Going for Two

by Laura Chapman

  At least that’s what I’ll tell him. I won’t deny that the sting of losing the championship after a near-perfect season won’t set in at some point during the next few days. It won’t tonight, though. There’s no way football can put a damper on the way I feel tonight: loved, in love, and complete.

  J.J. steps up to the microphone, a glass of champagne in his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to invite the new Mr. and Mrs. MacLaughlin to the dance floor for their first dance as husband and wife.”

  Squeezing Brook’s hand, we stand and walk together to the center of the makeshift dance floor. There’s no spotlight, no disco ball, but the soft glow of candles and fairy lights shining down on us.

  Raising his glass of champagne, J.J. says, “It’s an honor to be here tonight celebrating with Brook and Harper. They’ve been better friends than I deserve, and I wish them both a lifetime of happiness.” A sparkle shines in his eyes. “And if maybe both of them wanted to retire from fantasy football so the rest of us would have less competition, that would be fine, too.” While everyone laughs, he holds up his glass. “To Brook and Harper.”

  He nods to the band. A keyboard plays the light opening stanzas of a rock melody. The band’s lead singer, with his blond, mullet-style wig in place, steps forward.

  Brook’s eyes fly to the stage and widen. “Is that . . .”

  “Soul on Fire?” I finish for him. “The eighties cover band from the night, well, you know the night.”

  “How on . . .”

  “J.J. called their manager and booked them for the night,” I explain, slipping my arms around his waist and laying my head against his chest. “He figured you’d get a kick out of it.”

  Brook chuckles lightly. “He figured right.”

  “The manager said it was their first wedding.”

  “I’m sure.” Brook rests his chin against my head. “I can’t believe J.J. did that. For you. For me.”

  “He did it for us,” I say. “Maybe J.J. isn’t so bad after all.”

  Brook shakes his head, and I understand what he means. After months, or in Brook’s case years of indifferent or sometimes hostile treatment, it’s difficult to comprehend J.J. making such a grand gesture on our behalf. When I’d tried to thank him for not only arranging live music, but maybe the best, most unique option for live music possible, he’d clammed up. He’d shrugged off just how much it meant to us and made some comment about it not being a big deal.

  That’s okay. If he wants to pretend it doesn’t mean something, that’s fine. Brook and I know the truth. It’s an olive branch, a sign of friendship, an offer of his blessing for our lives together. Pretty impressive for a man who only a year ago basically put a hex on our whole relationship.

  The guitarists and drummer join in to accompany the lead singer and piano for the chorus.

  Brook pulls back and frowns at the makeshift stage. “Are they playing ‘Open Arms?’”

  “I, uh, may have put in a special request for our first dance.” I turn my glance up to the stage. “We’ve been playing Journey all season. Why stop now?”

  Shaking my head, I let out a light laugh. “The band had been more than happy to accommodate us. Especially when they’d figured we could ask for something like Linda Ronstadt or the Bangles.”

  His eyes narrow. “You’ve been putting in ‘special requests’ all season. Haven’t you?”

  I shrug. “I’ll neither confirm nor deny—”

  “Come on.” He squeezes me gently. “Admit it.”

  “Will you admit you put in special requests all of last season?” I ask.

  His mouth clamps shut, but the glint in his eyes speaks volumes.

  Apparently, it’s only just occurred to him that I might have known he’d been playing the part of my own personal DJ all of last season. Picking the songs I’d needed to hear to keep me going each week, like I’d done for him this year.

  Amelia’s been right all this time. We really are nauseatingly adorable. I hope that never changes. That in fifty years, our children and grandchildren are averting their eyes because they just can’t handle the ridiculous cuteness that is us.

  He pulls me closer. “It’s unique, I suppose.”

  “I doubt many people have used it as their first dance song in the past decade.” I rest my cheek against his shoulder. “Probably not since we were kids.”

  “It fits,” he decides.

  We fall silent, swaying from side to side. I close my eyes, savoring the melody, the rhythm, the absolute contentment of this moment. I want to remember every second of it for our grandchildren. It can be part of one of the stories I tell while I’m teaching them to knit and crochet during halftime, while their Grandpa Brook recaps the highlights of the first half of the game.

  A smile tugs on my lips. I wonder what we’ll look like in another fifty years. If Brook ages anything like his father, his hair will turn gray long before it thins. He’ll grow a bit leaner, and lines will mar the sides of his eyes and lips. They’ll be a reminder of the years of laughter and tears behind us.

  I’ll probably end up a little pudgy around the middle because I can’t quite kick my sweet tooth or make a workout routine stick. I’ll worry about how flattering a dress makes my figure, but to Brook I’ll be beautiful. As long as I have his heart, I’ll have his unflinching loyalty, and that’s enough. More than enough.

  “Earlier tonight, my mom told me how gorgeous you looked,” Brook murmurs in my ear. “She said I was probably the luckiest man in the world because my future wife was beautiful, smart, strong, and everything I could ever want.” He places a light kiss on my temple. “She may have undersold just how lucky I am.”

