Going for Two Read online

  Going for Two

  By Laura Chapman

  GOING FOR TWO

  Copyright © 2015, 2016 by Laura Chapman

  Second Edition

  Previously Published by MARCHING INK, LLC January 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  Cover Design by Laura Chapman

  Cover Photo by Vadymvdrobot/Depositphotos

  Proofreading by EFC Services

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Going for Two (Queen of the League, #2)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  About the Author

  Sneak peek of Three & Out by Laura Chapman!

  Acknowledgments

  Sign up for Laura Chapman's Mailing List

  For Mom and Dad, who taught me to love the game

  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)

  Harper Duquaine is back for another season of fantasy football! This time she’s a year wiser and prepared to dominate the league. But while she finally seems to have her fantasy life in order, reality proves more challenging.

  Her plans to peacefully play house with her boyfriend come to a halt when the high school suddenly names Brook its head football coach. The promotion comes with more responsibility on the field and less time at home. It also unexpectedly means more work for Harper, who already has her hands full helping a friend pull off the perfect proposal (while dodging questions about when she and Brook are going to get hitched already). Plus, a new development at work could leave her—and half of the fantasy league—jobless.

  With the complications of her career and being “Mrs. Coach” piling up, Harper wonders if she’s headed for victory or failure.

  A Pre-Season Message

  Can you feel it? The unmistakable shift in the air. The rumble of cheers in a packed stadium. The crash of helmets and pads colliding on the field. It means one thing—football is here.

  With the last of the pre-season games out of the way and college ball set to begin this weekend, NFL fans don’t have long to wait, for better or worse.

  And you, fantasy football faithful, understand everything can always get worse.

  Based on this year’s pre-season play, we can expect plenty of surprises. With a long list of players under suspension for conduct violations and a few painful injuries, we have no clear leader in the race for the top prize. There is still a healthy mix of veterans and rookies up for grabs, which means fantasy team owners will have tough decisions to make when they assemble their squads.

  But never fear. We’re here to help you from Draft Day to the Championship.

  Stay tuned this season to gain the facts and insights you’ll need to take your team to the playoffs. Or you can rely on your own guts and instincts—and risk total and complete failure at the hands of your merciless friends. The choice is yours. This is your year to become a legend or a loser.

  Now, who’s ready for some football?

  Chapter One

  THE PRESSURE IS ON. Twenty-four seconds left on the clock, and we’re down by three. We need a field goal to tie it up or a touchdown to win.

  I hope we go for the win. Not just because I want the team to succeed, and they’ve earned the victory despite a few bad calls from the refs in the first half. Selfishly, I’d like to bypass overtime because it means Brook will be home that much sooner. It’s the first game of the high school football season. From what I’m told by the coaches’ wives, I can expect our already limited time together to shrink to almost non-existent by Labor Day.

  I can’t expect Brook to be around as much this fall. The West Warriors are determined to finish the season undefeated and securing a State title after coming so close last year. As the offensive coordinator, he has to be on.

  And I understand his commitment to the team. I do. Or at least I’m trying to understand, because this is his job. His passion. I want to be a supportive partner. Not Harper the harper, the girlfriend who whines about the late—and early—hours he keeps. I want to be Harper, the woman who can fend for herself while her boyfriend spends his life on a high school football field.

  The sideline huddle breaks, and the players run back out on the field with their marching orders. The quarterback glances at the sideline where Brook nods and flashes a series of three hand signals. I can only make out Brook’s profile, but his shoulders are pulled back firm, his arms crossed defiantly. He looks confident and in command. I can imagine the intensity on his face. It’s the same look he gets seconds before he pulls me in for a long kiss.

  My belly stirs at the thought, and I take a few shallow breaths. Settle down, Harper. You’re in public. It takes my heart a few seconds longer to slow to a steady beat.

  The quarterback calls the audibles and takes the snap. He fakes to the fullback, fooling half the defensive line. He would’ve tricked me, too—this kid fakes with the best of them—except I recognize the play call. Brook showed it to me on his tablet while I was brushing my teeth last night. With the defense suitably distracted, he keeps the ball and runs.

  The crowd—including the Brook MacLaughlin fan club—jumps to its feet.

  “Run! Run! Run!” Brook’s mother yells.

  “Take it all the way,” his sister, Amelia, screams.

  “Get out of bounds,” I shout, when it’s clear he doesn’t have a big enough window to get to the end zone.

  From his vantage point, the quarterback comes to the same realization and steps out a second before a defensive tackle pushes him.

  I clap until my hands hurt. “Way to stop the clock.”

