Going for Two

by Laura Chapman

  He removes his hand from his pocket to display a small velvet box. I hold my breath while he fumbles with the gold clasp until the box opens. I barely notice whatever is in it catch the stadium lights behind us. I’m too busy watching the emotions flash through Brook’s eyes. He clears his throat and offers a lopsided grin. “Marry me?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “YES,” I WHISPER. “DEFINITELY. Totally. Absolutely. Yes. Yes!”

  Brook grins, even as his eyes go misty. “Yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  I throw my arms around his neck, but he grabs my left hand before I get it over the shoulder. He removes the glove and slips a ring onto my finger. In my excitement, I almost forgot that proposals usually come with a ring. And this one isn’t like the ones I’ve seen in the store or on Facebook when my high school and college friends have posted about their engagements.

  Even though I’m still mesmerized by the sparkling on my finger, I finally find words. “Thank you.”

  “Do you like it?”

  I nod. “Tell me about the ring.” I’m still unable to take my eyes off it, so I figure I might as well let it be the center of attention for the next few minutes. I can’t get over how perfectly it fits and how well it looks on my hand. I really am becoming vainer with every passing day.

  “It’s a solitaire diamond—circle cut with a rose gold band with a leaf motif—”

  “No. I mean, thank you for that.” I tilt my hand from one side to the other, determined that I’ll get all the staring out of my system now and never geek out this much about a ring after today. “What’s the story behind this ring? It looks like it has one.”

  “It does.” Brook’s thumb runs across my knuckles. “It was my grandmother’s.”

  My eyes fly up to his. “Really?”

  He nods.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She was one of the best people I’ve ever known.” His grip tightening on my hand. “She was a good mother, a strong woman, and someone who did the best she could. She loved my grandpa every day of their fifty-year marriage. And he loved her. Then she loved all of us—she even taught my sister to crochet.”

  I swallow hard. “She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

  “One of the best,” he repeats. His voice hitches. “It’s not a new ring, but I had it resized for you. Is that okay?”

  “It’s perfect.” I steal one more look, before turning my attention back to him and only him. “It means something to you and your family. Now it means everything to me, because you gave it to me.”

  He pulls me in tighter and kisses me. Removing my hands from his grasp, I slip them over his shoulder to draw him in closer. After a few moments, I pull back a fraction of a space to gaze up at him. “Quick question?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What would you have done if we’d lost?”

  He arches an eyebrow. “I thought you said you knew we were going to win all along.”

  “I did.” I purse my lips. “But you know how these games work. They’re unpredictable. Anything can happen.”

  “I still would have asked.” He kisses me again. “Seriously,” he says, when I give him a dubious look.

  “Even on a night that had a bad turnout?”

  “It still would have been a great night for me.” His lips twitch. “As long as you said yes. Because no matter what happened tonight, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. We made it through this first season—with a few glitches,” he concedes. “But I want to make sure you’re with me for the next fifty or so seasons.”

  His words twist my stomach, and a lump lodges itself in my throat. “When did you get to be such a smooth talker?”

  “I’ve been practicing.”

  I lean up on my toes to wrap my arms tighter around him. “Well, it’s paying off.”

  Laughing, he kisses me again, only this time, neither of us pulls back for a long time.

  LATER THAT EVENING, Brook and I lounge on the couch at home, his arm wrapped around my shoulder. Our hands are interlinked on the glass of wine we’re sharing—not because we’re trying to be cute. I was just too lazy to clean more than one. Only the light from the street pours in.

  It’s like something out of a Hallmark commercial or movie. It’s practically perfect. And even though it’s late, and we both have to work in the morning, neither of us wants to call it a night yet.

  In the simple beauty of this moment, I turn and glance up at Brook. Resting my head on his shoulder, I ask, “Why do you want to spend the rest of your life with me?”

  He groans. “Did you read another one of those articles? The ones with titles like ‘Twelve Absolutely, Positively, Totally Important Questions Every Independent Woman Should Ask Right This Second Before She Says I Do?’”

  “That was once and it was months ago.”

  “And you made me answer all twelve.” He presses a light kiss to my forehead to let me know he didn’t mind.

  He’d actually been a good sport about it. I’d found the article while I was reading through one of the magazines someone left behind in the break room at work over the summer. I realized there were a lot of issues we hadn’t discussed before we decided to move in together. By the time I’d come home from dinner, I’d worked myself up into a pretty good state.

  I’d only relaxed once we made it through all twelve questions, covering everything from how many children we want to have—we’re somewhere between two or three, but figure we’ll wait a few years to procreate—to how we’ll do our best to keep the romance alive.

  Still, none of this has anything to do with what I’ve just asked him. I shift, sitting up so I can look at him better. “I’m serious. Marriage is a big step. A huge one.”

  “I’m only planning on doing it this one time, if that helps,” he teases.

  “I appreciate that promise.” I poke him in the stomach. “Or is it a threat?”

  “I suppose it depends on what the next fifty or so years have in store for us.”

  I push him playfully on the shoulder. “Come on. Tell me. Why do you want to spend forever with me?”

