“But nothing happened. And I promise I won’t do it again.”
“You’d better not.” Christopher smirks and shakes his head. “But that’s not what we’re talking about right now. What else did I tell you?”
I sigh and hang my head in mock despair. “Not to base my decisions on how a player makes me feel. Whether it’s the pull of sentimental heart strings or the desire of cardinal lust, don’t do it. Statistics, projections, actual performance are more important ways to measure a player.”
“Do you agree with that advice now?”
“Absolutely.” I grab my phone and begin the search of a new defense. I’m willing to give Flaherty one more week, but mostly because I want to steal Zimmerman from Brook. “From now on, I’ll be cold and calculating in my decisions. I’ll be heartless and uncaring. I’ll be a dick.”
“That a girl. The Packers don’t care whether or not you have any of them on your team.”
Christopher is right. I don’t owe these players anything—except for my devoted support every week regardless of who is on my fantasy team. I need to make some changes to my lineup, even if it hurts my inner fangirl. Something has to change. Like the lyrics in last week’s Sunday Night Football song, courtesy of Brook’s Bon Jovi playlist, my team and I are living on a prayer.
FIVE MINUTES BEFORE we flip the closed sign on Friday night, Wade pokes his head in my office. “Want to go to a football game?”
I’m still annoyed after he handed me a third consecutive defeat last week. It wasn’t even close. He scored nearly twice as much as I did.
“Yeah, come with us,” J.J. says, stepping up behind him.
“Who’s playing? Some of your friends?” I finish the last of today’s paperwork. We didn’t have a huge sales day, but there were enough to make it worth opening. “None of the college or pro teams are playing tonight.”
“It’s a high school game,” Wade says.
“Why would we go to a high school game? Please tell me J.J. isn’t dating one of the cheerleaders.”
Smothering a laugh with a short cough, Wade shakes his head.
J.J.’s eyes narrow. “I don’t date high school girls.”
“That’s a relief.”
“It’s Brook’s team,” Wade says. I close the file cabinet and swish around in my chair to give my full attention. “We try to make it to a couple of his games every season, and since you’re his friend now, too—”
“And you don’t have a life,” J.J. adds.
“We wondered if you’d like to come with.”
“You’re probably wondering if he’s any better at coaching a bunch of high schoolers than he is at managing a fantasy team.” J.J. smirks. “He’s not.”
J.J. has been harsher than ever since he returned from spending part of the week at a convention with some of the other Whitley salesmen. I keep catching him staring—and frowning—at me. I shake off the chill running up my spine at the memory. “Do you even like Brook?”
“Of course.” J.J.’s brow knits together. “He’s one of my best friends.”
“You talk a lot of trash about him.”
“We’re guys. That’s what we do.”
“Wade doesn’t do it.”
“In fairness,” Wade interjects, “I’ve been known to talk some shit.”
“‘Some’ being the key word.” I return my attention to J.J. “I’m not saying you boys need to break out a guitar and sit in a circle singing, but it wouldn’t kill you to be nice and supportive of your friend.”
J.J. shrugs off my remarks. “I’m going to his game, and there’s a decent chance I won’t heckle him.”
That’s something.
“So, are you in?” Wade asks.
I stare down at my dark jeans and silk blouse. “Can I go home and change first?”
Wade pulls out a gray hoodie with “WARRIORS” emblazoned across the front. “We have a spare.”
He tosses it to me. As casually as possible, I give it a quick whiff. Good, it’s been washed recently. Truth is, I’d go even if they’d said I had to wear my work clothes. I’d like to watch Brook on the field.
Aside from my curiosity, a high school game sounds way more exciting than my original plans for the night. Spoiler alert: it involved throwing in a couple loads of laundry and painting my toenails while watching E!
I’m thrilled to have other plans—like enjoying one of the first crisp fall nights of the season under the lights of a football stadium. It’s been years since I went to a high school game. There’s something kind of magical about watching one—the marching band, the crowd, and the guys on the field. It’s thrilling.
