Going for Two

by Laura Chapman

  Another song blasts through the speakers, and I bolt up in my seat. “That’s Mike the Cobra’s song.”

  Sure enough, the Cobra marches toward the ring, brown smudges staining the pits of his white undershirt, his greasy hair slicked back.

  I cup my mouth and shout “boo” at the screen, which is almost as much fun as cheering for Randal.

  My phone buzzes with a new text.

  Gio: Please tell me you’re watching.

  I roll my eyes heavenward.

  Me: Obviously.

  Gio: This is going to be so awesome.

  Me: Totally. Think Randal can beat the Cobra a second night in a row?

  Gio: Duh.

  Giggling, I tuck the phone away and stare at the screen as the two men circle each other, neither saying a word. The Cobra moves forward, poised to attack when another song interrupts the near fight.

  “Oh. My. God.” My eyes widen as one of the managers—basically a guy hired to seem like he represents one or several of the wrestlers, when he’s really an actor—strolls out in a suit. This one “represents” another high-profile wrestler, Sir Frangelico. “This. Is. Everything.”

  Standing between the two oiled, and now topless men, the manager challenges them to a match later this evening, with his client, “Siiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr Ffrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnn-geeeeelllllllllllllllllllllll-iiiiii-ccooooooooooooooo.”

  “YES!” I bounce up and down on the bed. Blitz meows in protest and jumps down. He strolls out the door with his tail up. I’d try to soothe his little ego, but I’m too excited. “YES! YES! YES!”

  I start typing another message to Gio when I catch a figure out of the corner of my eye. I barely stifle a scream when I register who’s standing in the doorway.

  “Am I interrupting something?” Brook leans against the door frame. He’s cradling a container of mini cupcakes. My interest in the baked goods will have to wait until I figure out exactly how much of this scene my boyfriend has witnessed.

  “I’m watching—”

  “Wrestling,” he finishes for me, his eyebrows raised.

  “Yeah.” I flip the TV off and slam the laptop shut. “I turned on the TV and there it was. I had no idea what was going on even . . .” I trail off, because there’s no point in lying when I’m not fooling anyone.

  “Harper . . .”

  “Yes, dear?” I give him my best attempt at bedroom eyes with hopes they’ll distract him.

  He shakes his head. “You’re such a dork.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but stop short. What can I say? He’s right. I’m a total dork. Have been my whole life, and probably will be for the rest of it.

  He crosses the room and leans over to tenderly kiss me. “And I love you for it.”

  Well then. I sit up a little straighter and turn my attention to the sweets. “What did you bring me?”

  “Cupcakes.” He hands me the container. “You’ve been making so many treats for my players and our league-mates, I figured you were due for a treat. But I can’t bake so I got help from professionals.”

  “Good call,” I tease, eyeing the selection.

  “Then I wasn’t sure which one to get you.” He removes his hat and tosses it onto the dresser. “So I got the sampler pack.”

  Who needs a dozen roses when you can have a dozen cupcakes? There’s a little of everything. Chocolate, vanilla, peanut butter, fruit blends. I have no idea where I’ll even start sampling these goodies.

  “You’re home early and you brought me treats.” I clutch them to my heart. “I’m living a fairy tale.”

  Struggling to contain a laugh, Brook turns his attention to the papers I have spread out in front of me on the bed. The smirk falls off his face, and his eyebrows furrow. Too late I realize that in my rush to hide my new wrestling addiction I forgot to stash away my notes with “Reasons Not to Close the Lincoln Location” written in bold letters across the top.

  “What’s that?” he asks in a clipped tone.

  I move to slip the papers back into the folder, but stop. It’s too late to cover up what’s happening now. Either I come clean now or risk alienating Brook from something huge that’s going on in my life. How would I feel if he kept something this big from me? No, I need to cut Brook into this situation rather than out.

