Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

  “They’ll be here next weekend? All of them?”

  “Weekend after. Had to give everyone a chance to change their flights. They’ll only be staying a week, instead of two.”

  Thank God for small miracles.

  “Plus, Cyndi, Justin, and Mikey won’t be able to join us from Germany. But they weren’t going to come out to California, either.”

  “Oh. So that makes”—I count the people in my head—“a total of fourteen guests?”

  “Not guests. Family. You’ll see. It’s a blast.”

  In an effort to hide my concerns and end the conversation that’s doing nothing to allay my fears, I turn back to the movie, where Edward Norton is getting his ass kicked. Something tells me I’m going to feel like that in a couple of weeks.

  Twenty-One

  Procrastinating Panic

  A week and a half later, nothing has changed. Except my anxiety level. Yeah, that’s increased about five hundred percent. Because not only am I still grappling with issues at work—and now dealing with a boss who wants to see a plan (a real one) for the fall job fair before the end of next week—but I’m three days away from the Knox family invasion—and on my period.

  In addition, today I received my invitations to Deirdre’s bachelorette tea and bachelorette party, two events I have to somehow cram into my bursting May calendar. I’ve just hung up with Deirdre after RSVP’ing to both things.

  The true purpose of my call was to get an explanation for this deviation from tradition, and to possibly get out of one of the events. It sounded hopeful, at first, when Deirdre said, “I wanted to do something to suit all personality types. Frankly, some of my friends aren’t interested at this stage in their lives in going to a strip club, getting hammered, and sporting phallic novelty items. I’m not all that interested in it, to be honest, but my sister insists. It’s her show, as the maid of honor. So we compromised and scheduled a tea for the more mature women who still want to show their support.”

  “So, I need to choose one?”

  She laughed stiffly. “Oh, no. You’re part of the bridal party, so you get to attend both, silly.”

  Silly, silly me.

  Before anyone else can lay claim to another minute of my time, I change from my work clothes to my pajamas, grab a notebook and a pen, plus the movie, Nine to Five, for inspiration, and plop onto the couch. I’m not moving until I have a clear plan of action for the fall fair. Even if that means simply outlining the bare requirements, so I have something to show Cynthia next week at our meeting. That still won’t be enough, but it will at least be something to prove I’m not completely blowing off this assignment.

  Ignoring my buzzing phone on the coffee table, I start with a to-do list that includes contacting the usual employers about two weeks after the spring fair. We want to give them time to put the one fair behind them, but not enough time to forget how helpful it was (hopefully) and to secure their spots for the next one. I’ll also need to make a decision on the food, but I put a question mark next to that, since it hinges on what else I do and how much budget I have left. The easier tasks include renting the huge tent that we set up in the office park’s courtyard, arranging the catering (whatever it ends up being), and contacting the usual sources to place ads and other promotional materials, none of which I can create until I have a firmer plan.

  Oh, gosh. List-makers are liars. This activity isn’t making me feel better at all. It’s merely highlighting how far behind I am! I toss the legal pad away from me, onto the floor. The pen soon follows, landing with a “thwack” on top of the skewed paper.

  I cover my face with my hands, wishing I could have a good cry about everything. That’s another thing that helps, according to normal people. But I don’t cry about work. Work is something that facilitates life. It’s a means to an end, not a source of angst. Or even joy. It just is.

  And if my phone doesn’t stop buzzing, I’m going to throw it through Jane Fonda’s face on my TV.

  Lowering my hands, I blink my burning eyeballs and frown at the insistent device. I know it’s Jet, and I know if I don’t answer his texts, he’ll start calling, and he won’t stop until I answer, because he’ll worry I’m not answering. That could lead to a worse possibility: a visit. I can’t temper my bitchiness with him face-to-face right now. The mere thought of how that will end (with more pouting) motivates me to pluck the cell from the table and tap, Can’t talk, without reading through the messages he’s been sending all evening.

  A few seconds later, he replies:

  You okay?