  My breath catches in my throat, and I can’t say anything. All I can do is gaze up at the man I’ll spend forever with. The man who says I make him happier than he’s ever been. The man who challenges me to be my best, whether or not we win or lose.

  We’re in this life together. There’s no way we can lose—no matter what any scoreboard says. That counts for more than any fantasy football championship ever would.

  Season Recap: So, So Close

  North’s Lady didn’t miss a step this season. She drafted a near-perfect team with players who lived up to their expectations and generally remained healthy. All season it certainly appeared she was destined for greatness. She almost fulfilled the prophecy, too. Until running back Duke Smith, her first pick of the draft, injured himself in the final game of the season, leaving North’s Lady without any options or hope to secure the projected points.

  It only goes to show that even if you do your best, you’re not always guaranteed success. Still, North’s Lady earned a silver medal, which is nothing to cry about. She improved over her performance last year and is poised to be a leader in the future.

  Other notable finishes in the league:

  ● Congratulations to Turn Down for Wade, who finished in first place. This marks the first time this team—which has been part of the league from the beginning—has earned a medal. After spending most of the season as an underdog, Turn Down for Wade proved that how you begin your season matters less than how you finish it.

  ● Rio Gio took home the bronze medal. Like Turn Down for Wade, this is the first time Rio Gio has earned a medal. He had to beat last year’s champion in the consolation game to earn this distinction.

  ● Last year’s league champion, Real J.J., lost to North’s Lady in the semi-finals landing him in fourth place. This marks the second consecutive year that the previous team’s victor has not finished in one of the top two spots. While that might not be unusual for most leagues, the Mega Ballerz are not most leagues. Which brings us to another noteworthy finish . . .

  ● For a second straight year, Brook’s Bros. failed to finish in first or second place. Still leading the league for most gold and silver finishes, this is the first time his team has not finished with a medal. Perhaps it’s true that all great empires must one day fall, but don’t count Brook’s Bros. down for th
e count just yet. There’s still some fight left in this team.

  So ends another unpredictable season of fantasy football. Until next year . . . pay your league fees, follow NFL trades, and prepare for another exciting ride in another season.

  THANKS FOR READING Going for Two. If you love Harper and Brook, I hope you will read Three & Out, the final installment in the Queen of the League trilogy. We catch up with them as they play another year of fantasy football in a new town. But will the turf be greener, or will

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  Want to go behind the scenes of a zany TV show? In The Marrying Type, elite wedding planner Elliot Lynch will do anything to save her family's business. Even join the cast of a reality TV show that will follow her every step of a wedding season. The stakes become even higher when her number one customer is the one who got away.

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  Also, be sure to check out Smyth Saves the Date. It's a free short story about Elliot's best friend and fellow wedding planner as he finds his own happily ever after.

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  About the Author

  LAURA CHAPMAN is the author of sweet and sexy romantic comedies. A born and raised Nebraska girl, she loves watching football, traveling, crafting, and baking. When she isn’t writing her next story, she is probably binge-watching Netflix with her cats Jane and Bingley.

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  Books by Laura Chapman

  The Marrying Type

  Smyth Saves the Date

  Playing House

  Making Christmas

  What Happens at Midnight

  The Queen of the League Trilogy

  First & Goal

  Going for Two

  Three & Out

  Amarillo Sour Series

  Counting on You

  Let It Be Me (Fall 2019)

  Sneak peek of Three & Out by Laura Chapman!

  AFTER RUSHING TO THE altar and moving across the country, Harper Duquaine (or is it MacLaughlin, now?) is in uncharted territory. What once seemed like a promising opportunity to advance her husband’s career while giving her some much-needed independence and adventure has proven to be a bust. By the time fall rolls around again, she’s back in a boring job by day and overstocking her inventory of crocheted scarves by night. Not even the prospect of a new football season holds much excitement.

  At least that’s what she thought. Harper suddenly finds herself the manager of not one but two fantasy football teams—each with its own set of drama. Between the added pressure of her new marriage, an unexpected career prospect, and the hiccups created by people from her past and present worlds, Harper quickly finds herself going from bored to overwhelmed.

  Can she hold up under the pressure, or will Harper learn the hard way that the turf isn’t always greener on the other field?

  Ding. I’m up. Time to draft the first player for my team. Who you select first is an important decision if you want your fantasy football team to thrive. My first year I picked the person my brother told me to take. The next—last season—I spent weeks researching and analyzing who would be the biggest difference maker for my team. Both were highly rated and came with full accolades.

  And both of them ended up screwing me over at one point or another.

  After two seasons of coming so close to championship gold only to have it ripped away from me in the end, I’ve learned a valuable lesson: none of it matters. The first pick. The draft itself. Not even fantasy football. It’s all made up and there’s no real point. Bragging rights and cash pool aside, who gives a crap?

  That’s why I have a new goal this year. I’m going to have fun, starting right now. Click.

  Round 1: Team Harper takes Richard Maddox (WR).