  “I didn’t want to worry you, but . . .” I dive into a brief explanation of what is going on at the dealership, and all of the unknowns. He listens wordlessly, casually running his thumb over my knuckles. “It’s nothing compared to everything going on in your world—”

  Brook squeezes my hand. “It matters.” His jaw clenches. “Is this the last of the secrets you’ve been keeping?”

  “I haven’t been keeping secrets.” Taking exception to his question, I pull my hand back, but his grip tightens.

  “Harper.” My name is a sigh of exasperation, a prayer for patience rather than an address. “I can appreciate that your boss asked you to keep quiet about this. I understand Wade wanting to keep the proposal quiet until it happened. I can even wrap my head around you not going public with this wrestling business.”

  “But?” I prompt him, because I can tell there’s one coming.

  “But unless it’s a matter of life and death or national security, couldn’t I maybe make the cut on your list of people who are on your need-to-know and get-to-know lists.” He releases my hands to cup my cheeks. “Secrets are sometimes a necessary evil, but I’d rather we not have any between us.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” His eyes search mine.

  “Okay.” I nod. “Unless the president calls to fill me in on his plans for creating peace in the Middle East or a rogue team of agents kidnap Blitz and threaten to cause him harm unless I do as they say, I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Good.” His lips twitch. “Any other secrets?”

  I shake my head, and he looks relieved. “Do you have anything?”

  “Well . . .”

  Oh—there is something. Interested, I set the cupcakes aside and sit up even straighter. “Spill.”

  “It’s not a big deal or anything.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But I’ve been getting some calls and emails.”

  “Calls and emails,” I repeat, nodding slowly. “What kind of calls and emails?”

  “They’re from some other schools—high schools and colleges—wondering what my plans are for next season.” He hurriedly adds, “I told them I can’t even consider anything else right now while the team needs me. And, of course, we’d have to talk.”

  He falls silent, but he stares into my eyes. He’s probably waiting for a response.

  “That’s kind of amazing.” I take his hand. “There are colleges interested? Are they local or out of state? Do any of the offers interest you? What—”

  “Harper.” He squeezes my hand. “While I appreciate your . . . enthusiasm, can we just get through this season before you start planning our relocation to Western Nebraska, or Michigan, or Seattle—”

  “You’ve had calls from someone in Seattle?” I shake my head when Brook gives me a “let it go for now” look. He’s right. There’s no point in discussing this right now. For all we know, Brook will be offered the head coaching job full-time next year. Still, it’s kind of exciting to imagine going somewhere new. Especially with everything in chaos at the dealership, it would be good to have a backup plan.

  Releasing Brook’s hand, I reach for a cupcake as Brook fluffs his pillow and reclines against it. “So, are we going to finish watching this wrestling match or what?”

  My hand freezes halfway to my mouth. “You want to watch the rest of the wrestling match?”

  “Sure, why not.” He folds his hands behind his head. “It might be nice to watch something I don’t actually care about.”

  We’ll have to see about that. I flip on the TV and wonder how long it will be before Brook is half as engrossed by this wrestling business as I’ve become.

  MRS. MACLAUGHLIN WATCHES me c
losely as I dump eight times the usual amount of cocoa powder in a giant punch bowl. It seemed like the best utensil to use when I’ve been tasked with making eight times as many brownies as I usually do when I whip up a batch. I’ll still have to bake the eight pans of brownies separately—I’d rather make sure these turn out right the first time than have to do this again later tonight—but at least I can manage one of the steps, the mixing, only once. This might still backfire on me, but I’m willing to risk it.

  The football team is having a pre-semi-final spaghetti dinner tomorrow night for the players, parents, and coaches. Brook had asked me to bake some cookies, but at last minute, he found out some of the other treat makers weren’t going to come through.

  I pour in eight times the sugar, eight times the baking powder—which gives me a moment of panic with visions of chocolate exploding in the oven filling my head—and the rest of the dry ingredients. I carefully measure out four times the necessary oil and add applesauce, because even a little substitute is healthier than none. Or maybe it won’t make a difference, but it’s worth a shot.

