Going for Two

by Laura Chapman

Brook collapses to the couch and flashes me a quick grin of relief. “I wasn’t sure we were going to pull that off, but they did it.”

  “Totally.” He picks up his tablet again, but before he can become completely absorbed in his game tape, I decide to tell him about our plans for the evening. “So . . . remember how much fun we had going to the Bon Jovi concert last spring?”

  “Yeah.” He opens up the app that stores all the tape he and the other coaches review almost every waking moment of their days. “It was a good time.”

  “Well . . . you’ve been working so hard lately, and you haven’t been able to spend much time with our friends lately . . . And you even told the girls we don’t go out as often as we should . . .” I trail off and wait for him to show some sign of interest, but all I get is a halfhearted nod. “We weren’t able to get tickets to Bon Jovi—I don’t even know if they’re anywhere in the area. But we did find a cover band that does a great impersonation of them. I thought we could all go.”

  Brook doesn’t react right away. He finishes watching a segment, then turns. “That sounds like a lot of fun, but I can’t tonight. Sorry.”

  I blink a couple of times before I fully comprehend what he’s said. “You’re too busy?”

  “I have a lot of tape to get through.”

  “But you don’t play again until Friday.” Before he can go into explaining how creating a game plan works for the millionth time, I hurriedly add, “I know it takes a lot of work to prepare for any game. I support that, and I’m super proud of you for putting the effort into it on top of still having a full teaching schedule. But . . . can’t you come out for a couple of hours? We don’t have to stay for the whole night. We can just watch them do part of a set.”

  He lets out a heavy sigh and directs a frown my way. “Look, I appreciate the sentiment. But I can’t. Some things are more important than going out and drinking with your friends on the weekend.”

  My eyes widen. Does he even realize what he’s said? Or is he too absorbed in his damn game tape? “Some things,” I say coolly, “like spending time with your family and friends, are more important than winning a game.”

  “This isn’t only about winning a game.” He shakes his head and goes back to the tablet. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but people are counting on me to watch this tape and come up with a plan before our meeting tomorrow. I can’t let all of them down because there’s a cover band playing tonight.”

  “I have people who count on me.”

  “To file paperwork on rich people’s cars.” I suck in a breath. Because Brook is (usually) a smart and perceptive man, he cringes. “I didn’t mean that. I know you work hard and your job is about more than filing papers. You’re important to the dealership’s operations. People depend on you. You just don’t understand everything involved in getting ready for a game.”

  “Because I’m too dumb?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth.” He pulls the baseball cap off his head and runs his fingers through his hair, pausing to knead the back of his neck. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m feeling a lot of pressure right now, and I didn’t mean to snap at you. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Obviously.”

  He shakes his head and tosses his hat aside. “I know your heart is in the right place. I know this probably isn’t what you were expecting when we came into this football season. It’s not what I’d counted on either. But, it’s the way things are. I have to do my job. We’ll have time for concerts and nights out with our friends another time.”

  “Don’t worry. I get it.” I push myself up from the couch and head for our bedroom. At the doorway, I look over my shoulder. He hasn’t moved from the couch, but he’s staring at me. “I hope you also understand I’m not going to spend my whole life waiting for you to have five minutes of downtime between football games and parent-teacher meetings.”

  “Harper.” He runs a hand through his hair. “This is my job.”

  “I get it.” I swallow hard and fight the overwhelming urge to break down. “And that’s fine if this is how you want to spend your life. But it’s not how I’m going to do it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I guess I figured that when we decided to start a life together, we’d actually be spending it together. Not just at craft fairs and on bus rides or at football games.” I let out a shudder of a breath. Brook stands and crosses the room. Instead of coming to me, he reaches for the door to the guest bedroom. He hesitates when I say, “I understand this is your job, but I didn’t realize it was going to be your whole life, too. I love you, but we both have to make an effort if this life of ours is going to work.”

