First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

  I let out a short laugh. “Thanks, but I’d still rather suffer alone.”

  I take a moment to wallow in self-pity. Not only have I let myself down, but I’ve failed Scott. He now has a future of yard detail to look forward to because he believed in me. And while they’ll never know, I’ve failed womankind by being such a bad representative of our gender in the Mega Ballerz.

  “You’re not going to lose,” Wade insists. “You have Lorenzo Rossi playing tonight, and he’s on fire.”

  “And J.J.’s star running back is on the brink of having a breakout year.” I shrug, trying to pretend I don’t care. “I might be the favorite statistically, but luck isn’t on my side.”

  In this league or in life.

  Wade lowers his voice and leans forward. “If you don’t come, J.J. will know why. Do you want him calling you a coward behind your back? Or will you be courageous?”

  I purse my lips. Damn. He certainly can close a sale.

  “Are you guys watching on O Street or in the Railyard?”

  He claps his hands. “Atta girl.”

  Before we leave, I excuse myself to the restroom claiming I need to freshen up my makeup. I ignore J.J.’s crass remark about “women” and slip into the restroom to steal a moment of peace. I turn the lock and lean my back against the door. Closing my eyes, I say out loud, “I will not let J.J. beat me. I deserve to play in this league.”

  My phone beeps, disrupting my mantra.

  Brook: Big game tonight. My money is on you.

  Trust Brook to send a cheer-up text the moment I need it. Even with football practice and parent-teacher conferences, he found time to remember me. Either he has a sixth sense where I’m concerned—which is a lovely idea—or Wade told him about my pregame jitters, which may be equally nice. I like having friends who care.

  Me: J.J. seems pretty confident he’ll remain undefeated. He said ‘no man would beat him’ this season.

  Brook: Sounds like he needs a woman to take him down. Go get ‘em.

  ANOTHER GAME, ANOTHER bar. I wonder why most of the guys in this league even bother playing fantasy football. They seem more interested in drinking than winning. Why not start a drinking club? I’m not a great drinker, but it beats this fantasy nonsense. I’m being a sore loser, but what fun is playing a game when you never win? What’s the point?

  “There’s more than winning,” Scott had said while he tried to comfort me after my Week Five loss. “There’s something to be said for experience and character building.” I’d told him to shut his mouth and save his diplomacy for talking Jackson into a bath.

  Gio interrupts my solitude with yet another offer to order me dinner. I shake my head. I’m too nervous to eat. My eyes are glued to the screen at the front of the bar. Only half a quarter left, and J.J. and I are neck and neck.

  Shrugging, Gio takes the empty seat next to me. “So, what were you and Brook doing yesterday?”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “In the backyard.”

  Oh. “Brook is giving me a few lessons on how to play football so I’ll be ready for the league’s day-after Thanksgiving game.”

  “Good idea. A lot of these guys are pretty serious about the game.” He gives me a pointed look. “They won’t take it easy on you just because you’re a girl.”

  Just because I’m a girl. What a load of sexist crap. Nope. I have to fight the anger. Instead of speaking, I let out a breath. I should focus on something more positive. I should channel some of the energy from last night’s Bon Jovi song—the more modern classic from our youth, “It’s My Life”—and send it to Lorenzo Rossi, who is my only hope.

  Gio lowers his voice. “Are you spending time with Brook to make Wade jealous?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “God knows a little game of cat and mouse would do you both good.”

  I should set him straight, but a flash of movement on the screen steals my attention. It’s Lorenzo Rossi. He’s made a catch for fifteen yards. I check my phone. That puts me two points ahead of J.J. With only thirty seconds left on the clock, Rossi's team makes slow, but steady progress down the field, giving him—and me— a few more receptions.

  The clock winds down to fifteen seconds. The quarterback scrambles out of the pocket, leans back, and lets the ball sail into the end zone. The receiver—someone whose name I only vaguely recognize—drops it.