This is going to be fun. I’m glad I wore my black riding boots and jeans for our newly implemented casual Friday—I’m not a total hard ass—instead of black slacks. The sweatshirt will actually look pretty cute. J.J. clears his throat, drawing my attention back to the present.
“Okay I’m in. Who’s driving?”
GIO, PAUL, AND KELSEY end up joining us, too, at the last minute. Based on the side glances she keeps casting my way, I’m fairly certain the only reason Kelsey tagged along was to make sure I’m not moving in on J.J. I wish I could tell her not to worry—or better yet to tell her she can do better—but I’m trying to maintain peace. Not get slapped.
When we arrive at the high school stadium, I’m pleasantly surprised Dylan and his son came to support their roommate, too. My second big shock comes when J.J. appears with a box of popcorn and a bottle of water for me on his return from the concession stand. It’s a welcome relief for my stomach, which is used to being fed by seven most nights.
I can’t be sure, but I may have overheard Kelsey mumble, “Don’t choke on it.”
To be safe, I pick a seat between Wade and Paul. There might be witnesses, but she still might try to push me down the bleachers.
As the sun sets behind the opposing side of the field, a slight chill settles in the stadium. I tuck one of my hands into the sweatshirt’s front pouch and breathe in deeply. It smells like fall, and I love it. I silently offer Paul some of my popcorn. Briefly tearing his eyes from the field, he helps himself with a soft “thanks.” It still strikes me as strange that I see him every day at work, yet we’ve barely spoken. Anderson is right. I should make more of an effort.
“Did you go to games when you were in high school?” I ask.
“Sometimes.” I wait for him to elaborate, but he continues watching the band march off the field without another word.
“Were you on the team? Or maybe in the band?”
“Yep.” Okay . . . this conversation thing isn’t going to be easy.
“Which one?”
“Band.”
“What did you play?”
“Trumpet.”
“Do you still play?”
“Nope.” He shifts in his seat and asks, “Is J.J. going to the bar with us after the game?”
I blink, surprised at the random shift in conversation. “I’d guess so. We drove together.”
“Cool.”
My eyes narrow and I examine Paul more closely. Does he have a thing for J.J.? Or is this a case of hero worship?
“Did you ever see J.J. play in college?” he asks. Despite the subject, I’m thrilled. He’s actually asking me questions. I shake my head, which opens the way for him to elaborate. “I did. He was good. He should’ve played in the pros.”
“It sounds like he came close.”
“Yeah, but it didn’t work out.” Paul chomps on a few more kernels of popcorn. “What a shame. He could’ve been the next big thing.”
I neither agree nor disagree but return my attention to the field. The team is about to make its big entrance. I don’t want to miss it because we’re talking about J.J.’s failed shot at the big show. The band’s drumline forms two lines in front of a tear-away banner with “Go Warriors” printed in large, bold letters on it. The snares start, the low drumroll crescendos as rock music blasts through the loud speakers behind the stands.<
br />
My heart pounds loudly in my chest and my fingers tingle. Even though this is my first Warriors game, it’s impossible not to get caught up in the excitement and anticipation. I jump to my feet with the rest of the crowd. The shouts meld into a mash-up of indistinguishable war cries. A cannon fires off, and I grab onto Wade’s arm to steady myself.
“They don’t mess around with their team spirit,” he shouts over the crowd, patting my hand.
“I guess,” I yell back, loosening my fingers slightly. I’m afraid to let go entirely in case another one of those cannons fire.
Gio pokes his head around Wade’s other side. Taking in my near-death grip on Wade, he raises his eyebrows and gives a knowing wink. Great. Now Gio probably thinks there’s something going on between Wade and me.
My throat is ragged from cheering when, at last, the team crashes through the banner. The players and coaches run past the line of drummers toward the benches. And then I see him.
