Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

  He scoots closer to me, playfully tugging down on the sheet every time I nudge it up. I eventually give up and let him have his way, exposing my breasts to the chilly air in the room. My nipples tighten. He stares at them and says, “I should probably ask you how you slept, but I’m having a hard time caring.”

  “The key word being ‘hard,’ in this instance?” I tease, feeling more confident, suddenly. I inch closer and kiss his chin, but as I’m about to snake my hand under the covers, he pulls his head back, his eyes suddenly serious as they look into mine.

  “Maura?”

  Alarmed by the rapid change in his demeanor, I freeze. “What is it?”

  Swallowing visibly and audibly, he says, “I have to tell you something.”

  Nothing good comes after that sentence. Ever.

  Before I can panic that my worst fears are about to come true (or at the very least, he’s going to tell me my breath stinks), he says, “Remember when I came over to your table at the Christmas party, and I said Rae had told me to keep you company while she was busy with Joaquin?”

  The tightness in my chest loosens considerably, but not completely. “Of course I remember. I’m not the one who’s taken too many hits to the head.”

  My joke fails to raise the tiniest lift of his lips. Instead, he balls his pillow under his head and shifts to get comfortable. “That never happened. Rae didn’t tell me to do that.”

  I recall Rae claiming Jet was lying, and not caring then. I still don’t. “So?”

  “So… I lied. I feel awful about it.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I do. This is going to sound mega-creepy, but I saw you as soon as you got to the party. Then I realized you were Rae’s date, and I was all, ‘Dude…’” His jaw slackens, and he closes his eyes like someone who’s received horrible news.

  I laugh.

  My reaction relaxes him, and he cracks a smile before continuing, “Then I overheard someone saying he’d embarrassed himself in front of you because he assumed you were Rae’s girlfriend, but you were her friend. Her straight friend. So I was like, ‘Cool,’ but Rae kind of scares me, so I waited until she left you alone.”

  Tears leak from the corners of my eyes as I continue to shake with mirth. “You’re killing me!” I rest my hand on his cheek.

  He turns his head and kisses my fingers. “You’re not mad?”

  “No!”

  “Oh. Good. Because I did what I did because I thought maybe you’d feel safer talking to me if you knew your friend had sent me. The crazy thing is that I lied about the whole thing so I wouldn’t seem like as much of a weirdo, but that was worse than telling the truth.”

  “Yep.”

  He groans at himself.

  “I have my own confession,” I drop lightly, hoping I don’t regret it.

  “Well, well, well.”

  “I was still awake last night, when you said you loved me.”

  His smile fades, and he looks down at the mattress between us. “Oh. Well, that’s okay. It’s not a secret, or anything.” He blushes, keeping his eyes down. “I just wasn’t sure you were ready to hear it. But I had to say it. I felt like I was going to burst if I didn’t. So I waited until you were asleep—or I thought you were.”

  When he lifts his eyes, he clears his throat and shoots me a wobbly smile. “I told you I was pathetic.”

  I trail my fingers down his cheek. “You’re too good to be true.”

  He locks his gaze with mine. “I just love you, Maura. That’s all.”

  When he makes slow, tender love to me, so different from our frantic first time, he reassures me that last night wasn’t a one-time thing, that he doesn’t use the “l”-word like a post-coital “thank you.”

  Afterward, as we lie side by side, I say lazily toward the sun-drenched ceiling, without moving, “Yep. I’m never getting to work on time.”

  He grabs my hand and kisses it. With his mouth against my knuckles, he says, “Don’t go at all. Stay here.”

  I laugh. “No. I’m not playing hooky to have sex with you all day.”

  “You know you want to.”

  “Well, duh, but it’s not any better than all the people who are going to call in sick due to their Super Bowl hangovers. I can’t do it.” With major effort and willpower, I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

  Jet follows, scooting against my back and kissing my shoulder. “Quitter.”

  I laugh while idly wondering where the majority of my clothes are, before remembering I left them in the guest room bathroom.