  Brook doesn’t say anything, but goes into the spare room and closes the door. I consider going after him, but shake my head. No. We need time. And I’ve already said enough. If I follow him, I might say something else I’ll regret.

  Following his lead, I go into the bedroom. I gulp back at the knot building in my throat and fight against the wave of sadness and disappointment crashing through me. No. I’m not going to do this. I’m not going to have a pity party. I said I want more than sitting at home in my life, and I’m going to do it.

  I punch in a group text and sit on the bed, waiting for a response. Despite the sadness and irritation flowing through me, I only tell everyone that Brook isn’t able to come and would anyone be willing to let me hitch a ride to the bar? (I’m perfectly capable of driving myself, but I’m in the mood to get a little past the point of tipsy. I can’t do that and be a responsible driver.) I left out the part about Brook being far too important for the likes of us mere non-head coaches, because even though I’m upset, I meant what I said. I love him.

  My phone flashes a few seconds later with a short reply.

  J.J.: That sucks. I can pick you up on my way.

  Me: Thanks. Let me know when you’re on your way, and I’ll be waiting.

  J.J.: Want to go now?

  Like he wouldn’t believe. I text back an affirmative and hurriedly finish putting on my makeup and doing my hair. I don’t particularly care if I’m dolled up to the nines, but I don’t want to look like someone who spent her entire Saturday in sweatpants crocheting.

  I change into something a little more appropriate for going to watch a hair band play. Don’t get excited. I didn’t tease my hair, pull on some ripped up acid-washed jeans (are those still a thing?), or turn one of my Packers shirts into a crop top. But I am wearing a short dress with some leggings, and a pair of sparkling ballet flats. And . . . turning to inspect my rear end in our full length mirror, I look good. I’ve barely finished applying my lip gloss when J.J. texts to say he’s downstairs.

  Pulling my shoulders back and taking a deep breath, I grab my purse and step into the living room. Brook is still in the spare room, so I leave a Post-It on the TV telling him where I’ve gone.

  “Thanks,” I say, slipping into J.J.’s car. “I really appreciate this.”

  “No problem. Sorry to hear about Brook. The guy needs to find some time to take a break. We haven’t seen much of him lately.” And if possible, J.J. seems a little bummed about that fact. Maybe I’m just overly sensitive about all of this now, or I want to believe I’m not the only one who misses Brook, but it’s kind of sweet. And . . . perhaps it’s a sign that J.J. is growing up a little.

  “He should be around for the games tomorrow. He’ll be glad to see you.”

  He may not be so happy to see me, but whatever. We’ll both get over it eventually. It was a little fight. Couples get into spats all the time. And in the grand scheme of things, it probably had to happen. We needed to have this conversation at some point—the one about what each of us expects out of our relationship. If we can’t find common ground, well . . . I sniff away a sob that threatens to come out. I can’t let myself consider that possibility. We’ll get past this. Eventually.

  I say little during our drive. Periodically he looks over at me, like he’s waiting for me to tell him something. Correctly readi
ng my silence, a few blocks away from the bar, J.J. says, “You know he’s crazy about you, right?”

  “I do.” But what’s the point of someone loving you, but not being there for you? Maybe you do need more than love. Or at least maybe you need to see and experience it every day. “You’re hardly the best person to be having this conversation with.”

  His jaw tightens. “You’re right. Sorry.”

  “You’re hardly the best person to be having this conversation with,” I repeat. “But that’s not going to stop me.” I clear my throat. A lump seems to have formed there sometime between my apartment and here. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for this. I’m not sure I can live my whole life with someone who is already married to something else.”

  “Brook isn’t married,” J.J. says slowly, like he’s explaining something to a small child.

  “He’s married to his job, to football.” I clear my throat again. “It’s who he is. I get that, and I admire him for it. But I’m not sure I can make it my life, too.”

  “Aw, jeez, Harper.” J.J. shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He adjusts the strap of his seatbelt. Sparing me another glance, he lets out a sigh. “Shit. I can’t believe you’re going to make me say this.”

