around me cheers.
“Touchdown, Warriors,” the man next to me shouts. The fans in our small visitors’ section exchange high fives and hugs while our quarterback shakes off the effects of the late hit. He runs off the field without giving the slightest indication that he might be hurting.
Brook pats the player on his helmet and sends out the kicking unit. He and the special teams coach flash another series of hand gestures, and I keep my eyes focused on the players. Something is up. They don’t usually get this excited on the sidelines when they’re going to kick a point after.
I hold my breath, my eyes remaining focused as the center snaps the ball to the player kneeling. The kicker takes a running step forward, but at last minute the ball holder turns and thrusts the ball into the kicker’s arms. Before the opponents can blink, the kicker runs straight for the end zone, earning the surprise two-point conversion.
Both sidelines erupt. The opponents into a crumpled fury of disbelief, ours into triumphant celebration.
“I knew it,” I say to myself, a smile playing on my lips. I knew they were up to something.
Our fans, who were still congratulating themselves for the touchdown, are stunned into silence. For a brief moment, they stare in awe at what we just watched play out. When the cheers erupt at last, they’re deafening. The man beside me pounds my back, nearly knocking the breath out of me.
The kicker receives a flurry of hugs, but tears himself away long enough to point to our sideline, to Brook, who points back. I can just make out the smile on his face, which warms my heart even while I regain my breath.
“Damn.” The man next to me lets out a whistle. “Just when you think you’ve seen everything, M
acLaughlin always has a trick up his sleeve. He’s a brilliant offensive mastermind.”
“Glad that one panned out,” someone else says. “I wonder why he didn’t just take the field goal.”
“We would’ve won either way I suppose.”
“It’s good practice,” I muse.
Several sets of eyes land on me, as I realize I maybe should have kept my mouth shut.
“Practice for what?” my neighbor asks.
I shrug. “For the playoffs. For State. Making a two-point conversion in one of those games might be the difference between winning and going to the next level or losing and being out.”
“And when better to practice than when you’re under the extreme pressure of an opposing team?” The man next to me nods.
The defense takes the field for the final minute and holds the opponents to three and out. With thirty seconds left on the board, our quarterback catches the snap and takes a knee, letting the clock run out.
“What a class act,” my watching buddy says. “We’re damn lucky to have him leading our boys.”
“Our boys can learn a lot from him,” another parent agrees.
And when I don’t think my heart could swell any bigger with love and pride for Brook, he turns to look up at the stands, just like he has every other week, and pats his heart.
Yes, we’re damn lucky to have him. All of us. I need to remember that—even when I’m frustrated.
I WAKE UP PANTING LIKE I’ve run a marathon. It was bound to happen eventually. I didn’t expect it to go down quite this way. After spending more than a year following Todd Northwood’s progress on the field, and having the occasional daydream about what he might be doing to prepare for the big game, my mind was naturally going to make the jump.
I just didn’t expect my first sex dream about a professional football player to be quite so graphic or leave me quite so breathless.
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