  And now for the fun part. I pull out two cartons of eggs and go to work cracking eight times the regular amount of eggs to pour into the mixture.

  “Are you sure I can’t help?” Mrs. MacLaughlin asks, chewing on the side of her cheek. “You’re doing a bunch of work, and I’m sitting here doing nothing like a common slacker.”

  “I have this pretty much covered, but thank you.” Glancing up, I catch the eagerness on her face, her obvious desire to do something to help the cause. “I have a jumbo batch of Rice Krispies bars coming up next. I’m in serious need of arm power. Know where I might be able to find some?”

  She curls up her arms, even thinner than mine, and flexes. “I have plenty to spare.”

  I chuckle and find myself smiling in spite of the situation. An hour ago, I would’ve doubted I’d be able to laugh this week, let alone today.

  Before he could tell me it was yet another task normally assigned to Coach Paxton’s wife, I agreed to deal with it, and I pushed him out the door to go watch football with some of the assistant coaches. It was that or scream at him.

  Yes, he’s going to owe me a lot after this season. I realize love means not keeping score, and that’s not what I’m doing. But I still wouldn’t mind leveraging this series of good deeds—not to mention his essentially ignoring me for half of the fall—toward getting him to take off a long weekend or even a whole week during the school’s winter break. Aside from the overnight away games, we haven’t been anywhere together in a while. It would do us both a lot of good to spend a few days relaxing.

  If this fantasy season continues as it’s gone, I’ll have an extra pile of cash for us to spend on the trip. It might not be enough to hit-up Cancun or Tahiti, but we could probably manage a trip to the Rockies or Las Vegas.

  The last egg cracked, I pour the bowl of yolks and whites into the giant vat of chocolate. Mrs. MacLaughlin shakes her head while I fire up the hand mixer to work through the sludge.

  “I can’t believe my son asked you to do all this, and without much notice.” She sighs and snags an M&M. “Actually, I can. This reminds me of the time he forgot to tell me it was his turn to bring treats for his high school homeroom until we were already on our way to school.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We hightailed it to one of those super centers where he grabbed a bunch of bakery muffins and cookies, and I hit up the containers aisle.”

  “Why the containers?”

  She gives a half grin. “I had to at least give the illusion they were homemade, didn’t I?”

  “I’m not sure whether I should laugh or cry.” I pour batter into the first greased baking pan. “Based on your story, this is apparently a repeat offense of his. I could be looking at a lifetime of last-minute treat orders.”

  She belts out a loud laugh and snags another piece of candy. “Which means you’ll have a lifetime of him owing you favors in return.”

  I continue filling the pans rather than tell her how Brook had volunteered me for craft fair and road trip chaperone duty earlier this season. In the grand scheme of things, neither had turned out too badly.

  I put two of the pans in the oven—another gutsy, but potentially necessary call—and rinse out the punch bowl. While it dries, I turn on the stove to brown an obscene amount of butter and marshmallows for the Rice Krispies bars. Mrs. MacLaughlin watches me closely, her eyes following me as I move throughout the galley kitchen. I’m sure she’s not trying to make me nervous, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m performing for a potentially judgmental audience. To a degree, I suppose I am.

  “This really hasn’t fazed you,” she says at last. “You weren’t kidding when you said you had this under control. You probably wish I wasn’t here. I’m just in your way.”

  “No, you’re not.” I stir the butter and marshmallows, focusing on the goo instead of her face. I don’t even want to guess her expression. She’d sounded so crestfallen and useless. I suppose that’s on me for not engaging her more in this activity.

  I need to change my approach. Starting now. “It was nice of you to say here with me. Especially when you came to town for the Husker game. You’re stuck here watching it on TV with me when you could’ve been there with more than 80,000 screaming fans.”

  “Honestly, I was glad to give up my ticket.” I look up then and catch the wry grin on her face. “It’ll be nice for Bert to spend some one-on-one time with his future son-in-law.”

  “Wade seemed pretty excited to go.”