  “What?”

  He sighs again. “You’re probably the coolest chick I’ve ever met. I mean, you can hang. Even with all that crocheting and girly stuff you like to do, you know your football. And you can throw back beers. And you’re smart. Maybe one of the smartest people I know. You could probably do anything you wanted to do.”

  His words bring the lump back into my throat, and a dull ache settles in my stomach. “But what if I don’t want to put my relationship on hiatus every fall? What if I want more?”

  J.J. shrugs. “I guess that’s something you have to figure out. But I’m not the person to help you do that.”

  He’s right. I’m the only person who can decide what I want to do with my life. I’m the one who has to choose whether or not I’m as committed to the life Brook and I have started building as I believed I was.

  “Hey, J.J.” I hesitate then place my hand on his shoulder. He’s actually been a friend to me tonight. Our truce might not be long-term, but I appreciate this moment for what it was and what it must have cost his ego. “Thank you for listening.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “No.” I squeeze his arm. “There’s no way to say this without it sounding like a backhanded compliment, but . . . it’s like you’ve become a new person the past month.”

  He shrugs. “Honestly, the business with the car dealership has been a bit of a wake-up call.”

  “Really?”

  “I guess I realize how lucky I am to have that job. I wasn’t a great student. I don’t have skills to fall back on. I have no other experience.” He stares at the road, signaling to make a turn. “I need to start taking my life more seriously. Otherwise, I’m not going to have anything left.” We pull into the parking lot outside of the bar. “Are you still up for this?”

  I nod. “We could both use a night of fun.”

  DOES ANYTHING BEAT throwing back a few beers with some of your best buds while rocking out to classic ’80s rock? Answer: No. Unless it involves more beers with more buds and more music, which is totally happening right now. Gio and his wife are here along with both of my brothers and Wade and Amelia. Brook’s sister doesn’t completely buy my excuse that Brook is busy, but I’m not about to pull her into our spat.

  And for the moment, I don’t even care. The band is hot. I mean, not really. These guys are all well past their prime (harsh, but I’ve had enough beer to call ’em like I see ’em), but they’re putting up one hell of an effort. They’ve worked their way through half of Bon Jovi’s greatest hits, Poison, and more. They sound good, and they have a lot of energy. It’s impossible not to dance, which is why I’ve barely been off the floor since they started playing. It’s been such a long time since I went dancing. I forgot how much fun it can be. And fortunately, the non-party poopers who came have been good at humoring me. J.J. and Amelia have been out on the dance floor with me all night, and it’s been a blast.

  The band is halfway through their second set when half a dozen hulking guys in sweats saunter through the front door. My eyes widen. Are they—

  “No shit,” J.J. mutters. “That’s our offensive line.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I take a closer look at the guys who are being carded by a hulking bouncer who’s almost tiny in comparison. “Are they supposed to be out on a game night?”

  J.J. shrugs. “It’s probably not encouraged. It wasn’t back in our day. That’s probably why they came here instead of somewhere downtown. Less chance of getting into some shenanigans that will get them in trouble with Coach.”

  “Wow.” I’m about to ask another question when the opening riff of “Livin’ on a Prayer” comes on. “Oh shit.”

  “This is our jam!” Amelia pulls me toward the front of the crowd. J.J. laughs and follows us.

  A little less able to find our rhythm than we were two beers ago, we take to throwing our arms in the air and bouncing up and down. I’m not entirely sure how else you’re supposed to dance to this kind of music, but I’m not going to worry about it either. We’re not trying to audition for a Broadway show or anything. All that matters is we’re having fun.

  The band switches into “Paradise City.” Definitely unsure of how one is supposed to work this song, Amelia and I give up and turn to head back to our table to check in with our friends (and say hello to our beers).

  A strong hand clamps down on mine and pulls me to a stop. “Don’t go yet. Dance with us.”