  Letting out a sigh, he sets the glass of wine down on the coffee table and takes both of my hands. “I want to spend forever with you because when I think about everything I want in my life—everything I want to see and do and live—I can’t imagine any of it without you.”

  He brings our linked fingers to rest over his heart. “I want to spend forever with you because you’re right here. It’s like . . . you are me. And if you are me, I can’t be without you.”

  Oh. Well that’s a pretty good answer. Much better than his “duh” response when I’d ask if he was willing to concede that I was right (some of the time) when we fight.

  “So,” he drops our hands, and slips his arm back around me, “how did I do?”

  “Are you looking for a grade, Teach?” I purse my lips and tap a finger on my chin thoughtfully. “Or are you hoping for a pre-season ranking, Coach?”

  “Technically, it’d be pre-marriage, but . . .” He wiggles in his seat. “Go on. Tell me. How did I do?”

  “I’ll give you an A.”

  His brow furrows. “Just an A?”

  “That’s a perfect rating. What more do you want?”

  “I figured maybe I earned some extra credit.” He gives me a look that suggests he’d take his extra credit in the bedroom rather than on paper.

  “We’ll see.” I fold my arms. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

  “Ask you what?”

  “Why I want to spend forever with you.”

  He lowers his brow to mine. “I figured maybe you’d want to show me . . . We have the lights down low. We’ve had half a bottle of wine. Kind of puts you in a mood, hmm?”

  His hands rove up from my hip to breast and back down. Sheesh. It’s like now that he’s a big shot state-title winning coach with an amazing fiancée, he has one thing on his mind.

  When I don’t make a move to take off my to
p, or whatever he expects from me right now, he sighs. “If I ask can we . . . ?”

  “Just ask!”

  “Fine!” He hand falls to his side. “Why do you want to spend forever with me?”

  He could have used a little more enthusiasm when he asked, but whatever.

  Totally dead-pan, I say, “Because you fill out a pair of khakis nicely.”

  His eyebrows fly up. “You’re joking about this now?”

  “I thought you liked a girl with a sense of humor.”

  “I do, but—”

  “I want to be with you,” I interrupt, gently placing my hands on his cheek, “because when I think about every one of those things you want to do in your life, I can’t imagine anyone else but me being there with you for the ride.”

  He closes his eyes. “Okay, that was an A plus.”

  One of my hands slides down to his chest. The other runs up into his hair. I press my lips to his chin, to the thin scar that turns white when he’s upset. Then I move to his neck, and the spot behind his ear. His arms tighten around me and he pulls me in for a kiss.

  When we break to catch our breaths, I grab him by the shirt. “You’ve earned your extra credit.”

  We’re both laughing, and in serious danger of getting rug burns, as I tug him down to the floor under our tree. In time, he’ll figure out these random questions of mine aren’t all bad. Especially when I’m feeling generous with grades.

  Week Twelve Recap: North’s Lady Steamrolls the Opposition—Again!

  You can tell a lot about a league owner based on the players he or she chooses to play week in and out. Based on that, we can only presume that North’s Lady is a fierce beast with strength and instinct unparalleled in this league. Basically, she’s a fearless fighter, and everyone else should check themselves before they wreck themselves.

  With the exception of her week eight loss, North’s Lady hasn’t missed a step this season. She’s set lineups prominently featuring her strongest players without leaving many points on the bench week after week. This week was no exception. Her running backs Duke Smith and John-Paul Massa finished first and second respectively in the league for most points secured. Even tight end A.J. Watson put up the most impressive showing he’s had all season. Not bad considering tight ends are typically a touch-and-go sort of position to play.

  There’s only one more week to go in the regular season, and North’s Lady has already earned herself the number one spot in the playoffs.

  Fear North’s Lady, fellas. She’s out to get you.

  Record: 11-1

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  STARING AT MY REFLECTION in the mirror, I nervously glance back at Amelia and Meg who are seated behind me. “It’s . . . perfect. But isn’t it a little early to be dress shopping?”

  Brook and I haven’t even set a date for our wedding. We’ve only been engaged for a few days. Yet after work on Friday, my future sisters-in-law have dragged me to a vintage shop to try on a dress Amelia saw posted online. She even invited Joleen along to give alteration advice in case we need it.

  But we don’t. The dress fits perfectly. The tea-length satin ivory gown with a lace overlay and sleeves looks like it was custom made for me instead of a bride in the 1960s. It’s almost exactly like the dress I randomly pointed out to Amelia one evening when we were poring through bridal magazines looking for her own dress.

  And it’s a fraction of the cost of anything I’d find in a new boutique. Not that Brook and I have a budget—again, we don’t have a date or venue—but on our salaries, we’ll want to be practical.

  This dress would be practical, but it doesn’t feel like it.

  “You could wear it with an elbow-length veil or a flower in your hair,” Joleen says, testing the material to see if there are any areas that might need adjusting.

  “A blusher would be adorable,” Meg says, dabbing at her eyes. “Normally I’m all for trying on as many dresses as you can.” She’s already proven this for herself. I’ve been to five boutiques with her since she and Christopher got engaged. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—”

  “It’s the one,” Meg finishes. “I knew it would be the moment I saw it.”