  Major MacLaughlin, Brook’s retired military father who still makes me a little nervous, casts a sideways glance my way. He doesn’t smile, but a sparkle lights his eyes.

  On the sideline, Brook gives the play to a running back and wide receiver. He pats their helmets and pushes them
onto the field to replace two players running off. Eighteen seconds left, and only two yards to go for the first down. We need that down to stop the clock again.

  This time, the quarterback takes the snap and steps back out of the pocket.

  “What’s he doing?” Amelia asks. “Why isn’t he going for the first down?”

  I shrug, wondering the same thing myself. He glances down the field and finds an open receiver. Leaning back, he throws the ball in a wide arc. The receiver makes the catch and runs two more yards before he’s tackled.

  The clock stops again. There are eleven seconds on the board, and we’re first and goal. It’s not enough time and too much all at once. Without any more timeouts, we have to make a play happen now or else find a way to stop the clock for a second chance. But if we score too fast, it gives the other team another possession and a chance to throw a Hail Mary or some other trick play to win back the game. It’s improbable they’d succeed—this is a high school game after all—but it could happen.

  The players reset without going into the huddle. The quarterback glances at the sideline. Brook taps the top of his head twice then makes three fast slashes across his heart. The player nods then calls the play. The crowd’s screams grow louder, drowning out the words. I hope the players can hear it on the field better than I can from the bleachers.

  The quarterback claps his hands once, then twice. He takes the snap and steps back. He pitches the ball left to the running back and runs toward the end zone. The defense descends on the running back, who has only taken a few steps forward. He can’t go any farther. If he does, he’ll be tackled behind the line of scrimmage, and the clock will run out.

  I cover my face, but peek through my fingers. I can’t watch, yet I have to see what happens. With a hulking player lunging at him, the running back throws the ball straight to his right into the waiting arms of a wide receiver. The game clock ticks down to zero as the wide receiver pulls back and throws the ball into the waiting arms of the wide open quarterback.

  Oh. My. God. That was one of the most ridiculous trick plays I’ve ever seen. It’s like something from one of the epic football movies or TV shows Brook made me binge-watch with him over the summer. And it worked.

  While the crowd around me roars, I set my sights on the sidelines once more. Brook jumps in the air and rushes out onto the field with the rest of the players and coaches. One of the offensive linemen pulls him into a hug that lifts his more than six-foot frame off the ground for a moment. The quarterback, who has finished his celebration in the end zone, turns on his heel and makes a run for the celebrating crowd. Brook never has a chance to prepare for the impact when the QB throws him to the ground. A bunch of the other players join in the pileup.

  I wince through my laughter. “He’s going to hurt in the morning.”

  Major MacLaughlin’s lip twitches. “Probably so, but he’ll say it was worth it.”

  “I wish they’d be a little more careful with him.” Mrs. MacLaughlin darts a worried glance at the field. “He’s not wearing any pads, and he’s not as young as he used to be.”

  “He’s practically geriatric.” Amelia winks at me. “I’m surprised the AARP even lets him out on the field.”

  “I’m not saying he’s old—”

  “You don’t have to.” Amelia’s face sobers, but her eyes sparkle. “I’m pretty sure I heard him complain about an ache in his hip that bothers him whenever the weather turns cold.”

  Mrs. MacLaughlin’s face grows concerned, and her husband intervenes—sending a warning look at Amelia—assuring her that Brook is fine.

  One by one the players roll out of the dog pile and spring to their feet to greet the waiting parents and fans. The quarterback is last to stumble up. He offers Brook a hand to help him stand. Limping up, Brook’s face is flushed but beaming. Leaning his forehead against the player’s helmet, he says something and pats the top of the player’s head. A lump lodges in my throat, and my eyes sting.

  What is it about a great football comeback story that always makes me cry?

  The ruckus on the field cools to handshakes and hugs. Brook glances up at the stands. Amelia’s daughters, Marley and Ellery, jump around waving their arms and screaming his name. A grin spreads across his face, and he waves back.

  I’m making a resolution right now. Every time I feel the slightest ebb of jealousy or annoyance about how much time he spends on his job, I’m bringing myself back here, to this moment. I’ll remember the pure joy on his face, the joy swelling in my heart. And I’ll understand why he puts in the early mornings and late nights.

  His eyes scan past the girls and Amelia, past her boyfriend, Wade, and his parents until they land on me. The grin turns up a watt just for me. He covers his heart then points at me. My breath catches, but I manage to mouth “I love you, too” back. For a few seconds, it’s just us. Him and me. Like we’re in a bubble, and everything around us fades away. Yeah, I’m definitely saving this memory for later.

