Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

Seamlessly, he picks up where he left off earlier. “I’d love to hear that laugh again in person. Soon. But— Well, I don’t want to risk the team’s chances of winning it all. Not that I’m thinking that far ahead. It’s crazy to think past the next game, which is big enough. But the Super Bowl… That would be awesome, to say the least. It’s wrong to get too far ahead of myself, though.”

  His stream-of-consciousness babble makes me shake my head. “Jet, I’m not Coach Bauer. Or one of your teammates. You don’t have to temper your excitement with me. It would be weird if you didn’t think about winning the Super Bowl.”

  Out of curiosity, would you cry if you won?

  “I don’t want to jinx it, that’s all.”

  “You think I’m a jinx?”

  “No!”

  “Calm down. I was kidding.”

  “Oh. Right.” He sighs. “I don’t want to talk about going to the Super Bowl, because we still have some games to play before then.” He pauses, but when I don’t speak, he says, “I think you’re awesome.”

  I soften. Marginally. He’s such a sweet guy. And hot. (Don’t forget hot.) Plus, despite his seemingly limited vocabulary, he’s said two things to me in a matter of minutes that made me feel fantastic.

  So fantastic that I blab without thinking about the consequences, “I like you, too, Jet. I’d like to see you again, when things settle down.”

  “Really?” He chuckles nervously. “Because I thought maybe you weren’t that into me when you didn’t return my calls.”

  Busted!

  “Huh-huh. Well, like I said, I’ve been busy today.”

  “Yeah, I get it. I don’t mean to sound creepy and clingy. That’s not me.” Again, the nervous chuckle.

  “Okay.”

  “Seriously. I swear. I can tell you’re not sure. But it’s true. The pressure of the playoffs must be getting to me. I’m all, like, unsure and stuff.”

  “I believe you,” I tell him, if for no other reason than to get him to stop trying to convince me.

  “Good. Well, I’ll let you get back to… whatever. Are you going to be watching the game tomorrow? Wait! Don’t answer that. It’ll make me more nervous, knowing you’re watching.”

  “Oh my gosh!” I laugh. “You’re a mess!”

  Sheepishly, he says, “Sorry. It’s probably a huge turn-off.”

  “Actually, I think it’s cute.”

  I like it a whole lot more than the self-assured attitude he had at dinner last night.

  “But it makes me feel like an idiot.”

  “I know you’re not, though.”

  “No thanks to this phone call. I’m definitely going to hang up now, before I embarrass myself anymore.”

  I’m surprisingly disappointed, but I say, “Okay. I won’t watch you tomorrow, if that’ll help. But good luck.”

  “Thanks, Maura. Goodnight.”

  “’Night, Jet.”

  Oh, eff me.

  Ten

  Multiple Penalties

  Big, fat liar. That’s what I am. Like everyone else in the city who isn’t at Arrowhead, I’m glued to the TV the next day, of course. There’s no way I’m missing this game, no matter what I told a certain someone on the phone. It’s been too many years since my team has come close to the playoffs. But I’m not as certain about who I want to win as everyone else is.

  On the one hand, I totally dig Playoffs Jet. He’s nervous and self-deprecating and humble and cute. In that respect, I’d like to keep the playoffs streak alive. That means he has to win games, though. Each game he wins will give him more confidence and bring him closer to the Super Bowl. If he wins the Super Bowl, he’ll be brimming with self-assurance and swagger. Plus, that will be one more thing he’s checked off his life plan, meaning he’ll be ready to move on to the next thing, perhaps something more personal, like—gulp—a committed relationship.

  On the other hand, if the team loses today, he’ll be free to see me again, as he claims to want to do. While I said I wanted to see him again, too, I said that mostly in response to his insecure ramblings. I would like to see that Jet, the one who sounded like a nervous wreck. If he goes back to being the suffocating man with the plan, though, I may have to give him his own ringtone (“Every Breath You Take” might fit well) and start screening his calls in earnest.

