Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

  Out of My League

  (The Underdog Series #1)

  Brea Brown

  Copyright © 2019 by Wayzgoose Press. (Note: An earlier, slightly modified edition of this novel, with the same title, was originally published in 2015, ISBN 978-1517357436.)

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Maggie Sokolik

  Cover design by Keri Knutson at alchemybookcovers.com

  Second edition ISBN: 978-1938757686

  To my husband, who’s taught me most of what I know about football, including the stuff I forget in the off-season. Thanks for being such a good sport and a patient teacher, not just in football, but in all aspects of our life together.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  1. Hobnobbin’

  2. Colin, the Ex-Pat

  3. Christmas Plans

  4. Rae & Maura: A Friendship

  5. Bah, Humbug!

  6. Catching up with Colin

  7. First(ish) Impressions

  8. Inquisitions

  9. Charmed

  10. Multiple Penalties

  11. Reluctantly Willing

  12. Losing and Winning

  13. Sweet Enticements

  14. Fort Knox

  15. Getting Lei’d

  16. Playing Hosts

  17. The Big Show

  18. Reality Beckons

  19. Reconnecting with Rae

  20. Incompatible Lives

  21. Procrastinating Panic

  22. Knox Family Invasion

  23. Draft Day Doubts

  24. Chief AND Chef

  25. Bridesmaid Blues

  26. Scandal

  27. Conflicting Takes

  28. Game Day Jitters

  29. Insult and Injury

  30. Reassurances and Upheaval

  31. Safehouse

  32. Disappointment

  33. Dark Clouds

  34. San Diego Surprise

  35. “So Blassed!”

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Also by Brea Brown

  Author’s Note

  I love football (all forms), and this book is my love letter to the American version of the sport (played by the National Football League). As with most things I love, though, I don’t fully understand it. So. Many. Rules! I don’t go too far into the weeds on rules and regulations in this book (I realize not everyone loves the game as much as I do, and I didn’t want to bore or alienate readers with extensive play-by-plays), but the game was a big part of the main characters’ lives, so when I did mention it, I needed it to be authentic. I probably drove my husband crazy, asking him all these hypotheticals, not just about the rules of the game, but also about the regulations that guide players’ behavior off the field. Something tells me he kind of liked being my main consultant, though.

  I also did my own research, obviously, and read many interesting—and odd—articles about players’ routines, health practices, and roles in the community. And yes, I had to brush up on terminology. I tried not to overdo it with the football-speak and worked hard to contextually define terms (I know you’re a smart bunch and can figure this stuff out), but there were many places where it would have interrupted the flow of the story or seemed odd for characters so familiar with the game to explain things to each other. I’d like to refer you to the Wikipedia page for American football (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_football) as a quick, easy guide. That way, if you’re inclined to know more than you already do, you can look it up. Otherwise, you can skim right over those terms (like I used to do while casually watching football each week), and nothing will be lost in the story. I promise. You don’t have to be an NFL expert to understand what’s happening in the following pages.

  If you’re a sports fan, I hope you find a lot to love about this book. If you’re not a sports fan, I hope you can overlook the brief discussions of sport in this book and enjoy the overarching storyline, which is a fresh [I think] take on familiar themes: love and self-worth. If you hate sports and love, I weep for you, but to each his/her own. However, you may want to save yourself the six hours of boredom and/or frustration and put down this book now. Then again, these characters and their story may change your mind and be a surprising delight. You wouldn’t want to risk missing out on that, would you?

  So, happy reading! And if you feel moved to post a review on the site of your choice when you’ve finished reading, I’d greatly appreciate it. Thanks!

  One

  Hobnobbin’

  If this were a movie, something big would be about to go down. Something bigger, that is, than that enormous linebacker doing the Running Man on the dance floor in front of me.

  No, I’m talking something epic and life-changing. The ordinary woman invited to an exclusive NFL Christmas gala as the plus-one of her best friend, one of the Kansas City Chiefs’ trainers, would look across the dance floor and meet the eyes of Keaton Busch (a.k.a., “Mr. Tight End,” which describes both the position he plays and my sexist assessment of his fine figure). The rest would be filler until the happily ever after.

  Or, if it were an action film, someone would come in here right now and shoot this mother up. Considering how the evening’s gone so far, and the fact that Mr. Tight End is nowhere in sight, the latter seems much more likely.

  Unfortunately, this isn’t a movie. So nothing exciting is happening at this party.

  I sit, abandoned, at a table for eight in one of Arrowhead Stadium’s premier event venues, watching huge dudes—most of whom I can’t identify—gyrate to the pulsing music on the makeshift dance floor with their dates.

  I don’t recognize anyone. Well, I take that back. I knew Coach Dick Bauer when he got up and addressed the attendees, back at the beginning of the night, when it held so much promise. I also knew the Wise brothers, the team’s owners. Everyone else here, they’re a different story.

