First & Goal

by Laura Chapman

  Scott runs into the end zone and wraps me in a hug. From the sidelines, everyone cheers my name. Turning away from the anger on J.J.’s face, I find Brook still sprawled out on the ground. He’s leaning back on his elbows grinning. I give a small salute to the man who has force fed me plays for the past few weeks seconds before I brace myself for hugs from the rest of our team.

  I wonder if people will shout “Harp-er! Harp-er!” when I take home the fantasy football title in a few weeks.

  AFTER A BUSY HOLIDAY weekend, Brook and I take advantage of his house being empty on Monday night. With Brook’s spot already secured in the playoffs, we’re waiting to find out whether or not my team makes the cut. I should be focused on the screen, but I’m increasingly distracted by the freshly shaved man curled up next to me on the couch. His arm rests casually over my shoulders while he studies highlights from the season on his tablet screen. Like it’s no big deal. Like we’ve always been this comfortable together.

  I hate to admit it, but I wonder where we’re going. My heart believes it’s all the way. Even my head is starting to go along with the idea. Except for the little bit of doubt that ebbs its way in. Not in Brook. Not in our ability to be happy. But I wonder whether or not I have what it takes to be in this for the long haul.

  I’m far from perfect. Even farther from it when measured next to Brook. When times get tough, or a better, flashier option appears, I’ve bailed. That’s why I haven’t been anywhere longer than a couple of years since college. I wonder if my latent wanderlust will become a problem.

  “What?” Brook asks as he squeezes my tense shoulder.

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on. Spill.”

  I let out a sigh. “When am I going to be one of those people who has everything figured out?”

  His eyebrows flash up. “You know people who have everything figured out?”

  “Sure. People like you.”

  He snorts. “No one’s life is completely together, no matter how it looks.” His hand moves up and down my arm, firmly, but gently soothing me. “People work hard for the lives they have. But at one point or another, something in their lives suck.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “A broken car without enough money in the bank to cover it and buy groceries. One of the kids brings home a bug and everyone is sick, but they have to be the adult and take care of everyone even though they feel like shit.” Brook shrugs. “Life is always going to throw new challenges at you whether or not you have a 401k and can afford to live without roommates.”

  “True, but . . .”

  “If this is about J.J. calling you a glorified receptionist, forget him. He’s a sore loser.”

  “Maybe he’s right, though.” A sharp pain throbs behind my eyes. I rub my forehead trying to fight the ache. “Take my ankle. How stupid was that?”

  “You’re in your twenties. You’re allowed to make mistakes.” He raises my chin until I meet his gaze. “You’ll still be allowed to make them when you’re forty-six or sixty-six. Just try not to do it when you’re in your seventies or eighties. Broken bones don’t heal as easily when you’re older.”

  “I hope I’m not still getting drunk and falling down in my forties.”

  “Then don’t.” He brushes his lips on mine. “And don’t beat yourself up for having fun while you’re young. We have our whole lives to be dull and boring. Until then, keep on making life interesting.”

  I snuggle deeper into the crook of Brook’s arm and lightly kiss his neck hoping to turn his thoughts in another direction. “How long before your roomies get home?”

  “Wade is with Amelia, and I’d rather we not play the guessing game on how late he’ll be there.” My kisses dip lower below the collar of his shirt. “Dylan is out of town at a conference.”

  I glance at the clock. It’s only 6:30. Plenty of time for a make out session even if Wade comes home for the night. I lightly touch my tongue to Brook’s neck and place small, teasing kisses as I work my way up his jaw and over his scar, inching closer and closer to his mouth. Quick to catch on, he takes my lips with his.

  Pausing a moment to shift our position so my back is pushed against the couch, Brook deepens the kiss. This is nice. I can’t believe this is what I’ve been missing while I was trying to avoid our chemistry. His hand moves up my waist sending a shiver down my spine. This is definitely a better way of spending our time together than worrying about what may or may not happen.