  “Is anyone going to see me walk half-naked from this room to the one next door?”

  “The neighborhood already heard you,” he teases.

  “I still don’t want Helen to see me,” I say, referring to his housekeeper.

  “She’s not here yet. God, I’m already hard for you again.”

  “Jet!” I jump from the bed and retrieve my t-shirt and panties from the floor, putting them on in double-time.

  He laughs at my prudish reaction, collapsing onto his back and wheezing at the rafters. The tented sheet proves he wasn’t kidding and almost makes me reconsider my suddenly strict work ethic. Almost.

  But I must be strong.

  As much as I would have loved to stay in bed with Jet this morning, I couldn’t. Arnold’s been giving me more and more responsibility to prepare me for his departure in a few months. I thought the more I learned, the less freaked out I’d be about the fall fair, but the opposite has happened. The more I learn, the more I realize I still don’t know, and the more I realize that as complicated as organizing and running these events is, the outcome is generally lackluster, and I don’t want to be associated with something that lame when my time comes around. The system needs an overhaul, but I have no clue where to start. Therefore, I haven’t.

  After all, I have until September to organize and launch this stupid thing, and since it’s only February, that means I have months to not think about it, according to my usual process. Whatever that is. But based on things said in the spring job fair planning meetings, this passing of the baton is a test of sorts. With Arnold leaving, I’ll be one of the senior-most counselors (the turnover at this place is ridiculous, ironically enough), and the others already have their pet projects and responsibilities. It’s time for me to step up and claim mine, if I want to keep my job.

  And I guess I do want to keep it. Because I don’t want to leave and start over somewhere else. Plus, I do like helping people find employment. So if the status quo is no longer an option, I’d better get my act together.

  I keep telling myself I’m too busy helping Arnold with the spring fair and learning what needs to be done to start planning my own event. That explanation isn’t going to cut it with my boss for much longer, though. Cynthia’s going to want to see some concrete plans.

  As of this moment, I have zero.

  As I’m about to leave for the night, eager to see Jet, Arnold corners me in my office and drones on and on about the pros and cons of having a full-service complimentary food cart at the job fair.

  “I’ve had mixed results in the past,” he says. “I guess I’ll do it this time, and I’ll send you a memo with the cost-to-benefits ratio, so you’ll be able to make a more informed decision for the fall fair. By the way, how’s that going?” He sits in the chair across from my desk, and I want to scream.

  Instead, I stand and say, “Great. I have some, uh, ideas about, uh, things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “A theme, for one. Something to bring people in, drum up interest.”

  He chuckles. “That’s hardly necessary. Paying jobs sell themselves.”

  “Yeah, but some of the jobs aren’t all that attractive. A theme will drive people to the less popular booths. Maybe. I’m hoping.”

  “Sounds like a lot of trouble for nothing.”

  I walk around the side of my desk. “It’ll be fun.”

  “What theme are you going for, then?” he asks, no
t moving from the chair.

  “Uh,” I take a stab at coyness when I say, “It’s a surprise.”

  “A surprise theme?”

  “No. I mean, I’m not ready to unveil it yet. I still have some details to work out.”

  Like all of them. This girl knows how to procrastinate.

  “Remember, your budget’s not that big,” Arnold-the-killjoy points out.

  “I’ll skip the food cart and serve cookies and lemonade. Hey, Arnold. Uh, I have to go.” I shift from foot to foot.

  He rises slowly from the chair. “Sorry! Thought you’d be making up for coming in later than usual this morning.”

  I blush, remembering the reason for my tardiness. “Oh. That. Yes. I’ll skip lunch tomorrow. But thanks for reminding me.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles on his way from my office.

  I follow closely behind him as he crosses the threshold into the waiting area. Without warning, he turns to face me, so I freeze, to prevent running into his pot belly, and smile expectantly and politely.