  Just tired

  I’ll bring you dinner

  That’s okay. Not hungry

  Too late

  I’m staring at that message, wondering what the heck it means, poised to reply with a string of question marks when I hear a car door slam, followed by my doorbell ringing.

  Now I want to cry.

  When I open the door, and he lifts in greeting a paper sack with the logo of one of my favorite sushi restaurants, my rumbling stomach outvotes my bad attitude, but I remain silent and passive while he unpacks the food on the coffee table.

  Taking in the movie and the pen and pad on the floor, he asks, “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Trying to work,” I answer shortly.

  “Fuel up, and you’ll feel better.”

  Thanks, Coach! Ya think? Are you gonna slap my butt next?

  Keeping my snarky comments to myself, I separate the disposable chopsticks Jet hands me and rub them together to smooth away the splinters, then examine my choices. All of my favorites, of course. And way more than I could ever eat.

  Jet folds the bag and takes it into the kitchen. Returning with two beers, he sits next to me on the couch and, after setting my drink on the table and taking a few sips of his, says, “So. Rough day?”

  I shrug, pluck a tempura-covered nugget from one of the trays in front of me, dip it in soy sauce, and, while I wait for it to stop dripping so I can transfer it to my mouth, reply, “They’re all rough lately.” I pop the roll into my mouth.

  He watches me chew, then checks, “Good?”

  Nodding, I finally locate my manners after swallowing and say, “Yeah. Thanks.”

  He nudges my shoulder with his. “Any time. Now about this job fair…”

  I tense once more when he assumes his fix-it mode voice but try not to show it as I select a cream cheese-, avocado-, and crab-filled piece.

  “I could help you brainstorm ideas.”

  Oh, my favorite word. My brain has been a non-stop storm for weeks now. Surely, he knows that. Or maybe he doesn’t. He’s been busy getting ready for his family’s visit, and I’ve tried to take advantage of that and leverage some space, so we haven’t spent nearly as much time together lately. The time we have spent together, I’ve made a conscious effort to be present and positive—until now. I can’t fake it anymore.

  I wash down my food with three gulps of beer while I try to figure out how to kindly reject his offer. Finally, still stalling, I set down my bottle and ask, “You going to eat, or just watch me?”

  He avoids my eyes as he picks up the next piece to feed to me. “This isn’t for me. I ate before coming over.” When I stare at him, ignoring the morsel he’s offering, he clarifies, “Sushi’s not my thing, remember?”

  “Why didn’t you get something both of us would like?”

  He shrugs. “I was hungry after my afternoon workout, so I ate early. I wanted to treat you. I know you’re having a rough time.”

  Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. Right. I see now. Feed the menstruating bear, and you might stay off her shit list. If you’re lucky and don’t make any sudden moves.

  His thoughtfulness should be endearing, but I’m too strung out to be coddled. It’s suffocating.

  When I say nothing to his veiled reference to my “rough time,” he returns to the previous topic, one I’d hoped he’d forgotten. “I can ask some of the guys if they’d show up and sign autographs. We could probably swing it in the afternoon, after prac
tice, since it’ll be the middle of the week.”

  “You guys are already doing that for Arnold next month.”

  “So? We don’t mind. It’s fun.”

  “I want to do something different. It’s a job fair, not a meet-n-greet.”

  “Sometimes you need to get people in the door. Everyone wants to meet NFL players.”

  No longer hungry, I toss my chopsticks in one of the half-empty trays and fall back into the couch cushions. “If everyone were as enthusiastic about getting jobs and working, think how great this country could be.”

  His jaw twitches. “It was just an idea. Shit.”

  “Well, I have my own ideas,” I lie.

  “Great!” He doesn’t sound that happy about it, though. I’m glad he doesn’t pick up that pad of paper and look at that lame list or ask me to share any of my nonexistent concepts.

  “Don’t pout, all right? I can’t handle it right now.”

  “I’m not pouting!”