  HOURS LATER WE’RE STILL snuggled up on the couch watching the game. It’s close. Vien’s team, my opponent, is done for the week. I need one field goal, and this week—and a spot in the playoffs—will be mine.

  Zimmerman lines up to attempt the field goal. The ball is snapped, and his foot connects. It sails more than forty yards across the field, past the hands of the defenders trying to make a block, and flies through the goalpost with a foot to spare.

  “And Queen Harper is going to the playoffs,” Brook says, squeezing me.

  “I won,” I say breathlessly.

  “You did.”

  “I’m going to the playoffs”

  “Yes, you are.”

  We did it. We made it to the playoffs. It’s no surprise that Brook did. He’s been destined for the playoffs since winning last year and the year before. But I made it, too. I scream and throw myself at Brook. He’s grinning and wrapping his arms around me as I lock my lips on his. This is a much more enjoyable—not to mention safer—way to celebrate a victory than with rounds of shots. After several minutes, we pull apart, our chests rising up and down.

  “Harper?”

  “Yeah?”

  He clears his throat. “Do you want to . . . stay the night?”

  I nod before I can overanalyze this. As far as I’m concerned, we made it through the whole regular season, and well past the trade deadline, without taking this step. J.J. won’t be able to accuse us of trading sexual favors for running backs. Brook grabs my hand and leads me toward his bedroom.

  In his room, he flips on a switch, and the light next to his bed flashes on. His lips move to my neck, and his hands rove up my body, under my sweater. The knot in my stomach grows with a mixture of need and nerves.

  “Wait.” I press my hands against his chest to halt his progress. “First, I have a question.”

  “Yeah.” His breath quickens as my hands slide down his belly. “Anything.”

  “Where did you get the scar on your chin?”

  He pulls back and stares at my face in bemusement. “Seriously? You want to go there?”

  I stop my caress, his abs tense under my fingertips. “You said you’d tell me if we both made it to the playoffs . . .”

  “And I will, but right now?”

  I nod, chewing on the inside of my cheek. I lift my free hand to gently trace the small mark, the only imperfection on his chin. “Please.”

  “Okay.” With a sigh, he rests his forehead against mine. “Marley clobbered me with one of those cardboard books the first time Amelia left me alone to watch both of the girls. That’s how I got the scar.”

  I eye him skeptically. “Are you messing with me?”

  “No, but it’s not one of my proudest moments. I mean, it’s better than some of the other stories, but still, I have a scar from a children’s book. It’s kind of emasculating.”

  I place a kiss on his chin and pull him closer. “I think it’s sexy.”

  His eyebrows lift. “Oh yeah?”

  I nod, giving his chin a few more pecks and working my way up to his lips. “There are few things I find hotter than a big strong man like you being at the mercy of his nieces.”

  “Well then.” Brook’s lips find mine again. This time, I don’t stop.

  SPRAWLED OUT ON HIS bed, Brook kicks the covers and pulls them up over our bodies while we regain our breaths. If I’d known what was awaiting us, well, I would have tried to be less uptight weeks ago. I probably would’ve grabbed him by the collar of his polo shirt that first time he caught me s
taring at his butt in the kitchen.

  I trace the hair on his chest and across the muscles of his shoulder with the tips of my fingers. I wonder how he still finds time to exercise when he’s so busy. Between his work and team commitments, not to mention the time he’s been carving out for me, when does he go to the gym? Maybe I should use that as my motivation to do something other than lounge around in sweatpants.

  Brook’s hands move up and down my back, holding me close to him. He places light kisses on my face before finding my lips again. I could stay here forever, but it’s getting late.

  “I should probably go,” I whisper. And because I can’t help myself, I give him another peck.

  He tightens his grip on me and pulls me even closer. “You said you were going to stay the night.”

  “I should—”

  “Stay the night.”