  “He’s a good boy. Perfect for my daughter.” She gives me a pointed look. “My children have done well finding themselves ideal matches.”

  My cheeks flush, and I turn my attention back to the bubbling marshmallow mixture. “It’s nice having you here to keep me company. This would’ve been a lonely way to spend the day.”

  “I feel guilty—”

  “Don’t,” I interrupt, handing her one of the eight boxes of rice cereal. “I’m glad you’re here. Seriously. I have a bad habit of turning myself into a martyr by not asking for help.”

  “You’re a self-sufficient young woman who gets things done.” She happily pours the first box of cereal into the now-dry punch bowl. “But I feel guilty about pretending that I’m here out of some sense of duty.”

  My forehead wrinkles. “Aren’t you?”

  “Of course, dear, but that’s not the only reason.”

  Now my interest is piqued. “Oh yeah?”

  “It’s . . . well . . .” She grabs another box of cereal and pours. “Now that it’s November, it’s getting so cold out there. Much as I love watching football with my husband—and after more than thirty years, I really do—I’d rather be inside where it’s warm.”

  A slow smile spreads across my face. “And you were so convincing when you told him how badly you wanted to go.”

  “I know.” She winks at me. “But it was for his own good. I can’t let him think I’d want to spend even one afternoon away from him, can I? Men can have such tender egos.”

  “Absolutely.” I pour some of the melted marshmallows into the bowl and hand her a wooden spoon to start mixing. “Your poor son probably wishes I was more easily entertained on my own.”

  “But you are.” She gestures to the tub of scarves and hats that need sorting. “You’ve started building your own business. You’re baking dozens of treats today, and I know you’ve been hosting the rest of your friends here every Sunday this football season.” She takes my hand. “You’re filling your time, but I hope you’re happy.”

  “I am happy. Most of the time,” I add quickly. “It isn’t always easy. I feel like I spend a lot of my life trying to figure out what to do next.”

  “Honey, I’m old enough to be, well, your mother—or mother-in-law—and I still spend a lot of my time trying to figure out what to do next. That’s what life is about.” She squeezes my hand. “Can I offer you some unsolicited advice?”


  She waits for my nod. “After spending most of my adult life married to someone making a career in the military—which isn’t exactly the same—I found that the best thing to do was find something that made me happy and to do it. You can be supportive of your significant other while following your own dreams.” She releases my hand. “You’ve got the supportive part down. Now go get your dreams.”

  My cheeks flush. “I’m working on it.”

  Mrs. MacLaughlin watches me closely. “You’re a sweet girl, and a smart one. But I sometimes wonder if you realize just how much you’ve changed my Brook’s life. For the better.”

  It’s nice of her to say that, but it’s hardly the case. “I don’t—”

  “Brook has always been a good young man. He was back in his peewee days through college. He always did what he figured was right, but a mother still worries.”

  My brow knits together. “But if he was doing the right thing and staying out of trouble, why worry?”

  “He never seemed totally and completely happy. He was so focused on being good he forgot there was more to life.” She winks at me. “You’ve helped him see that. Now, instead of twenty-four-seven teaching and coaching he has a fuller life, which is all I’ve wanted for him.”

  I’m not sure what to say to any of that, but warmness spreads in my chest. We share a grin and return to our work preparing the treats. After a few minutes of silence, she speaks up again. “I’ve been thinking . . .”

  I swallow past the lump forming in my throat. “About what, Mrs. MacLaughlin?”

  “For one, maybe it’s time you started calling me Karen. I’m the mother of your boyfriend, not your second grade teacher. For another . . . I have something you might like.”

  “What’s that, Mrs.—err . . . Karen?”

  “I have a box of recipes. Family favorites from my mother, and Bert’s mother, and a lifetime of weeknight dinners at home.” She shrugs. “Maybe you’d like to have them.”

  “Thank you,” I croak out. I clear my throat. “I would like that.”

  “We’re family now.” She sets the bowl aside and takes my hand again. “What’s mine is yours.”