  “You are. You do it so much, you don’t even realize when you’re doing it anymore.”

  He snorts. “Whatever.”

  While he most definitely pouts, I stare at the unwatched film playing in front of us. What would someone in a movie do right now? Rocky would jump some rope and run up and down some stairs. Jerry Maguire would hop on a plane to scout the next big thing in football. Dolly Parton would type a kick-ass memohhhhmygosh.

  “Oh, that’s it!”

  “You know, I’m just trying to be sup—”

  “Shhh! I’m being brilliant.”

  He bites the inside of his cheek. “Ewkay…”

  Sitting forward, I place my hands on either side of my head, as if to hold the ideas in place. “I know what the theme of the job fair is going to be.”

  “Theme? Like, ‘getting jobs’?”

  “No, something better.” I drop my arms. “Colin suggested having a theme, and at the time, I thought, ‘Whatever.’ But all the job fairs we’ve hosted in the past—including the one I’m helping Arnold organize next month—have been so boring! And our answer to that is, ‘Get some football players to sign autographs,’ or ‘Give away free food,’ or ‘Have a raffle for a stupid piece of shit nobody wants.’”

  “I’m in,” Jet quips.

  “But that has nothing to do with getting a job. Or finding a career.”

  “Nope.”

  “So we have to make job hunting, itself, fun.”

  “Mmmm… Passin’ out résumés and filling out applications. My favorite pastime.”

  I swat his shoulder.

  “Ow!”

  “Be quiet and listen.”

  “I’m listening!”

  I jab a thumb at the TV screen. “What if, for each employer’s booth, we have a picture—or several—of movie characters with the jobs that employer is offering?”

  He closes one eye. “Um, give me an example.”

  “So, like, for the Highway Patrol, we’ll have life-sized cardboard cutouts of famous cops and forensic scientists from movies.”

  “I can’t think of any movie cops who aren’t dirty,” he says with a wince. “Or bumbling idiots. Like in the Police Academy movies. That’s probably not what you had in mind.”

  I wave him off. “I don’t need you to think of any for me; I can think of a ton. And lawyers and doctors and teachers and—”

  Jet nods at Dolly. “Secretaries?”

  “Administrative assistants, yes! And chemists. Scientists. Politicians. Chefs. Writers. Lots of writers! Journalists.”

  “Sounds like you have a winner of any idea.” He busies himself consolidating the half-eaten sushi rolls into fewer trays and stacking them for eventual transport to the refrigerator.

  “I have to implement it, and it might be a huge pain in the ass, but I still have enough time. The marketing campaigns will practically write themselves.”

  “Great. See? You’ve got this.”

  Hit by yet another thought, I bolt to my feet and run around the front of the coffee table, between it and the TV, where I pace, kicking aside my discarded pen and paper. “And something else! Career planning is similar to film composition, you know?” Opening my arms to their full extension and stopping to face him, like a lecturing professor, I say, “The wide or establishing shot is your long-term plan, your five-, ten-, and twenty-year goals.” I move my hands closer together. “The medium shot is what you’re doing to get there: college, training, blah, blah, blah.” I frame my face with my hands, Madonna-Vogue-style. “And the close-ups are of you, getting the jobs and advancing through your career with promotions, until you make it to the top!”

  Jet watches me, pausing in his housekeeping. All traces of the pout are finally gone. “I like it. That’s super-clever.”

  “I know! I mean, thanks. The theme’s tag line…” I sweep my hand in front of me, plastering it on an invisible marquee. “‘Be the Star of Your Life.’ Yes! That’s it. Nailed it!” I pump my arm twice close to my side.

  “Hey, that’s my touchdown move,” Jet mock objects, laughing. He stands next to me.

  High on inspiration, I throw myself at him. At the last second, he realizes what I’m doing and grabs me before I knock us both over.

  “Oof! Whoa. Hey.” He chuckles into my face and pushes a strand of my hair from my eyes. “We need to practice our end zone celebration. That was almost a disaster.”