  The team lines up again. Six seconds remain. That’s enough time to secure their victory and mine. The ball snaps, and the quarterback steps back out of the huddle. Rossi races toward the end zone with two defenders close behind. The quarterback hurls the ball through the air. Rossi turns back and jumps up. Everything moves in a fast blur as he tumbles to the ground. Did he get it? Did he keep possession? The clock runs out and Rossi jumps to his feet, ball in hand.

  A tortured shout erupts from someone at the next table. I don’t spare J.J. a passing glance. The clatter of glasses and murmurs of conversation fade into the background as I watch the replay. Oh my God.

  “You won,” Gio says in wonder.

  A grin spreads across my face. “I won.”

  For a moment I let that sink in. I didn’t lose. I beat J.J. Then all at once, I’m brought back to the present. Back to the agitated stammers from J.J. Back to the pats on the backs and the offers to buy me a round. Absently, I swallow the last sip of beer. The alcohol, or perhaps the thrill of victory, warms my belly and rises to my chest. And it’s good.

  FANTASY FOOTBALL IS, like, the best thing in the world. I mean, I get that it’s hard. Sometimes you hate it. And sometimes you want to kick your players in their groins because it’ll hurt them as much as losing hurts you. Then you feel bad for them because groin injuries suck. They sometimes mean your player can’t play anymore. And that’s sad. It’s sad when a player can’t play. Like Tony Moor from my team. He got hurt, like, a million weeks ago, and he still can’t play, which is so sad.

  Luckily, I didn’t need him this week. I found some other guys, who don’t have injured groins or knees or anything, and they’re everything. They’re winners. Know what’s great about winners? It means you’re winning if you’re a winner. And winning . . . it’s like, the best. Have you ever tried winning? It’s aaaammmmmaaaaaaazzzziiing. You should so go out and do something and win it right now because it’s everything.

  I love winning. And I love fantasy football. And I love Todd Northwood. I wanna make out with his face. Or maybe I wanna make out with Coach Brook. His face would be good for making out.

  And I love my co-workers. They’re so nice. After I won, they gave me high fives and pats on the back. And they gave me delicious drinks in tiny cups. Ooooookkkaaaay. Maybe I had a few too many of those guys. The shots. Because everything is spinnnnnnniiiingg and twirrrrllling. Like a ballerina. Dancing, dancing, dancing.

  “I wanna go dancing, guys,” I announce.

  Gio lets out a low laugh. “I’m cutting Harper off.”

  “I’ll cut—hiccup—you off.” Ha. That’ll teach him.

  Without waiting for anyone to join me, I jump out of my seat and move to the music. A group of guys on the other side of the room cheers. I must be pretty good. One of them yells, “Get it, sister.”

  “Your phone is ringing,” Wade yells over the music. He checks the screen. “It’s Brook.”

  “Tell him I’m celebrating.”

  “With great humility,” J.J. mumbles. He leans forward and adds more loudly, “You should be careful with that guy.”

  “Who?”

  “Brook.”

  “Why?”

  “Because winning is all he cares about. He’ll do whatever it takes to win.”

  “But he’s so nice.”

  “That’s how his game works. He lulls you into a sense of security and bam, he strikes, taking your team to the cleaners.”

  I shake my head. J.J. is wrong. Brook isn’t con . . . con . . . oh, whatever the word is for people who plot out ways to be shady. He’s good. I like Brook. I
like him a lot. Like a lot a lot. Like, if he was here right now, I’d throw my arms around his neck and kiss him. He’s too nice of a guy to cheat.

  The music playing over the speakers falls silent, and suddenly I’m tired. “Guys. I wanna go home.”

  “Now that’s a good idea,” Wade says. “Come on Team Harper. Let’s get your coat.”

  “Don’t forget my purse!”

  “Does anyone know where she lives?” I overhear Wade ask. “Because she shouldn’t be driving.”

  “She’s fine,” J.J. says.

  “No, she’s not,” Paul says. Uh oh. There must be trouble in man-crush paradise. He’s actually disagreeing with J.J. “We shouldn’t have given her so much to drink.”

  “She kept up with the shots like a champ. I told you guys she had a nasty side.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t get behind the wheel either.” Gio grabs J.J.’s keys. “I’ll drive your car, and my wife can drop me off at mine in the morning.”