  Despite being an avid fan of the team, I never realized how much I rely on the names and numbers on the backs of jerseys to help me identify the players. Here, in their formal wear, they look like clones at a giants’ convention. I guess they’re not quite identical; there’s an impressive array of skin tones and hair styles (very multi-culti). But none of the guys are wearing under-eye black or sporting their helmets, and seeing them in real life is totally different than seeing them on camera, standing among other players, where they appear to be relatively normal-sized humans.

  They’re not. They’re mahoossive. Even the kickers and punters, who usually seem so tiny on the field, are my height (5’11”) or taller. In this setting, my friend, Rae, at 5’6”, looks like an extra from The Wizard of Oz or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. This is the only place in the world I can wear three-inch heels (which are killing me, by the dubs), and still feel tiny. So far tonight, I’ve seen a lot of nose hair. I defy the most dedicated fan to claim he or she can identify any of these guys based on that feature. I suspect second- and third-stringers and support staff comprise the majority of the attendees.

  How disappointing! (Says the girl who’s the least of the nobodies here.)

  Obviously, not one of the players has given me a second glance. Part of that may be due to the fact that I’m attending the party with an openly gay woman. They all assume I’m Rae’s date-date, not her straight friend who would love to dance with one or two ripped, rich guys. Since Rae doesn’t seem
eager to introduce me to any of these “sex-starved a-holes,” and none of them will approach me to talk to me, there’s no way to tactfully get that message across. A blinking “Straight” sign around my neck would come in handy right now, but it would ruin the lines of the red, beaded, one-shouldered number I’m wearing.

  When Rae first texted me, asking if I’d be her “plus-one” to this shindig, I was thrilled. As a lifelong Chiefs fan, it was a dream come true for me.

  It was too momentous an occasion to discuss via the text conversation she had initiated, so I called her to accept her invitation.

  “Before you go all fangirl on me,” she said, “this isn’t just a social outing. These are my new co-workers. I need you to play it cool at this thing.”

  “I will be the epitome of cool.”

  Following the previous few months of lengthy silences and stilted conversations, usually in written electronic format, I was surprised she was asking me to go with her. The last thing I wanted was to add more strain to our friendship. So I resisted squealing in her ear when it became clear she wasn’t playing an elaborate joke on me and was truly inviting me to something so amazing.

  The squealing impulse remained close to the surface throughout that call, every time I thought of another player I’d have a chance to meet (Keaton Busch) or dance with (Keaton Busch!) or even drunkenly make out with but not go any further, because that’s groupie behavior, and I’m so above that. (Keaton Busch!!) I knew any hint of a squeak or mention of the player she claims is a “doofus” and a “douche,” and she’d rescind her invite, so I kept all noises in check.

  Keeping silent wouldn’t have been as big of a challenge if I’d known it was going to be like this.

  My “date” disappeared a few minutes ago, following one of the players toward the locker room after he approached her to complain about his painfully pulled groin muscle. Ever the workaholic, Rae readily agreed to massage it for him. Anyone else, and I’d think they were speaking euphemistically, but the literalness of the situation is much more depressing.

  I’m so over the entire night that when the air next to me moves as someone sits in Rae’s abandoned chair, I refuse to look away from the sight of Giant Running Man. (The floor is shaking from the impact, and I don’t want to miss when it finally gives way and swallows him.) That is, until I catch whiff of my visitor, like a rainy forest in the fall, and can’t resist turning my head to see who belongs to that intoxicating smell. An equally mesmerizing smile is my reward for finding my manners. It’s so pretty that I’m almost okay with it not residing on the face of Keaton Busch. (Dang it, where is that guy?)

  “Hey, there,” says someone who doesn’t require a jersey for me to instantly recognize him.

  Starting quarterback Jet Knox’s face is plastered all over the city, most notably on the billboard I pass every day on my way to work. Plus I’ve seen him plenty of times with his helmet off. Somehow, his grin is more dazzling tonight than in any of the retouched photos of him I’ve seen in print. Sweaty post-game interviews don’t do this guy justice. Close up, clean, and in person, he’s a god.

  My fluttery hands and twitchy mouth betray my nervousness at his proximity. He’s no Mr. Tight End, but judging by my physical response right now, I’d probably faint if I came face-to-face with my biggest crush, so maybe it’s a good thing he’s MIA.

  “Hey,” I manage to squeak back softly enough to require the QB’s ability to read lips in loud stadiums.

  He leans closer to be heard over the thumping music. “You’re Rae’s friend, right?”

  “Yep. Just friends!” I shout back. “Friend-friends!” Screw subtlety. It’s too late in the evening and noisy in here for that.

  He laughs loudly. “Okay, then. Thanks for clearing that up. But I already knew.”

  I manage to keep my vocal cords steady, hopefully sounding more flirtatious than desperate, when I say, “Oh, good. Word’s getting around.”

