“We finished early,” he calls over his shoulder, heading back to the kitchen. “I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”
Despite my reservations, I shrug out of my jacket and nearly miss the rack in the hall closet. I follow Brook into the kitchen, pausing at the bar. He’s dicing vegetables for a salad. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s great.” He continues chopping with a skill I envy. His hands are so much stronger than mine. So firm. So—I shake my head to clear any wayward thoughts before they start. I’m still not entirely sure something isn’t wrong.
“You’re cooking.”
“You’ve been doing all of it since the season started.” He shrugs. “I figured you deserved a night off. Sorry I’m not closer to being done. I couldn’t find everything.”
“I reorganized a while ago.” I survey the well-organized chaos playing out. “Can I help with anything?”
“Nope.” He points at the bar stools with his knife. “Take a seat.”
Following orders, I slip into a stool and lean my elbows on the counter. Blitz trots up from his spot by the balcony window and rests at my feet. I watch Brook work with the natural grace and confidence he exudes whether he’s on the sidelines or baiting a fishing rod.
“How was your day?” he asks, sliding cucumber and tomatoes into a wooden bowl.
“Fine.”
He sprinkles feta and grinds fresh pepper over the top. “Have you talked to the franchise owners lately?”
“Kind of.” My eyes follow his progress as he strains the pasta and pours the noodles into one of our nice serving dishes.
“How’d it go?”
“Well enough.” Which isn’t a lie, but kind of an elaboration of the stilted phone calls I’ve had with Mrs. Donaldson the past few weeks.
“I’m sure you’re downplaying it.” He pulls a box of matches out from one of our drawers. We had matches in there? That would’ve helped me last week when I was trying to light candles to mask the smell of a particularly nasty turd that Blitz had taken. Brook steps over to the table and lights the cinnamon-scented candles in the center.
“Oh. I almost forgot.” He picks up a peach rose from one of the plates and turns to hand it to me. “For you.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, lifting the bloom to my nose, inhaling deeply so the fragrance fills me. “It’s beautiful.”
“I hope it doesn’t ruin it any when I tell you a bought it from one of the kids on the debate team.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Bought or stole?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Bought. It was a fundraiser.”
“So you bought it from him thinking you could be a gentleman and a philanthropist?”
“Basically, yeah.”
“Congratulations are in order, then. You excelled at both.” I take one more sniff and set the flower aside.
I cast another glance around the apartment, reading the full scene around me. Flowers—well, a rose bought as a fundraiser, but a flower all the same—home-cooked dinner, candles, nice dishes. And if my ears don’t deceive me, he has a load of laundry in the wash. Either he’s about to drop a major bombshell on me, or . . .
“Please tell me you didn’t sign me up for the team bake sale. I’m glad to help, but I’m still going to need therapy after the craft fair.”
“No . . .”
“Or the team philanthropy day?” My heartbeat speeds up. “I’m all about the team cleaning up the park around the school. I’ve seen firsthand how messy some of your players can be. But I can’t take another project.”
Brook’s eyebrows knit together. “Why do you think I’d do either of those things?”
“Because you’ve done it before.”
“I promised I’d stop doing that without asking you.”
“Then . . .” I trail off because I realize this probably is exactly what he says. Him trying to be more spontaneous. For me. I drop my shoulders and sigh. “Sorry. I . . . I’m really surprised to see you here.”
“I told you. We finished early.”
“But . . . why?”
“The guys worked their asses off all season and deserved a night off.” Brook takes my hand and leads me to the table. “Plus, the school’s fall musical opens tonight. A lot of the players’ friends are performing. We should go. To support the people who support them.”
A lot of the students participating in the musical are also in the band. They put on a show every week before the game and during halftime. It’s a nice sentiment.
Brook pulls out a chair for me before taking the other seat. He reaches for the silverware, but pauses when he catches me staring at him. “What?”
“You’re a good man, Coach MacLaughlin.”
His lip twitches. “It seemed like the right thing to do. The football team isn’t the only one at the school.”
“You’re a good man,” I repeat. “So . . .”
“So?”
“Are we going to the show?” I ask, taking a piece of garlic bread before passing him the basket.
“Would you mind? I know you probably have plans.” He sets the basket to the side and grabs my hand. “I’ll owe you big time. I . . .”
“Want to support the students who support the team?”
He nods. “Is that okay?”
“Then let’s go.” I frown at the table. “Do we have time to eat this and get tickets?”
“Well . . .”
“You already bought the tickets didn’t you?”
He nods again. “I figured even if we didn’t go, I was at least—”
“Supporting a good cause,” I finish, scooping a pile of noodles onto my plate. “Do I get dessert after? If I’m a good girl at the whole show?”
He winks. “We’ll have to see about that.”
After dinner, I change three times before Brook threatens to throw me over his shoulder and carry me out to the car. For whatever reason, a few minutes before we left for the school, I developed a sudden case of stage fright. Which is weird, because I haven’t been called to perform on a stage since my last band concert senior year of high school.