  “You look like Audrey Hepburn,” Joleen says.

  Audrey Hepburn? I gaze back at my reflection trying to imagine myself with a simple bouquet of white roses, and my hair swept back into a chignon. It’s not hard to imagine. I can practically see it.

  “I can’t believe it,” I say at last. “I can’t believe I found my dress.”

  A chorus of sniffles starts around me, and even I’m blinking back tears.

  Amelia lets out a light laugh. “And who can believe the last of us to get engaged is the first one to find her dress?”

  “It’s not that hard to believe.” Meg blows her nose and offers a wet smile. “Harper is always so responsible and has her life together. She’ll probably have her wedding planned and arranged in an afternoon. Just watch, she’ll probably end up married before either of us, too.”

  Obviously, Meg has managed to forget the night she and Christopher had to rescue me from a bar downtown when I’d drank too much. Or that I’d been living in my brother’s basement until last spring. But I won’t correct her when she’s trying to pay me a compliment.

  “You’ll make a perfect bride and wife,” Joleen says. “Look at how cool you are right now—like a cucumber.”

  They keep mentioning perfection. My stomach twists. I’m definitely not perfect.

  Amelia meets my gaze in the mirror. She knows. Despite my calm demeanor, she knows I’m freaking out on the inside.

  “Let me help you change back into your regular clothes,” she offers.

  “That’s a good idea.” Joleen gives the satin buttons trailing down my back a final check. “You’ll be the one on hand to help her on the big day.”

  Amelia and I slip back into the small dressing room. She wordlessly tackles the buttons.

  “I’m nervous,” I admit, the silence too much for me to handle.

  “That’s understandable.” She reaches the last button and hands me my sweater and jeans. “We brides get nervous about our weddings.”

  With my back to her, I slip on my jeans and sweater. I still can’t quite put into words what I mean. I’m not worried about the wedding. And I’m not worried about whether or not Brook and I will be happy.

  I’m worried I’ll freak out, like I have in the past. What if I get stir crazy and decide I’ve been in one place too long, but Brook is settled? What if another football season comes and I once again don’t have it in me to be patient and independent while he focuses on the team? What if I get jealous because he’s doing what he loves and I still don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do with my life?

  Those are scary possibilities on their own. They’re terrifying when I consider the potential wedge they could create between Brook and me.

  And how do I say all this to Amelia? I never gave her all the details about our fight weeks ago. She may be my best friend—and my future sister-in-law—but she’ll always be Brook’s sister. I couldn’t put that on her.

  Oh God. What am I getting myself into? Maybe I should ask Brook if we can take a little more time. Just to be sure this is what we both want.

  “Whatever you’re worried about will work out,” Amelia says when I’m still silent. “You love Brook. He loves you. You’re both kind. You’re generous. You’re wonderful and perfect for each other.”

  There’s that word again. “I’m hardly perfect.”

  “No one is. Not even my dear, sweet brother,” Amelia says. “But like I said, you’re perfect for each other. He’s the left shoe and you’re the right shoe. Together, you’re a pair.”

  The silly metaphor is enough to make me crack a smile, though I sober again quickly.

  “What if I screw this up?” I ask. “What if I fail?”

  “You won’t,” Amelia promises, taking my hand. “And if either of you does, well, I’ll be aroun
d to kick your asses.”

  And based on the fierce expression on her face, she’ll follow through on that promise. If love isn’t a big enough motivator, then having Amelia serving as chairwoman of the ass-kicking committee will be.

  I’M CONTEMPLATING WHETHER or not Brook and I should get married in the spring or summer when Anderson flags me down on my way into the office on Monday morning. Casting a worried glance around the hallway, he quietly closes the door behind us.

  It’s an extreme reaction—no one else will be here for at least another twenty minutes. I saw most of the salesmen last night at our watch party. Based on how much they drank, they’ll be crawling in this morning. (The fantasy season hasn’t exactly gone as planned for most of the boys. Poor dears.)

  Noting Anderson’s disheveled appearance, I frown. While he’s never been one for high fashion, he usually comes to work groomed and tidy. Typically, his shirts are pressed, his suits neat, and every hair is in place. Apparently, his Type-A stylist called in sick today. His hair has been ransacked by his fingers. His shirt is coming untucked from his wrinkled pants. I’m also fairly certain he has traces of coffee and jam on his once white shirt.

  He leans against the door and draws a deep breath.

  I clutch onto the back of a chair to steady myself. “Everything all right, boss?”

  “I’ve been on the phone all night with the lawyers,” he says. “There’s been a development with the Donaldsons.”

  I nearly drop my coffee, but stop short of creating a mess to rival the Exxon Valdez and BP oil spills. (Yeah, I’m semi-informed. I sometimes read news unrelated to football.)

  “Everything all right, boss?” I ask again when I’ve regained my bearings.

  “Who knows?” He runs a hand through his hair, making it messier still. “One minute they’re talking about shutting down all of the dealership locations, the next they’re saying the divorce proceedings have been called off.” Anderson shakes his head. “My wife says I’m indecisive when I can’t decide where we should go for dinner, but I have nothing on these people.”