  I press my hand to his chest to create some distance. “Excuse me.”

  “No funny business. I promise to be on my best behavior.” He lowers his voice to a near growl. “Unless you don’t want me to be on my best behavior.”

  “But, your roommates . . .”

  “Aren’t here.” Brook grabs my hand and gently lifts it to his lips. “It’s late. You’re tired. I don’t want you to go. You want to stay. So stay.”

  His caresses my cheek with his thumb, and I lean into his palm. It would be nice to stay. To not have to get in my car and drive across town. To be able to spend more time with Brook here in bed. He nuzzles my ear, sending a tickle and shiver down my spine at the same time.

  “I’ll let you be the little spoon.” He nuzzles me again, and I lose the laugh I’ve been trying to hold back.

  “Okay. I’ll stay.”

  “Good. Because I’m pretty good at cuddling.”

  After the skills he’s already shown tonight, I have no doubt the man means what he says.

  WEEK THIRTEEN RECAP: Queen Harper’s Team Lands a Playoffs Spot

  Eight weeks ago, I never would have imagined I’d be writing this, but Queen Harper is heading to the playoffs.

  Oh how the tide has turned. After a less than stellar—okay, honestly, a dismal—start to the season, the Queen Harpers didn’t seem to have a prayer of making it to the playoffs. Well, here she is. Not only did she win one of the six coveted spots, but she’s earned a bye week for the first round of the playoffs for finishing the regular season in second place. (She’s technically tied for second with two other teams, but her point totals edged out the competition.)

  Queen Harper was led to this spot by none other than veteran quarterback Todd Northwood. After losing a year of play recovering from surgery, many questioned whether North would be relevant, let alone make an impact. Based on his strong performance all season, one would have to say the king is back and in charge.

  Other players looking to be leaders on Queen Harper’s team in the post-season include wide receivers Gabriel Natz and Isaiah Dewey-Davis, and running backs John-Paul Massa and Ambrose Saltimbacca. The Pope is no surprise on this list, but the others have risen above their pre-season projections to be coveted players in every league.

  Good luck in the playoffs, Queen Harper. This is where the men—and women—are separated from the boys and girls.

  Record: 8-5

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  MY STOMACH IS ALREADY in knots about the dealership’s Christmas party tonight. Now that I’ve befriended most of the staff, everything at work is going pretty well. We even met the deadline for processing the web changes. I should be thrilled to celebrate how far I’ve come this fall, and with Brook no less. I’m just worried.

  I’ve asked Brook to be my date. With the exception of Wade—who’s been aware of our relationship probably longer than I have—this will be the first time the rest of our friends see us together. As a couple. It’s not like we’re breaking any laws or rules.

  Some of the nerves might be from my head-to-head fantasy football matchup this week. I have to win if I’m going to make it to the championship round next week. I’m up against Paul, who is dealing with a few questionable players. I basically have this game wrapped up with the shiniest wrapping paper in my Christmas bin and topped with a bow. Still, anything could happen.

  To take my mind off of everything, I invited Meg over for a couple of hours to help me sort through my yarn and project collection. Christopher has earned lawn care duty for next summer thanks to my unexpected fantasy football playoff bid, so I’m trying to make nice. I met Meg for lunch on Tuesday, and here’s the big surprise—she isn’t so bad.

  She can’t be awful if she’s agreed to help me sort through this mess. I used to keep it so well organized, but I let it become a disaster this fall. I blame football. But I figure if I’m serious about starting an online knitting and crocheting business with Amelia, I should at least give the illusion of having myself, and my stash, together.

  “It’s a great idea,” Meg says. “You’re talented.”

  It’s the fourth or fifth compliment she’s paid me in as many minutes. “Thank you.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be super successful.”

  “I hope so.” I shrug. “If this doesn’t pan-out, I can always go with my backup plan.”

  “Working at a car dealership isn’t your backup plan?” She hands over a folded pile of knit caps, pausing to admire the turquoise beanie on top.