It’s silly of me to worry. I’ve been to West High School plenty of times in the past couple of months. I suppose this time is different. It’s the first time I’ll be attending a non-football function with Brook. And as we are about to walk through the door, I remember the way we used to scrutinize our teachers and their spouses back in high school when we saw them outside of class.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t have gone with the red dress and black heels?” I ask as Brook pulls into a spot in the faculty parking lot.
“This is a high school production of Anything Goes. You don’t need to wear a cocktail dress.” He casts a sideways glance my way. “How many times do I have to say you’re beautiful before you believe me?”
My lips twitch. “Maybe once more will do it.”
Squeezing my hand, Brook lowers his eyes and says in a husky voice, “You look good, babe.”
“How good?”
“Good enough to . . .” His thumb slides across the back of my hand, sending a wave of excitement into my belly. “Take into the play. And give dirty looks to any of my players who make comments about ‘coach’s hot girlfriend.’”
I slip my hand out of his grasp and fold my arms. “You might want to work on your smooth talking.”
With a laugh, he gets out of the SUV and steps around to open my door. “I’ll add that to my list.”
“There’s a list?”
He says nothing, but takes my hand and leads me toward the school. My heart does a somersault. I get how silly I’m being. I didn’t used to always be this vain. Maybe it’s a symptom of inching closer and closer to thirty. Our birthdays are only a couple of weeks away. I’ll be twenty-eight, and the next day Brook turns twenty-nine. If you round up, we’re thirty. That sounds really old, especially when I still feel like a kid half the time.
Hesitating only a moment at the threshold, I let out a shaky breath and follow
Brook into the lobby of the auditorium. Parents and students and what must be younger siblings fill the room with a low murmur of conversation. Some, though not all of it, comes to a stop as eyes turn in our direction. Casually scanning the room, I’m secretly trying to read the expressions on their faces. From what I can tell, there’s a mix—surprise, interest, maybe even approval of one of the athletic coaches making an appearance at a non-required event.
One thing is for sure, no one is paying too much attention to me. Well, thank goodness for that. All the same, I drop my gaze to inspect the dress I’m wearing one more time. Maybe I should have gone with something flashier. No, Miss Vanity, this is Brook’s school, he should be the one drawing attention.
One of Brook’s players steps forward with his mother and younger brother. It takes me a moment, but I’m able to remember his name. It’s Jayce Noble, the wide receiver whose family has been through hell the past year. I note the grief plainly etched into his mother’s face and the quiet sadness in his brother’s eyes. A wave of sadness washes over me. I can’t even imagine losing such an important member of your family. Not so young, not ever.
Jayce clears his throat. “Hey, Coach. I wanted to say thanks again for helping me research my history paper.”
My gaze flies to Brook’s face. He’s been helping Jayce with research? Why hasn’t he mentioned that? Is this a one-time thing or is he offering tutoring services to all the players on his team? My stomach pitches to my feet. Oh my God. Is this some kind of academic fraud I’m going to find out about here in front of all these witnesses? Is this something I can even get over, or . . .
No. There’s no way Brook is breaking any rules or giving Jayce—or any of the players—an unfair advantage. What’s it he’s always telling me? He’s a teacher first, a coach second. Teachers can help their students with research, as long as it’s help and not straight-up cheating. That’s something Brook isn’t—a cheater.
“It was no problem.”
“We really do appreciate it,” Mrs. Noble says, pulling her lips into a tight grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She nudges her son. “Tell him the grade you got.”
Jayce’s cheeks flush, and his shoes suddenly draw his interest. “I got an A.”
“That’s great, buddy.” Brook’s face lights up. “You must have written a solid paper.”
“It was okay.” Jayce suddenly turns to glance up at me. “It’s nice to see you again, Miss Harper.”
I blink, taking a moment to adjust to the abrupt change in conversation—not to mention the extra pairs of eyes suddenly turning on me. Mrs. Noble gives me the once over and raises an eyebrow.
“I’m Harper Duquaine,” I say, offering her my hand. “I’m . . .”
The coach’s live-in girlfriend. A random chaperone on a couple of trips. The person who tried to coordinate the craft fair. The woman who made the cookies and brownies you may or may not have had at the booster dinner last week. More importantly, I’m a super awkward person who doesn’t quite know what to do in these situations.
“She’s Coach’s girlfriend,” Jayce finishes. “She put together the craft fair.”
Mrs. Noble’s expression turns from interest to approval. “You’re one of the owners of Team Stitch.”
“That’s right.” I drop my hand back to my side, but Brook takes it into his again. “I run it with Brook’s—I mean Coach’s sister.”
“I love your work. I picked up a couple of your hats at the sale.”
“Thank you.” My fingers tingle in Brook’s hand. “We have a few new items in our online shop.”
“I’ll check that out.” She gives me another inspection from head to toe, and I narrowly avoid squirming. “It’s nice of the two of you to come to the performance.”
“We’re glad to do it,” Brook says simply.
“My niece is playing Reno,” Mrs. Noble says.
“That’s a great part.” At least I think it is. If I’m remembering the play right from when my high school performed it more than a decade ago. “We’ll be sure to watch for her.”