  If I had three hands (which would be useful in so many aspects of life, by the dubs), I’d throw this into the mix: I’m a lifelong Chiefs fan. It was my team before Jet Knox ever entered the scene. Like I said, it’s been a long time since we’ve been this far. It goes against everything in my nature to root against the team. The fan in me wants them to go all the way to the Super Bowl and win it, no matter what that means for my love life.

  So here I am, breaking my promise to Jet, watching the game at Greg’s. From September to February, football is a Sunday afternoon tradition for us. I hope that doesn’t change after the wedding. I obviously don’t care if Deirdre watches with us, but it would be just like her to make Greg spend Sundays working on the yard or the house. Or going antiquing. Or something equally horrid. It would be just like him to shove me aside and go along with it. Gross.

  Today, the first thing he says next to me after kickoff is, “Are you nervous for your boyfriend?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I counter automatically, feeling like a teenager and hating how often I’ve felt that way lately.

  Teasing me about guys has been one of Greg’s greatest pastimes since high school. Especially because I used to have a bad habit of crushing on his friends. His Spanish tutor, Phillip, a shy, self-conscious, self-deprecating smart guy with a quick sense of humor and a quiet delivery. I contemplated learning Spanish so that he could tutor me. But I’d already learned every French curse word, and it was too much work to become trilingual in obscenities.

  Greg persists now about Jet, “You went on a date with him, and he’s called you since. That’s a boyfriend.”

  Merde! Why do I tell him things? I must be a masochist.

  “No, it’s not. Of course, he’s a ‘boy’ and he’s a ‘friend,’ so maybe that qualifies.”

  He groans. “Not that old line. Jet Knox is a man, anyway. The man, if he leads the Chiefs to a Super Bowl win.”

  “Shh! Don’t jinx it!” I admonish, smiling at how much I sound like Jet.

  “You’re right. One game at a time. It’s gonna be hard enough to beat the Ravens.”

  I grab a handful of pretzels from the bowl on the coffee table in front of us and focus on the TV on the wall across the room.

  The first series is a disappointing three-and-out, but Greg says, “Bah! The boys are just warming up. Your man looks tight out there, though. And not in the way you like.”

  Instead of protesting, I grit my teeth and hiss some insults under my breath. The more I resist, the more he’ll tease.

  Plus, he’s right, unfortunately, about Jet looking tight. In more ways than one. I’ve always appreciated his striking figure in those little football pants, but now that I’ve had some one-on-one interaction with him, I’m looking at him differently. He’s not just a professional athlete or celebrity or piece of meat. He’s a person. I know things about him, like his hopes for the future, and his dog’s name. And that my laugh makes him happy.

  The Ravens fumble on their second down, and a Chiefs player falls on top of the coughed-up ball. When the pile clears, the ball is still in our hands, so the crowd goes crazy, as do Greg and I. And the players on the sidelines, including Jet. He looks like a jubilant kid as he slaps the butt of the guy who recovered the fumble. Then he quickly goes into attack mode, sliding on his helmet and fastening his chin strap. He has the same look in his eyes he had the other night at dinner, when he didn’t appreciate the assumptions I was making about him: closed-off, cold, focused, and stony.

  I still don’t have a clue how I feel about him, as a person, but I suddenly don’t have a single doubt about this game.

  My instinct proves correct, but I’m hoarse from shouting
all the way through the fourth quarter. After falling behind twenty-one points in the first half, the Ravens came back in the second half and tried to make it interesting. Jet was having none of that, though. Every time the opposition scored, he went out there and led the team on marathon drives that ate up clock and almost always resulted in more points on the board. He played out of his mind.

  Before giving myself too much time to think about it at the end of the game, I pull out my phone and send him a text: Great game! Yeah, I watched. Next stop: Beantown. No problem!

  Greg simpers after chugging the last of the beer from the bottle in his hand. “Texting the victor? You say he’s not your boyfriend, and act like you don’t want to be his girlfriend. You have a crush! What did you say to him? ‘Watching you out there made me wet, Jet’?” he says in a high voice that sounds nothing like mine. “Hey, that rhymes!”