  “Whatever.”

  “That still doesn’t help us with Harper,” Wade says.

  “I’ll show you the way,” I call out over my shoulder and run out of the bar.

  “Wait! Slow down.”

  “You’ll trip.”

  I leave the crew behind—they’re holding me back right now—and skip down the street. Oh man, tonight was fun. Way fun. It was nice to cut loose. It was nice winning. And it was nice of Brook to call. Maybe I should call him back.

  Wait. I don’t have my phone. I turn heel to order Wade to give it back, but my foot catches. I throw out both of my hands, which saves my face from hitting the ground.

  “Oof.”

  Sprawled out on the concrete, my palms burn. Ouch. But it’s nothing compared to the flames of pain shooting up my left leg. It sobers me faster than a gallon of coffee. Somehow, in the middle of the greatest achievement of my life—or at least the past few months—I’ve been stricken with injury. Just like Tony Moor.

  Oh my God. I’m injured. I’ve torn off my foot. That’s the only explanation for the searing pain shooting through my left leg. I caught my shoe on a tree stump or crater-sized hole in the sidewalk, and now I’ve lost my foot. Maybe if we get to the hospital right away they can reattach it.

  I crack open an eyelid and am pleasantly surprised to find my foot still attached, instead of a stump or a pool of blood. I take a deep breath to ease the building nausea and pain. Gio and Paul are the first to reach my side.

  “Are you okay?” Paul asks.

  “No,” I sniffle. “I’m. Hurt.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad.” I point to my foot, which again, I’m shocked to find it still attached to my leg. I can’t decide if that’s lucky or not, because it hurts. “I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure I’m dying.”

  “You’re not dying.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then how can you be sure?”

  Paul shakes his head and leans back on his heels while Gio helps me sit up. Paul glances at my foot and grimaces. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

  “Whatever,” I sniff. It’s not going to change the fact that I’ll probably lose the leg once they take me to the hospital.

  Lifting my foot, he orders me to wiggle my toes, and I obey. It hurts, which only makes me cry harder, but I can do it.

  “That’s good,” he says. “You probably wouldn’t be able to move it if it was broken. I’m guessing it’s a sprained ankle. A bad one.”

  I let out a grunt, so he’s assured I don’t care for his diagnosis. But then his words echo through my head. A sprain. A bad one. What was it that puzzle told me to do if I ever had a bad sprain?

  Oh. My. God. “RICE,” I bellow. “I need RICE.” I wish I could remember what it stands for, but there are too many words. I need someone to help me remember.

  Gio uses his most father-like voice to soothe me. “Chinese food is not going to help you right now, sweetheart. If you can be brave for me until we get you home, I’ll make sure we order takeout for lunch tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want Chinese food, you idiot.” I shouldn’t have yelled that, but who has time to be polite when my leg is dying? “I need RICE. For my foot.”

  “It’s your ankle, actually,” Paul corrects cheerfully.

  “Whatever. My foot, or ankle, or whatever you call it needs RICE. And it needs it NOW.”

  “I can run to the Mediterranean place around the corner,” Paul offers. “They have rice pilafs. It’s solid actually. They put almonds and saffron in—”

  “Enough with the food,” I cut him off. “Get Wade. He understands.”

  Wade appears by my side a moment later. “Oh, God, Harper, I’m so sorry. I was on the phone with Brook. I didn’t even realize you’d left the bar and—”

  I grab his hand, wincing at the rawness in my palm. “You have to tell them.”

  He frowns. “Tell them what?”

  “About the RICE.”

  He stares at me a moment, like I’m insane. But then awareness lights his eyes. Yes. He remembers. He can help me.

  “It’s going to be okay, guys,” he explains. “It’s sports medicine. She wants RICE: rest, ice, compression, and elevation.”

  Gio belts out a full laugh, and J.J.—who finally decided to join in my suffering—rolls his eyes. Wade softens his voice when he says, “We’ll get you some RICE as soon as we can, but until then, we need to take you home.”

  “Call my brothers. Please.” More tears stream down my face. “I need them.”