  “Sorry about that.” I gulp. “And I’m sorry about that other stuff, too. It was mean. You were only trying to help. I’m a real jerk when I’m stressed out. Good thing I don’t care about too many things, huh?” I chuckle nervously while I wait for his reaction to my awkward apology.

  He stares into my eyes. “Let’s just forget it, okay? You figured it out, and now you can relax. I’m proud of you.”

  “I’m proud of me, too,” I realize with no shortage of surprise.

  He nudges his nose with mine. “I love you, and I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone this weekend.”

  My euphoria fades, but I keep my smile plastered on my face and hope he doesn’t see it deaden in my eyes. “That’s right. Three more days.” Blinking that dreadful thought away, I focus on his mouth, edging closer to mine. “I love you, too,” I say, right before contact.

  Twenty-Two

  Knox Family Invasion

  The Knox Family Circus arrives from the airport, kids and luggage and yelling parents tumbling from the two SUVs they’ve rented for the week. Through the bodies flowing into the entryway, Jet looks at me across the space and grins.

  “Yep. This is about right,” he says, wending his way to my side.

  While his siblings wrangle their kids, we perform some distracted introductions, mostly shouting names and nodding over the din, followed by hugs for Jet as each person files past us. I take advantage of the chaos to observe and commit names to faces and personalities.

  I already know from pictures that Keith and David are both easily four inches taller than Jet, but seeing it in person is a whole other story. They’re not professional athletes so, therefore, they aren’t as diligent about diet and exercise as their little (literally, in this case) brother. Keith, the older of the two, laughs and claps people on backs and lifts his siblings’ kids, tickling them and making a big deal about how big they’ve grown. If I were a kid, I’d be terrified of that guy, but they seem to love him.

  David watches on with a quiet smile, but Jet tells me he has a good sense of humor and comes out of his shell the more you get to know him. I look forward to seeing the similarities—and differences—between David, as the middle son, and his brothers.

  As far as Jet’s sisters-in-law go, once again, I’m enjoying the rare experience of feeling diminutive since they both measure in at more than six feet tall. Keith’s wife, Lucy, rail thin and kitted out in designer everything from head-to-toe, gives her husband a run for his money on the Loudest Entrance Award as she herds her two kids with a hand on each of their heads toward the nearest bathroom, yelling about someone getti
ng into the chocolate without permission.

  Somewhat more sedate, David’s wife, Tammy, holds a baby on her hip and periodically shushes her older child, a three-year-old boy whom she otherwise ignores while he repeatedly tries to climb her legs.

  Jet’s older sister, the tan, blonde, and buxom Bridget (nicknamed “Gidget”), walks through the door, takes one look at the confusion, and booms, “Everyone to their rooms! Meet in the living room in fifteen!”

  The resultant silence is not only jarring, but it’s eerie how everybody carries out her command, without question.

  On her way past Jet and me, she mutters, “Someone’s gotta take control here, or we’ll never get anything accomplished this week.” After hugging her little brother, she smiles at me. “Hey, there. I’d tell you not to be too afraid. But you probably should be.”

  Jet’s parents, Gloria and Ned, stumble last through the door. The dutiful son grabs their suitcases and leans down for a kiss from his mom, who acts like it’s been years, not mere weeks, since she’s seen him.

  “How’s my baby boy?” she asks, wiping her lipstick from his cheek. “You’re looking big and strong, as usual. Oh, I’ve missed you!” She pulls him in for a more intense hug, her eyes pinched closed with rapture. Still clinging to his shoulders, she opens her eyes to regard me, studying me like I’d imagine she’d admire a stylish fashion accessory worn by him. “Hello, Dear.”

  I manage to reply politely and eloquently. At least, I think I do; it’s still difficult to hear myself over my ringing ears.

  Jet quickly takes over, standing at his full height, introducing me more formally to his parents, and gushing about how excited he’s been for this week.