So stupid. Of course we’ll watch for her. Reno is one of the main characters. We won’t have any choice unless we opt to watch tonight’s football game on our phones or make out in the back of the auditorium. Somehow I doubt either of those things will happen. Brook is too much of a by-the-books guy, and I still have an overly developed fear of getting in trouble.
The lights dim three times.
“Looks like the show is about to start.” Brook gives the Nobles a parting grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow at practice, Jayce.”
We walk toward our seats, and I want to ask Brook about Jayce’s history paper, but it would probably just embarrass him. His cheeks usually turn pink and he develops a stutter whenever he’s caught doing something completely sweet and totally adorable.
MUG CAKES FOR ONE ARE becoming one of my specialties. Even if my boyfriend didn’t spend most of the fall on a football field, he doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth. So whenever I get a sugar craving—which has been happening a lot more often lately—mug cakes have been my go-to treat. It’s better than baking a whole pan of brownies and accidentally eating half the plate before I take my spoils to work to share.
Because I’ve been on such a mug cake kick lately, I’ve started to get a little inventive. I started off with the basic chocolate and vanilla recipes online, but a few weeks ago I upped the ante. I’ve tried pumpkin spice, M&M, mint chip, rocky road, and my personal favorite, peanut butter cup.
And . . . because I’m dating a football coach who takes physical fitness and well-being seriously, I’ll work the sugary calories off at the gym. First thing in the morning.
I’m barely seated with my latest creation (molten chocolate caramel) when Brook gets home from a last-minute meeting on Sunday night. With the team playing in the state championship game tomorrow night, the coaches held a final meeting of the minds over beers and burgers rather than watch the Sunday night game.
I don’t mind watching tonight’s game on delay—or not at all. My team secured its spot in the playoffs long ago. Sometimes, I can’t even believe how well this season has gone. It’s gone better than I planned. I’m kicking everyone’s butts, and I love it. Another win this week is the icing on the cake for my near perfect season.
Mmm, cake. I take another bite of the latest variation. This is definitely a winner.
Setting aside his tablet, Brook shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it on the recliner. He looks tired, so I don’t ask him to hang it up in the closet. I’ll take care of it later—just this once. Brook collapses on the couch and casually drops a hand on my knee. He rests his head against the cushion and closes his eyes. Poor guy.
“How’d it go?” I ask once I’ve swallowed my bite of cake. “Do you feel good about your game plan?”
“Mmm.” He turns his head and opens his eyes. Catching the mug in my hand, he squeezes my knee and grins, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What’s tonight’s creation?”
“I’m calling it the chocolate caramel volcano.”
“Sounds good.”
I offer him the spoon. “Want a bite?”
“Sure.” He opens his mouth.
I make a production of shoving an over-sized bite of chocolate and caramel into his mouth.
For a second, his eyes flutter shut again. “Oh, man.”
“It’s good, right?”
“There are no words.” Again, he gives me that cryptic not-quite smile, and I can’t fight off the tension growing in my belly. He scratches the growth on his chin. If he follows the same course as last year, his beard will get even itchier before the end of November. “How was your day?”
“No complaints.” I eye him warily and set the mug aside. “I finished a couple of new crocheting projects during the afternoon games. My team is ahead.”
“Of course it is. You drafted the best team in the league. You’ll win it all this year, babe.” His eyes drift shut again.
&nb
sp; I set the nearly empty mug on the coffee table and turn toward him. I rub his shoulder, trying to ease some of the tension out of them if possible. “Brook.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
Brook’s eyes fly open, and I’m pulled into his arms. His chest rises up and down, and he buries his face in my hair. His fingers dig into me, like he’s holding for dear life. I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure I can speak; he’s holding me so tightly. But instead of pulling away to draw a proper breath or ask any questions, I wrap my arms around him.
“Harper?” he says at last, more a question than a statement.
“Yes?”
“You’ll be there tomorrow night?”
“Of course.” Like he even had to ask. It’s the State championship game.
“And whether we win or lose . . .”
“Yeah?
“I have to be able to find you.” He pulls back abruptly. His blue eyes dark. “I have to be able to look up in the stands and know where you are.”
“That should be easy enough,” I tease. “You gave me tickets on the fifty-yard line. I’ll be there.”
“But after the game,” he insists. “Will you come down to the field?”
“Okay . . .”
“If we win, the team and the fans usually storm the field.” His eyes are insistent. “I need you to be there with me. And if we lose . . .”
“Which you won’t.” I run my hand through his hair.
“I’ll still need you. Win or lose, I need you with me. Do you understand?”
I search his eyes, my heart clenching at the fear and anxiety in them. They’re usually calm and ready to offer comfort. But right now, he needs me to offer calm and comfort. I take one of his hands in mine. “I understand. I’ll be there.”
He releases a sigh of relief. “You’re like my focal point. I need you to stay balanced.”
“I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit and me too much.”
“I mean it.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. He strokes my back with a gentleness that seemed impossible only a few short seconds ago. “You’ve been the one thing, the only thing, I could count on this season. It’ll be the same when it’s over.”
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