  Brook’s head pokes up over his laptop. He raises an eyebrow but says nothing. I left my husband in the dark about this year’s fantasy football game plan. He would’ve tried to talk me out of it. He’d do it for my best interests, or so he’d say. He loves football with his whole being—though he claims to love me more—and it’s not just a pastime for him. It’s his life, but it’s not mine.

  Ding. My turn again. Without hesitating, I select my next player.

  Round 2: Team Harper takes Andrew Dix (RB).

  Brook clears his throat, and I pretend not to notice. Instead, I add more players to my wish list when I come across someone who fits my plan. I doubt most of these guys will even be on my opponents’ radars this early in the draft, but I want to be prepared. Ding. Click.

  Round 3: Team Harper takes Bruce Johnson (QB).

  This time Brook reaches across the desk and covers my hand. “I know we promised J.J. we wouldn’t talk strategy amongst ourselves, but what the hell are you doing?”

  “What do you mean? I’m just drafting the players I want.”

  His eyes narrow, and I choke on a laugh. I can’t tell him. Not yet. He’s a smart enough man. He’ll probably figure it out for himself soon enough.

  This year, Team Harper—I’m sticking with the default name this year, because again, who cares?—will consist entirely of dicks. Only players with names that double as euphemisms for male anatomy—Richard (Dick), Dix, Johnson—and reputed boners will be drafted.

  Drafting players based on skill and prowess hasn’t worked for me yet, but maybe this game plan will. If it doesn’t, I’ll be too busy laughing my way through every lineup to care.

  Ding. Click.

  Round 4: Team Harper takes Erik Richards (WR).

  “Babe!”

  Before I’m forced to come up with another deflection for Brook, my phone rings. I check the display and put the call on speaker.

  “It’s our commissioner. Talk to us, J.J.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  This time I can’t fight the laugh, and it comes out full-bellied. My eyes fill with tears while J.J. and Brook are left sputtering in equal parts outrage and disbelief.

  “What’s going on here?” Brook asks.

  “What are you trying to prove?” J.J. yells.

  “Are you upset about something? Is this about me being late for dinner last night? I’m sorry. I should have told you practice was going late.”

  “This is really childish. I didn’t expect something like this from you.”

  “It’s so random.”

  “Actually . . .” J.J. clears his throat. “She isn’t being random at all. Are you, Harper?”

  Brook’s eyes fly to mine, his face bemused. Under his stare, my resolve slips along with the humor. He looks . . . upset—really upset—and about nothing. It’s just a joke.

  “It’s not random.” I roll my fingertips over the desktop, clicking the scratched wood with my fingernails. “I’m . . . drafting on a theme.”

  “What kind of a theme?”

  Now J.J. snickers. “She’s drafting a team of schlongs, man.”

  Ooh, schlong. Another name for a penis I hadn’t considered. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s anyone playing in the NFL with the first or last name of Schlong, but there could be a sound-a-like or two out there. I should Google “penis euphemisms” right now in case there are any others I forgot when building my dream draft.

  Brook’s wide-eyed stare recaptures my attention.

  “Sweetheart.”

  “Yes?”

  I point to his screen. “You only have ten more seconds to make your selection.”

  The reminder buys me a few extra moments. Rather than come up with a logical explanation for my draft—there isn’t one—I inspect Brook’s office more closely. With the shoddy Internet service we have at our apartment, we came here to use the university’s fast service. (When it comes to a draft, you don’t leave anything—including your connection—to chance.) We’ve been in Seattl
e since February, and this is only the second time I’ve seen it. He hasn’t done much to decorate. There are two framed photos on his desk—one from our wedding last December, the other is of him hoisting the high school state championship trophy in the air with his team huddled around.

  We haven’t discussed whether or not he misses coaching and teaching in high school. I’m sure he does to a degree, but this was his dream. Ever since he spent two years as a graduate assistant at Nebraska, he’s always wanted to coach at the collegiate level. Now, he’s doing it.

  Aside from the photos, a couple of empty coffee mugs, and neatly stacked binders and folders, there isn’t much hint this desk belongs to Brook MacLaughlin, the new wide receivers coach for the Seattle State Sounds.

  (I’m still figuring out the mascot. I get what they were trying to do. The college is settled on the edge of Puget Sound, after all. Still, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. When I brought it up one night, Brook adorably defended the name. He claimed it was creative. I said it didn’t work unless the fans were expected to dress up like bodies of water. He reminded me of the minor league baseball team in Nashville with the same name. I told him that was a major stretch. After going back and forth for a good twenty minutes, we’d agreed to disagree in the interest of saving our marriage.)

  Brook waits for J.J. to take his turn drafting before turning his eyes back to me. He taps his chin three times but says nothing. His blue eyes pierce mine.

  I cave in ten seconds flat.

  “Okay, J.J. is right. I’m drafting a team of dicks. I’m sure this seems juvenile. Or crazy. It’s probably both, but I’m doing it this way. For fun.”

  I gulp and finally raise my gaze to his. Sheesh. Our future kids are in for some serious trouble. If I ever suspect them of lying or sneaking around, I’ll just have Brook stare them straight.

  “Why dicks?” J.J. asks.