  Wade nods and waits for me to unlock the phone so he can do as I’ve commanded. I lay back on the pavement, my ankle still cradled in Paul’s lap. I clench my eyes shut. Hopefully, when I open them tomorrow, everything—except winning—will be a terrible mistake.

  Week Six Recap: Team Harper Sneaks in a W

  Well there you go. After starting the season with five straight losses, Team Harper finally managed to secure a victory. And against the top-rated team in the league no less.

  She made a gutsy call playing Lorenzo Rossi. Rossi set a new personal record, making him the top-performing running back of the week.

  Her faith in Todd Northwood continues to pay off despite pre-season predictions. The veteran quarterback easily secures twenty to thirty points each week.

  While it’s too soon to say the tides are changing for Team Harper, she’s at least showing a sign of life.

  Record: 1-5

  Chapter Sixteen

  I HAD A HUNCH THIS morning would suck. And so far this morning . . . well, it sucks. I can’t decide what’s worse. The pounding headache. The churning stomach. Or the bum ankle propped up on a stack of pillows.

  Those are just my physical problems. At some point, I’ll have to get out of bed and deal with the consequences of last night. Christopher will give me hell. He’s undoubtedly waiting for me to surface so he can pounce and lecture me. I have dozens of missed calls, voicemails, and text messages to sort through. Then, I’ll have to go to work and face the witnesses to my embarrassment.

  Maybe I’ll call in sick. I certainly feel badly enough.

  A mushy bag of once-frozen broccoli slides off the bed. At least I had the good sense to elevate my ankle and put a cold compress on it last night. It’s in bad shape, if the throbbing is any indication. I gingerly push the comforter aside to examine my injury more closely.

  “Ffuu . . . gross,” I catch myself before I drop an f-bomb, even though I don’t have an audience to worry about. But what else can I say? It’s so . . . huge . . . and lumpy . . . and . . . purple. The room spins again. I’m not sure I can fight this wave of nausea for long. Maybe it would help if I could tear my eyes away from my ankle, but I can’t. It’s like a giant, pulsing, purple beacon.

  I hope I still have a stash of compression bandages in the bathroom. I’d rather not beg Christopher to take me to a pharmacy right now. If possible, I’d like to stay put for the rest of the day or forever. Unfortunately,
my bladder and dry throat aren’t in agreement. I can’t decide if I need to pee or drink water more. Would it be gross to do both simultaneously? My stomach rolls. Yes. Totally revolting.

  I clamp my eyes shut to squelch the tears threatening to fill them. God, I’m such a complete screw-up. I lose a game, and I have a meltdown. I win one, and it brings me to my knees. Or rather my ankle. What’s wrong with me?

  My cell phone buzzes from the nightstand where I plugged it in to charge last night. “Good job, Drunk Harper,” I mutter.

  Taking a deep gulp of air, I reach for the phone. I might as well handle this part of my messy world. I hit the display button and swear under my breath. Fourteen new texts. Seven missed calls. Four voicemail messages. How many were a response to contact I instigated? How many are from co-workers spreading my stupidity to the masses?

  I didn’t blackout last night, but I’m fuzzy on a few details. I remember watching the game. I remember going light on dinner because I was already too full of beer. I remember downing some congratulatory shots from my co-workers. I remember falling.

  I don’t remember spending time on my phone aside from calling Scott—who is out of town on business—to brag about my victory. And then asking Wade to call Christopher for a ride home.

  My shaky finger hesitates over the message notification. I’m not going to like any of it. But . . . I doubt I can feel any worse than I do now.

  The first series of texts are from Scott spanning a two-hour time period.

  Scott: Holy Rossi! Please tell me you played him this week.

  Scott: Sorry I missed your call. I was in the bathroom.

  Scott: I listened to your message. Where are you? Are you drunk? On a school night? Why aren’t you answering your phone?

  Scott: You’ve left me no choice. I’m calling Christopher.

  Which explains the next string of messages on my phone.

  Christopher: Scott said you sounded like you were in trouble. Where are you? Are you okay? Do you need a ride?

  Christopher: Answer my calls or I’ll trace your phone.