“There he is,” I say to no one in particular. I release my grip on Wade and point to the field. Brook jogs alongside players in the middle of the pack. As he gets closer, I can tell he’s talking to one of the players, determination written plainly across his face. Coach Brook seems to be doing most of the talking. Once they reach the sideline, Brook pats the student’s helmet.
The captains from both teams meet in the center of the field for the coin toss. They shake hands while the ref explains the rules of the toss. We listen, even though everyone—even Kelsey—understands how a coin toss works. The quarter flips in the air, and the visiting team calls heads. It lands tails up. Having won the toss, our boys elect to defend first. It’s a standard—but smart—decision because they’ll have the ball to start the second half.
The players take position for kickoff. I follow Wade’s lead and hold my arms in the air, fingers wiggling. “We do this at Huskers games, too,” he explains for my benefit.
The ball sails through the air and into the waiting arms of a player on the opposing team. He runs about three yards before he’s tackled. The crowd sits and the players scramble to prepare for the first drive of the game. I try to focus on the action, but I find myself frequently distracted by the sidelines.
Brook is in full coaching mode. He’s hunched over speaking to a trio of players on the bench. He jabs sharply across the screen of a tablet, and they nod along. When he’s finished explaining the play, two of the players put on their helmets in preparation for taking the field. While I was paying attention to the sidelines, the defense forced a three and out, and now it’s the Warriors’ turn to put some points on the board.
On their way to the field, Brook thumps players on the shoulders and turns to watch.
“Does Brook know we’re here?” I ask.
Wade shakes his head.
“Shouldn’t someone tell him? Let him know he has a fan section.”
“He always figures it’s a possibility we might show up. We’ll tell him after the game when we’re not a distraction. Besides, he always has his own cheering squad.” Wade points to a young woman and two small children by her side. I recognize the pint-sized fans, but this is my first glimpse of his sister.
“They never miss a game if they can help it.” He points to the couple seated next to them. “And those are his parents. They drive down from South Sioux City for as many of the games as they can.”
“That’s sweet.” I arch my neck, hoping to get a better look without luck.
“Football is a big deal in his family. There’s not a man, woman, or child in the MacLaughlin clan who can’t spout off facts at the drop of a hat. They live for the game.” Wade pops an oversized handful of popcorn in his mouth and chews it slowly. I hand him my bottle of water to keep him from choking.
“It’s nice of them to include the high school team in their fandom.”
“Brook’s dad is trying to make up for lost time.”
What does that mean? I open my mouth to ask Wade, but he’s already explaining. “Amelia—that’s his little sister—told me their dad has a lot of guilt about missing so many of Brook’s high school and college games. He was in the Reserves,” Wade explains hurriedly. “After 9/11, the Major was on active duty more often than not in his final years of service.”
My eyes wander to the man Wade calls “the Major.” He’s wearing a hat and windbreaker in the team colors. I can make out his profile when he turns to talk with the woman next to him. It’s hard to tell from here, but Brook may have his nose and chin. “That had to be hard for them.”
“It was. More for Brook than he’d ever let on.” Wade swallows another gulp of water. “He had to be the man of the house, and it wasn’t always easy.”
“I’m sure.”
We return our attention to the game, but my focus strays to the sideline more often than necessary. After the team is up by more than three touchdowns, I don’t bother pretending to be interested in anything besides the coaching crew, one assistant in particular. There is something about Coach Brook. Something that makes me want to find out everything about him. Like what is his favorite breakfast cereal and what is his greatest wish in life?
It’s obvious. I like Brook. Only, I’m not entirely sure what to do about that yet.
Chapter Twelve
NO SURPRISE, THE WARRIORS won. In a game jam-packed with excitement, it’s hard to pick a favorite part. There was the forced fumble that was taken down field, lining the team up for an easy score. There was the punt returned for a touchdown. There was the impressive strong-arm from the star running back, who’s only a sophomore.