  He rubs his neck. “Out of curiosity, do you think your boyfriend might be interested in showing up at the spring fair to sign autographs? That would be something fun I could incorporate for free.”

  Buh-rother. My relationship with Jet has been a major distraction at the office. The part-time receptionists and job counselors, both male and female, hound me about him every chance they get.

  “Is he ripped?”

  “Is he, like, totally a perfect gentleman? Because he seems so nice at the press conferences, and one time, my baby cousin was in the hospital with dehydration from the flu, and he came up to the floor to visit the sick kids, and my aunt said he was, like, totally nice.”

  “What’s his house like?”

  “How many cars does he have?”

  “Does he, like, hang out with all the other players, like, all the time?”

  “Where does he take you on dates?”

  And the football fans quiz me constantly about the Draft and the team’s upcoming offensive and defensive strategies. Like Jet and I sit around and talk about that stuff. Okay, sometimes we do, but I’m hardly going to repeat it.

  Now, to Arnold, I say, “I can ask. But off-season training will have started by then, so I can’t make any promises.”

  “I appreciate your asking for me. Thanks.”

  I nod and smile. “Of course. Good night. See you tomorrow.”

  He leaves the building, raising his hand in a final (finally!) farewell without turning, which leaves one other counselor and me in the suite. Before she can engage me in the latest round of “What’s it like to be Jet Knox’s girlfriend?” I close my office door and jog for the exit.

  Nineteen

  Reconnecting with Rae

  I’ve become one of those hideous people who neglects her friends when she’s in a serious relationship with a guy. This is a first for me, since I’ve never been in a serious relationship with a guy, much less an all-consuming guy like Jet. I underestimated how much time we’d be spending together in the early off-season, when there’s virtually nothing to keep him busy except staying in shape, doing his volunteer work, and occasionally spending a day or two fulfilling obligations with his endorsements. It leaves several unfilled hours in his week, hours he wants to fill with me, when I’m not at work.

  For the past month, ever since the Super Bowl, Jet and I have enjoyed relative solitude, basking in each other’s company in a cozy bubble where only the two of us exist—in our minds, anyway. It’s not that we never socialize with anyone else, but the outings don’t last long. Without realizing we’re doing it, we tend to ignore everyone around us, until they give up and abandon us. Or vice versa. Not that anyone wants to be around us right now. We’re admittedly toothache-inducing, with our snuggling, murmuring, and gazing, not to mention all our giggling at inside jokes.

  It’s been heady and fun, but I’ve started to feel guilty about my lack of input in my friendships with Rae and Colin.

  Colin’s easier to appease than Rae, of course. Once a week, I meet him for lunch. He regales me with stories about the Blue Rinse Brigade, and I tell him about the latest things going on in my life, and we’re good. Rae needs more than that from me. I have to carve out real time with her, time that could be spent with Jet, or she doesn’t feel I’m giving enough.

  For the past several weeks, and the first time in my life, I’ve been asked by many different people to juggle many different things. Work stuff, friend stuff, Jet stuff, family stuff. I’m assuming it’s something I’ll eventually get used to and possibly master, with enough practice, but as of now, I suck at it. Hardcore.

  Today, Rae emails me at work:

  Do you remember what I look like? Because you’re going all fuzzy in my head, that’s how long it’s been since we’ve hung out. Do you have plans tonight? Or any night in the next month? Year?

  Able to hear her saying all of that in my head, I smile and type back:

  I’m free as can be tonight. I’ll call you.

  It feels a bit cheap, because I won’t be sacrificing Jet time to hang out with her (he’s out of town, filming a razor commercial and making a quick stopover at his parents’ for a couple days’ visit), but it’s better than nothing, right?

  By the time Rae shows up at my house, I’m in one of Jet’s countless castoff Chiefs hoodies and a pair of yoga pants, my hair hanging in two braided pigtails against my shoulders. She takes one look at me and says, “You’re wearing each other’s clothes now?”