  “No, you big, fat jerk. Grow up! I congratulated him on a great game and gave him some encouragement about the next one.”

  He rubs the side of his nose. “Oh, yeah. They’re gonna get clobbered in New England.”

  “Who says?”

  “Everyone!”

  “Well, not me. I don’t think it’s an automatic win for those prima donna cheaters.”

  Now he laughs in earnest at me and tries to snatch my phone from my hand. “Oooh! Someone’s super-defensive about her boyfriend’s team. Maybe you should travel with them and be Jet’s private cheering section. Or…” He gives up on his quest to grab my phone but puts his bare feet on me and nudges me with them, first on my legs, then edging up to my arms and, finally, my face. “…you could try out to be on the cheerleading squad next season so you and Jet could be together always.” Fluttering his eyelashes at me, he makes kissy noises.

  “Shut up. And get your nasty feet off me!” I swat at his hairy toes. “Gross!” I yell, jumping from the couch when his big toe almost goes in my mouth. “You are so disgusting!”

  “My feet aren’t gross. I got my first pedicure yesterday.”

  “You’re so whipped.”

  “What? Who says it’s against the law for a guy to have well-groomed feet?”

  “You’d never get a pedicure if Deirdre didn’t make you.”

  “She got me in the door,” he admits, “but it was nice, once I stopped thinking about it too much.”

  “In case you’re wondering, your spine is hanging up in Deirdre’s coat closet in the house where you’ll eventually be living, when she gets her way and makes you sell this place.” I point smugly at him. “Mark my words.”

  With a stubborn shake of his head, he says, “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “But you don’t; that’s the point.”

  “No, seriously. We’re going to put both houses on the market, and we’ll let go of whichever one sells first. Hers will sell first. Guaranteed.”

  I blink rapidly at his overconfidence. “What have you done to this place?”

  He smiles slyly. “None of your business. I don’t trust you not to run to Deirdre and tell her.”

  That hurts, but I pretend it doesn’t. “Idiot. You’re both stubborn asses.”

  “I love this house! I’ve put a ton of sweat and money into it. C’mere.” He leads me to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the backyard and points. “Right there, I’ll build the playset for the kids. I’ve already installed the privacy fence for the dog Deirdre and I are going to get after we’ve been married a few months. A Yorkie or a Chihuahua. We haven’t settled on which one yet. Still need to do some more research. But I have it all planned out.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “Make fun all you want, but there’s nothing wrong with knowing what you want and making it happen. That’s what normal people do. They plan.”

  He plucks our beer bottles from the table and pads into the kitchen, where he rinses our empties before placing them carefully in their appropriate recycling container. Keeping his back to me, he says, “Adulthood isn’t as scary as you think it is, you know. It’s just life.” Now he turns around and looks beseechingly at me. “It happens, whether you have a plan or not. But the plan makes it easier and gives it direction and purpose.”

  “My life has purpose, thank you very much!” I say hotly.

  He tilts his head at me, and his eyes light up. “Great! Tell me all about it.”

  “Well… I— I— My job is important. I help people find work, which isn’t an easy thing to do sometimes.” I raise my chin, daring him to contradict me, since he and I both know the economy—especially the job market—isn’t as bad as it was when I first graduated. When he says nothing, I continue more confidently, “Just because I’m not married with a bunch of kids and pets doesn’t mean I’m not a valuable member of society. I contribute to the local economy. I pay taxes, damn it! I own a home, even if it’s not an eff-off mansion like yours.”

  “You bought half of a duplex, and only because Mom and Dad gave you the down payment as a college graduation gift with the stipulation that you buy your own place rather than continue to throw money away on rent,” he points out.

  “So? I could have given them their money back and said, ‘No thanks.’”

  Which I was tempted to do. I didn’t want to tie myself down to this area when I was sure I wouldn’t be here long. Well, not sure. But hopeful. Then the more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn’t know where I wanted to be or what I wanted to do, so I caved.

  “That would have been stupid,” he says. “At least you made the right decision there.”