  He either doesn’t notice his effect on me or does a good job of pretending not to. In fact, he does his own share of squirming when he says, “I passed Rae and Joaquin in the hallway, and when I teased her for leaving her pretty date alone, she snapped my head off and said you weren’t her date, and maybe I should come up here and keep you company.”

  I blush at several of the things he says, not least of which that he called me “pretty.”

  “You don’t have to do what she says,” I say, hating myself for not knowing how to graciously accept a compliment or muster a more characteristically sassy response. But… but it’s Jet Knox! I’m officially star-struck. So much for playing it cool.

  He smiles. “Yes, actually, I normally do. But it’s our bye week, which is why we’re having this party before Thanksgiving. And the only reason we have decent food and booze.” Nodding toward the mountain of a man on the dance floor, he says, “Jackson wouldn’t be allowed to attempt those dance moves. I’m pretty sure he’s about to hurt himself. Or bring this whole place down.”

  I laugh, relaxing as Jet also seems to regain his social footing.

  Looking relieved that I’m loosening up, he holds out his hand. “I’m Jet.”

  I allow my hand to be consumed by his and pretend it’s not hilarious for him to be introducing himself to me, a nobody job counselor from Overland Park, Kansas. “I’m Maura.”

  “Nice to meet you, Maura.” He plunks his massive mitt on the table and drums his surprisingly nimble fingers. “You don’t look like you’re having a good time. I feel bad about that.”

  Quickly, I reassure him, “Well, it’s not anyone’s fault. Especially not yours. But it’s surreal—and intimidating—being here. Rae’s busy, so she hasn’t had a chance to introduce me to anyone, that’s all.”

  He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Rae needs to get a life. No offense. I know she’s your friend and all, but she’s a little intense.” At that, he chuckles nervously and scratches his eyebrow. “Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

  I narrow my eyes. “She’s one of the first ones on the field when you’re hurt, right?” Grabbing the spot where his shoulder meets his neck, I imitate a trainer who’s trying to diagnose a problem and pretend to squeeze maliciously. “Does this hurt?” I ask, wearing a serious expression and assuming a grave tone of voice.

  He winces, sucking in a breath as if I’m causing him great discomfort, even though I probably couldn’t hurt him if I tried. “Not until you did that. Gaaaaah!”

  We chuckle at our dorky playacting, and I remove my hand from his rock-hard muscle, suddenly hyper-aware I’ve touched someone I’ve only ever seen before on TV and in print.

  I look down at my hands in my lap. “Anyway, I won’t tell her what you said.”

  He stands, and I figure he’s going to return to socializing with his teammates now that he’s done his duty tour of the room, but his hand enters my field of vision, and he wiggles his fingers. “Come on. Let’s dance.”

  Immediately, I stand and comply with his request, too grateful for the break in the monotony to play coy. Plus, I’d have to be in a coma to turn down an opportunity like this, if for no other reason than to brag about it to my brother.

  After the song ends, the DJ plays an R&B request from one of the players to his “new, hot wife,” so I step back from Jet. It occurs to me he probably has a bleached, buffed, waxed date wandering around here somewhere. A glance at my table tells me Rae’s back from giving Joaquin his holiday rub-down. She’s glaring at Jet and me.

  “Forget her,” my dance partner says, stepping forward and grasping me around my waist.

  Instantly done.

  Near my ear, his cheek pressed against mine, he says, “It’s boring over at that table. There’s no way I’m going to let you walk away from this party thinking we’re boring. The NFL has a reputation to uphold, you know.”

  As he returns to his full height, his face glides across mine like satin against velvet. He pulls me closer so the beads on my dress catch on his silk tie. Someone capable of an em
otion close to “worry” would step back to prevent snagging the accessory that probably cost half of my last paycheck. I’m too tingly, warm, and loose to fret, though.

  Plus, he doesn’t seem worried about his tie, so why should I be?

  All I can possibly think about is those hands. And those eyes. And that chest. I’m vaguely aware of the song playing, but I won’t remember it when it’s over.

  I smile dreamily. Wait until I tell my brother about this.

  Too soon, I find myself sitting in Rae’s SUV, looking out the passenger window while she grills me.

  “What else did you guys talk about? What did he say about me? He always acts like he’s forcing himself to be civil to me, like he hates my guts and rolls his eyes behind my back. Did he trash talk me?”

  Since what Jet said about Rae was nothing close to what I’d call “trash talking,” I’m not lying by keeping my promise to him. “No, not at all.”

  “Then what did you two talk about for so long out there?”

  “Fade routes and slants. Oh, and the importance of a balanced running and passing game.”

  She scoffs. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I already know, anyway.”

  Turning my head to look at her, I sigh. “I’m kidding. But really, we didn’t talk about you at all. Except at first. He said you asked him to keep me company, when you passed him in the hallway on the way to the therapy room.”