  I roll my eyes at her. “He’s not wearing anything of mine, obviously. But I like his stuff. It’s comfy, and it smells good.”

  “And makes you look like a little girl in her daddy’s clothes.”

  “Ew.”

  “Exactly. Where do you want this jug of wine?”

  “In my belly,” I answer, leading her to the kitchen.

  “Your wish is my command.” She plunks the wine on the counter and leans over to look at the casserole dish of enchiladas on top of the stove. “Those are vegetarian, right?”

  “Of course. Quinoa.”

  She sniffs. “Yum.” Turning to face me, her arms crossed over her chest, she says, “I think I’ve met someone… important.”

  “Molly?”

  “Not Molly. Molly’s so last month.”

  “For real?”

  “Yes. It may shock you to hear this, but you’re a tad wrapped up in yourself—and Jet Knox—right now and have fallen out of touch. With everything.”

  I release a self-deprecating chuckle. “Fair enough. Who’s the new girl?”

  “She’s a woman, not a girl. She’s one of the new trainers.”

  “Oooh! I like your strategy: get in good with the competition.”

  “She’s not my competition.”

  “Because you’re dating her?”

  “No! Because it’s not a competition. We’re all there for the same purpose.”

  I cock my eyebrow at my friend. “Are you feeling feverish? Delirious?”

  She glowers at me.

  “I’m sorry, but you always speak about the other trainers like they’re your rivals. Or you compare yourself to them. So don’t shoot daggers at me. It’s great if you’ve changed your mind and don’t feel that way anymore.” I grab plates from a cupboard. “What’s this special person’s name?”

  “Are you going to be snide about it? Because, if that’s the case, forget it.”

  I set our plates next to the stove and pull some wine glasses from the under-cabinet hanging rack. Placing the glasses next to the bottle of wine, I say, “I’ll shut up now.”

  She tells me about Ana Paula, a trainer who was recently headhunted to KC from San Diego. I load a plate with two enchiladas and slide it down the counter toward Rae. She stops the dish before it collides with the bottle in front of her, then pours the wine. “She’s from here, by way of Brazil, so she’s glad to be back home.”

  “And you two have been out a few times, and things ar
e going well?”

  “Yep. We should all go out together sometime.” Before I can tease her about her strict no-double-dates-with-Jet rule, she leads me into the dining area, where we pull out two of the four chairs at the round table I rarely use. Then she closes that subject so fast, I nearly get my nose slammed in it. “Now that that’s out of the way, what’s the latest with you and Super-Arm?”

  I unfurl my napkin and place it in my lap. “Oh, so it’s okay for you to be snide?” I cut my enchilada with the side of my fork and take a bite, realizing too late it’s practically volcanic. Trying to cool the food while it’s already in my mouth, I suck in some air and move the morsel from one cheek to the other, scorching my tongue in the process. Finally, I swallow the piece nearly whole.

  “It’s Jet Knox. You can’t expect me to be serious about that guy. Ever. He’s such a caricature.”

  Eyes watering, I take a drink of wine and say, “Hey, I love that caricature!”

  “Eventually, you’re going to figure out that he’s not perfect. That’s going to be a tough day for you. So, the golden boy’s out in California, huh? Gonna visit the ’rents while he’s there?”

  I nod. “He’s helping his mom and dad plan for the annual Knox family get-together in a few weeks.” Cutting my next bite, I stare at it, steaming on the tines of my fork. “They all converge out there every April and have Pictionary tournaments and sing-alongs. Or something equally idyllic.” After blowing on it a few times, I pop the cheesy bite in my mouth.

  “Are you going?”

  “Hell no. I’m planning to stay right here, in my own house, and sleep for two weeks. Well, when I’m not working.”

  She swirls her wine. “What are his parents like?”

  “Never met ’em. I’ve only seen pictures.”

  “And? You’ve scoped out Jet’s dad, right?”

  “What? Ew. No!”

  “You should. That’s probably how Jet will end up looking when he’s older.”