The stands weren’t boring either. We had Kelsey working her charm on J.J., who was busy getting a phone number from one of the players’ moms. And Paul actually worked himself up enough to do one of those whistles where you stick your pinkies in your mouth and shrill.
But if I had to choose one favorite moment from tonight, I’d have to pick the pure joy on Brook’s face seconds before half of the offense tackled him to the ground once the clock ran out. My stomach may have lurched at the hit—those kids are strong—but I could almost hear his laughter from our nosebleed seats.
With the wind blasting our faces by the end of the game, I didn’t have to make up an excuse to explain my teary eyes.
I feel them threatening to well up again as Brook scoops up his niece, Marley, with one arm, and folds his mother into a hug with the other. After the long embrace, he releases his mom and stoops over to accept a peck on the cheek from Ellery. His father gives him a firm pat on the shoulder and a nod of approval.
Wade nudges my ribs, drawing my attention away from the MacLaughlin family. “Come on. Let’s go.”
My heart sinks. I wanted to go say hello to the coach. I’m not sure what else I’d be able to add to the conversation. I’m awed. But I would have liked a shot. “We’re leaving?”
“Not yet. We’re going to talk Brook into buying us a round of victory beers. That’s where you come in.” Wade nudges me again, and I wince. He’ll give me a bruise if he isn’t careful.
I rub my sore rib. “What do you want me to do?”
“Bat your eyes. Purse your lips.” He shrugs, and I step out of the way before he can stick his elbow at me again. If Wade tries that once more, I might tear his arm off. “Do whatever it takes to woo him into getting us those beers. I believe in you.”
If only it was that easy to talk him into doing whatever I wanted. Visions of asking him to trade kickers or at least set a lineup for me flood my head. I dismiss them almost as quickly. No, even if I had that kind of pull with Brook it would be wrong to exploit it for personal gain.
I’m so caught up in the idea, I don’t notice Wade’s elbow in motion until it’s too late. “Ouch.”
“Are you coming or what?”
I follow the line of my co-workers and league-mates to make our way down the steps. My stomach clenches tighter with each step.
Brook is listening to something his youngest niece is saying when J.J. calls out
his name. Brook raises a hand in greeting and moves forward but stops short when his clear blue eyes land on me. I nearly collide with Wade’s shoulder. A slow grin spreads across Brook’s face, warming me to the tips of my toes.
He sets Marley back on her little legs and shakes hands with J.J., then Dylan, murmuring his thanks. While he politely listens to Gio introduce Kelsey, Wade taps Brook’s sister on her shoulder.
She brightens and pulls him in for a hug. “You came.”
His arms wrap around her, and his hand gently moves up and down the small of her back so quickly I almost miss it. When they pull apart, her palms linger on his shoulders a beat longer than necessary.
She glances over his shoulder and catches me not too subtly following the exchange. Her eyes flash with interest and she steps back to face me. “Wade, you’re being rude. Who’s your friend?”
He clears his throat and gestures at me with his thumb. “Amelia, this is Harper. Harper, Amelia.”
We shake hands, and Wade gestures to the little girls. “These are—”
“Marley and Ellery,” I finish. “We met at the park last weekend. I’m pretty sure my nephew has a crush on both of your daughters.”
“Men are suckers for pretty girls.” Amelia winks at me.
Suddenly feeling shy, I drop to my knees to greet the girls. “How are you ladies doing? Are you having fun?”
They both nod, and Ellery jumps forward and throws her arms around me. “Did you watch the game?” she asks. “Isn’t football the best?”
I grin at her enthusiasm. “It is.”
“Do you play?”
“A little.”
“You should ask Uncle Brook to teach you.” She beams up at him. “He’s very good.”
“He is working with me,” I assure her. “I’m a bit of a slow learner though.”
“You’re showing improvement,” Brook says, offering a hand to help me stand. The hardness of his skin against mine sends a tingle running up and down my spine.
I fight the urge to sigh. “I’m not. But thanks for saying.”
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