  “I’m on at least my third or fourth backup plan.”

  She gestures to the chaos around us. “What’s your plan if this doesn’t work out?”

  “Sell everything, default on my student loans, and flee to Canada.”

  “Which part of Canada?”

  “Wherever they’ll take me.”

  “You realize Canada is the second-largest country in the world, right?” she asks. “Saying you’ll go to Canada without a clear destination makes as much sense as Jackson threatening to run away with only a pair of underwear and fruit snacks.”

  “He might be on to something there.”

  With Meg handling the folding process, I move on to organizing my yarn stash. There’s quite a pile still unsorted. A couple of weeks ago, Amelia and I found a local shop having an end-of-season sale. Not everything I bought is pretty. Like this mustard-yellow wool, which was a steal at seventy-five percent off. They had half a dozen skeins sitting on the shelf, and I took the whole inventory. With a little imagination and planning, I’ll turn this yarn into a hat and scarf set or a sweater someone will love.

  There’s something nice about giving something seemingly awful a new chance at life.

  I glance up at her over the mound of yarn. “So.”

  “Is my brother super pissed about having lawn duty for next summer?”

  She lets out a short laugh. “I’m not sure that’s the right phrase, but he’s not happy.” She shakes her head. “That’s what he gets for rooting against the force that is Harper Duquaine.”

  The force that is me. I should get that printed on a T-shirt or coffee mug. I’ll order two because Brook will probably want one. “Are you excited to start our next crocheting class?”

  “You mean the one you should be teaching?”

  “Well . . .”

  “It’s okay.” She lets out a sigh and starts on a pile of baby blankets. “I get that you’re better than me at crocheting.”

  “I’ve been doing it longer.”

  “True, but it gives me something to work toward.” She shoots a quick glance at me over the blanket she’s folding midair. “I appreciate you humoring me by taking the class.”

  I should thank her for getting me restarted on this path. I’m not sure I would have picked up crochet hooks again if not for her. Working on these projects kept me from losing my composure more than a few times during watch parties. Now it’s a possible business venture. It’s more than that. Somehow, crocheting became a way for me to make two new friends. That’s well worth taking an easy class once a week for two months.

  BROOK IS RUNNING LATE for the party, of cour
se. Being tardy to social gatherings is his biggest flaw, which isn’t anything to complain about. Usually. It would have been nice if he could have chosen tonight to be the first time he arrived at a party on time rather than well past fashionably late. Because for whatever reason, Dirk is here. With his new fiancée—the other woman herself—on his arm. I watch them stroll through the door dressed like they’re heading to a party at the Governor’s Mansion rather than a car dealership. After a frozen moment of panic, I duck into my office to wait for Coach to arrive. I’ll need him to come up with a game plan on the fly.

  “When are these damn Saturday coaches meetings going to end?” I ask my empty office. “The season is done—well past it. Shouldn’t they move on and pursue some other interests for a couple of months?”

  Someone knocks softly on my door. I contemplate diving behind my desk for cover, but Amelia slips in before I can respond. “Wade said you’d be in your office.”

  At least one of the MacLaughlin siblings understands the importance of showing up to a party on time. “Yeah, maybe I can get some work done before Brook gets here.”

  “You’re hiding.”

  “You bet I am, and that’s not going to change any time soon.” I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. I knew there had to be a good reason for my nerves earlier today. It must have been a premonition that Dirk would show up and crash the party I’ve spent the past few weeks planning. “I can’t believe he’s here.”

  Amelia drops down on the desk next to my keyboard and grabs my hand. “I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine how awful this must be.” She purses her lips. “Actually I can. I can’t believe J.J. invited him. He’s seriously a piece of shit.”

  So that’s how he ended up here. It figures that J.J. would be behind my latest nightmare. I guess I didn’t realize they’d become such good friends at that convention back in September.