  I turn on my heel about to give the guy a piece of my mind but stop. It’s Mason Briggs—the heart and soul of Nebraska’s offensive line. I catch Amelia’s wide-eyed stare, but she’s not moving either. I mean, what? Is this really happening? It would be good of me to give these guys a lecture about not invading strangers’ personal space, but they weren’t really doing anything wrong.

  J.J. steps in and introduces himself to the players. It takes most of them a couple of minutes to figure out exactly who he is, but once they do, they invite him to hang out with them for the rest of the night. Shrugging, Amelia and I change our minds about leaving the floor and do our best to groove to Guns N’ Roses.

  IF I OPEN MY EYES, the world will spin. It’s easier to leave them shut. Even when Brook’s alarm goes off, and I feel him lean over to check on me, it’s easier to pretend I’m asleep. I can’t handle the conversation that inevitably awaits us. Not when the threat of my head falling off at any moment is this strong.

  What was I thinking getting that drunk? I’m in my late twenties for crying out loud. Didn’t I learn my lesson the last time I went out for a ridiculous night of drinking with the guys from work? I’d ended up with a deep-tissue ankle sprain. This time I lucked out. I’d only ended the night with my pride severely wounded and my relationship in turmoil. Brook must have been annoyed last night when he received the SOS text from J.J. Despite my best intentions to get my own ride, he’d shown up just before the bars closed to pick me up. He’d seemed . . . mad? Irritated? Confused maybe, which is weird. Regardless, he couldn’t have been happy. Maybe a sprained ankle would have been better.

  What a mess. At least I hadn’t gotten completely drunk to the point of being sick. And I made some friends. After a few rounds of beer, I even worked up enough nerve to give the offensive line a tiny lecture on the importance of treating women—and everyone in general—with respect, no matter how big of a post-game high they were coming off of or how much they’d had to drink. I’d even gone on a tiny rant about how football isn’t the only thing in life, and that there are other memories out there to make. Especially if their significant others clearly were in need of some attention. (I’ll admit. I was projecting a bit.)

  Yes, it had been a good time. But it had been hollow knowing how much Brook and I had left unresolved. Where do we begin? Brook needs someone
who needs less, and I need someone who can give more. How do you find a middle ground when you’re not even on the same continent?

  Week Nine Recap: North’s Lady Makes Stunning Comeback

  North’s Lady was out for redemption this week after sustaining a crushing loss in week eight. Initially, it appeared her attempts at victory might be stomped before she started when her opponent started the week with a healthy twenty-point lead coming out of the Thursday night game. Thanks to a stunning performance from her wide receivers and running backs on Sunday, North’s Lady was back in contention going into Monday.

  Todd Northwood had another future hall of famer week during the Monday night game, sealing the deal and bringing home another W for North’s Lady.

  Now we release a collective breath and thank the Fantasy gods for once again shining down brightly on her team. Let’s keep the streak alive, North’s Lady, so you can once again be the darling of the Mega Ballerz. We’ll breathe a lot more easily if you can avoid any close games.

  Record: 8-1

  Chapter Sixteen

  I PRETEND TO BE ASLEEP when Brook gets home even later than usual on Tuesday night. I sneak a quick peek at the clock, and am surprised it’s almost midnight. He didn’t tell me he’d be home so late. Then again, we haven’t exactly been communicating well the past couple of days.

  We’ve barely spoken since the blowout on Saturday night. On Sunday, we had an apartment full of league members. I’d managed to talk my brothers and Wade into staying for the night game. Brook had only raised his eyebrows when he overheard me telling J.J. he was welcome to stay late, too. We’d still played our traditional Sunday night song. For this week, I’d “randomly” selected one of Journey’s angrier power anthems (“Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)”). Brook’s cheek had twitched a little, but I’ve given him no reason to suspect I’m following his MO from last year by rigging the playlist. Maybe it was petty of me to make the dig, but I did it.