  “Oh, yes. At least I made the right decision there, unlike every other decision in my life, right? Isn’t that what you’re implying?”

  He puts his hands on his hips. “No. I’m not. Because you haven’t made any other decisions. You’re perpetually on pause.”

  “And you’re perpetually a pompous prick. I can do tongue-twisters, too.” My eyes sting, but I refuse to cry. No way. That would indicate I give a damn what he thinks.

  “Now, don’t get mad, Mo. What I’m trying to say is—”

  “Screw you. Screw you and Deirdre and Mom and Dad. I bet you guys get together all the time to lament the hopelessness that is my life. Well, save your energy.”

  He points sternly at me. “Hey! Leave Mom and Dad out of this. They’re always defending you. You’ll be fifty, and they’ll still be saying, ‘Oh, leave her alone; she’s young and trying to figure things out.’ It’s ridiculous. It’s why you are the way you are.”

  “Which is…? Useless? Immature? Aimless?”

  He merely shrugs, as if to say, Take your pick.

  “You’re a sanctimonious asshole,” I spit, blinking away tears as I whirl away from him and head for the foyer, where my coat hangs neatly on a peg next to the front door.

  “Mo! Come back. I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re useless. Under-utilized, maybe, but—”

  I refuse to take the time to put on my coat, hat, and gloves, despite an awaiting outside temperature in the teens. “Forget it, Greg. It’s good to know how you feel, finally. I’ve always suspected, but now I know exactly where I stand.”

  I grab the doorknob and twist fiercely. It comes off in my hand. After looking at it for a few seconds, I pitch it at him. The throw, a bullet, would probably make Jet proud. Greg catches it against his chest, then turns and follows my progress as I walk to the back door.

  “A little obvious, don’t you think?” I ask snidely about his childish sabotage. “But maybe Deirdre won’t notice, since she’s so preoccupied with adding pedicure clauses to your marriage contract. Effing nutjobs,” I mutter on my way outside, slamming the door in my brother’s face.

  As I hike around the back and side of the house to get to the driveway, I struggle to keep the tears of rage and hurt in check. Unfortunately, “resolve” has never been my forte.

  More than an hour later, when there’s a knock at my door, and I open it to find a delivery person weighed down with what appears to be a hundred pin
k and white roses in a cut crystal vase, I snort and almost close the door in her face. But it’s not her fault my brother’s a jerk.

  After I unburden her of her load and set the flowers aside on the tiny table in my entryway, she takes one look at my tear-puffy face and says as she thrusts a clipboard toward me with a delivery log to sign, “Oh. Now I understand.”

  I chuckle mirthlessly. “Yeah. But flowers aren’t going to get him out of the doghouse.”

  Plus, since when does Greg send me flowers for anything? Or admit he was wrong, come to think of it? Never. And roses? He’s so clueless. Maybe he was the one who got me that lingerie gift card.

  I close the door on the courier and pluck the card from the mass of buds that are close to opening and becoming more beautiful than they already are.

  This oughtta be good. He must feel awful to have plunked down the dough for these. The vase alone…

  Maura,

  That win was for you.

  Yours,

  J

  Eleven

  Reluctantly Willing

  Two days later, I arrive at work with a whistle on my lips. I should be exhausted after my marathon phone conversation with Jet last night, but I’m buoyant. Bubbling. Beaming.

  When I first received those flowers, my initial reaction was dismay. Because I’m weird. But then I realized if I’m going to worry about where all this is going with Jet, I’ll have to do something to stop it, and that’s too much work. So I’m going to go with it.

  It’s been the best decision I’ve ever not made. Decision-making is a major bummer and always stresses me out. It’s so much better to simply do nothing and let someone else make all the moves. So far, I’m okay with all the moves Jet’s making. He’s sweet, funny, attentive, and thinks I’m “awesome.” What’s not to like about that?

  Cassie (Carmen? Chastity? Oh, well, whatever her name is) hands my schedule to me and says, “Wow. Did you get your hair colored or something?”