  With a parting wave, Brook rejoins the team and coaches running toward the field house. The spell broken, I turn my attention back to his family and catch six pairs of eyes staring at me expectantly.

  A wave of self-consciousness rushes over me. I toy with the ends of my hair. “What?”

  Amelia wrinkles her nose. “Sometimes the two of you are disgusting.”

  Mrs. MacLaughlin frowns. “I think it’s sweet.”

  “It is,” Amelia agrees. “But that doesn’t make it any less vomit inducing.”

  Readjusting his cap, Brook’s dad clears his throat. “We should probably head out. We’ll be fighting enough traffic as it is.”

  I follow them toward the exit, but turn at the top of the steps to take a parting glance at the field. I was raised on football, but the game looks completely different when it’s about more than winning or losing. It’s about playing with heart, which matters more.

  I DECLINE THE MACLAUGHLINS’ invitation to grab a late dinner after the game and head home instead. We have a whole season of shared Friday nights ahead of us.

  In the grand scheme of potential future in-laws, the MacLaughlins are a dream. They’re polite, unobtrusive, and they never overstay their welcome. Mrs. MacLaughlin even shared her recipe for Brook’s favorite egg and chili casserole after I raved about it over the Fourth of July. We get along well, and I want to keep it that way.

  In my experience, nothing tests a relationship like too much togetherness. That was my experience when I lived with my brothers last year. Scott, Christopher, and I basically coexisted peacefully. We divvied up the responsibilities and bills with only the occasional squabble—usually something fantasy football related or the time we had a mouse in the house.

  The dynamic changed when Christopher’s girlfriend moved in. Meg’s residence was supposed to be temporary. Her roommate moved out and she needed a place to stay. Since she was billed as a guest, Scott didn’t feel right charging her rent or utilities. We never added her to the chores routine. She didn’t show much initiative for buying groceries or toilet paper, but had no problem partaking of either. I tried not to let it bother me, but after five months of packing four people—sometimes five when my nephew Jackson stayed over—into one small house, I’d had enough.

  Rather than carry on with the tension, I opted to move out in June. By then, the arrangement at Brook’s house had changed, too. Wade had moved in with Amelia and the girls, and Dylan wanted to sell his house. After a couple of lengthy conversations and some soul-searching, we moved in together.

  Even without a ring or ceremony, we have an understanding. We’re in this—building a life and future—together. We don’t need a label to define our happiness. And we are happy.

  Living together has been an adjustment. It’s the first time either of us has done this. Though my ex, Dirk, and I had considered getting a place together when we moved to Dallas, something hadn’t felt right. Maybe on some level we each knew we weren’t going to last. We’d been right. A couple of months lat
er, he’d started dating his now-fiancée, and we’d broken up. (And in that order.)

  I have to say, Brook and I have managed this next step in our relationship like pros. We’ve survived the first few months with only a few hiccups.

  Like the time we argued about whether or not we needed curtains. I was for, he was against. He commented on how beautiful the view of the pond was, and I purposefully forgot to close the blinds before bed on a couple of Friday and Saturday nights. In the end, we compromised. We left the blinds alone in the kitchen and living room and added drapes to the bedrooms. Brook even installed the curtain rods with minimal complaint.

  There was also the time I inadvertently misplaced his tablet while tidying up before another visit from his parents. The normally calm and controlled Brook had nearly lost his composure. But I showed him where I put it for safekeeping—on his desk in the spare bedroom—and he apologized, agreeing my organizational methods made sense.

  We both want to make this work. Love and passion count for a lot, and we have both. But the mutual commitment we have is how I know this will work.

  Our apartment is dark when I get home. More than likely it’ll be at least another hour before Brook is done at the field house, which means I have a little me time. Or rather, Blitz and me time. The orange tabby cat greets me at the front door with a string of meows before I can even switch on the lights. Like the second-hand couch Brook and I found on an online listing, Blitz is half mine now.

  I crouch to scratch between his ears. “Hey, little buddy, how was your day?”

  His mews become pained moans. Rubbing up against me, his wails grow louder.

  “I know. You’ve been alone all day, and I’m sorry. Daddy had a game tonight. He won!” Blitz lifts his chin, and I shift my fingers to the spot he loves on his neck. “The good news is we have a whole weekend ahead of us. We can curl up and watch college ball tomorrow. And after the Husker game, our friends are coming over for the draft. Won’t that be fun?”

  Unimpressed by the prospect of a weekend of football, Blitz flips up his tail and saunters off to the kitchen. He’s correctly predicted that my guilty conscious will score him a handful of treats. Brook says I’ll spoil him if I keep caving, but I’m still figuring out this cat mama gig. And, I’m a sucker for our fur baby’s face.