Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

  “These are critical decisions, Maura, decisions that could affect the rest of our lives.” Oh, Lord. She’s using her Dr. Snow tone now. I can definitely hear her telling her heart patients about the importance of diet and exercise in this exact same voice.

  Goaded by the condescension, I snipe, “Really, Deirdre? The wedding flowers could make or break your future happiness?”

  “Someday you’ll understand. When you’re a bride, you’ll want everything to be perfect. When you’re ready to have children, you’ll see how— how loaded every decision seems to be. Life is so easy when you have only yourself to answer to.”

  After she delivers what she believes to be the final word on that topic, she carries the dirty dishes into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Greg, who rolls his eyes at his future wife’s back.

  “Don’t even,” I warn him. “You’re as bad as she is.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with having goals and a plan. I can help you come up with one of your own, if you want.”

  It’s a common misconception that I have no aspirations. I do. My main one simply happens to be for me not to be goal-oriented, and to keep my life as uncomplicated as possible.

  Plus, Deirdre and my brother have enough goals and plans for all of us. It’s important for society to be balanced. Those of us who are more, shall we say, “laid-back,” keep the world from going haywire with all these driven freaks like Greg and Deirdre, the couple who manages to make the most intimate of Christmas Eve get-togethers tense.

  I glower at him. “Plans aren’t fun.” Before he can contradict me, I rush forward with, “Oh, my gosh! Speaking of fun, I’ve been dying to tell you this for over a month, but with the holidays and work and… stuff— Plus, I didn’t want to mention it in front of Mom and Dad at Thanksgiving, because they would have asked a bunch of uncomfortable questions, but—”

  “You’re moving to L.A.?”

  My face falls. “No.”

  “New York?”

  My jaw tightens. “Are you trying to get rid of me?” I say it lightly and with a slight smile, so I won’t let on that he’s ruining my moment. But he’s totally ruining my moment.

  “I’m trying to figure out what would be exciting in your world.”

  “Uh, gee. Thanks? How about you let me finish?”

  He shrugs, then waits.

  “You’ll never guess who I hung out with at the Chiefs’ Christmas party. Jet Knox!”

  “The quarterback, Jet Knox?” he asks skeptically.

  I tilt my head at him and make a face. “How many people on the team—on the planet—are named Jet Knox? Of course, the quarterback!”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Offended he finds this so incredible, I pound the table. “I’m serious!”

  “Wow. So, is he a cool guy? Man, I wish I’d known you were going to meet him; I’d have sent my Knox jersey with you for him to sign. Damn.”

  I don’t tell him I probably wouldn’t have agreed to do something that dorky. It’s a moot point, anyway.

  “Yeah. He was nice. Good sense of humor.” Smells great. Looks nice in a suit. Knows how to make a girl feel like the only woman in a room. Collects phone numbers he never plans to dial…

  “Who’s this?” Deirdre asks as she returns to the table with pie and coffee.

  Before I can open my mouth, Greg answers, “Mo danced with Jet Knox at the Chiefs’ Christmas party! Can you believe it? How cool is that?”

  I sip my coffee and roll my eyes, but I can’t quite keep the delighted smirk from my face. It was cool, and he was hot. If this is going to be my one bite of the fame enchilada, I should probably get some chews from it. After all, something this insignificant has a pretty short shelf life. If I’m still talking about it more than a year from now, it’s just embarrassing and pathetic. For now, it’s fresh enough not to make people retch when they hear it.

  For once, Deidre, the snow queen, looks impressed. She raises her eyebrows at me and says, “Hm. Any chemistry there? How fun would it be to date someone like him? Interesting, if nothing else…” I can see her wheels turning, and she says after swallowing a bite of pie, pointing to me with her fork and squinting her eyes, “Do you have any interest in journalism or PR? Because if so, he could probably help you get a foot in the door.”

  I sigh so enthusiastically that I almost shoot pie from my nose. She looks alarmed when I cough and sputter. After nearly a minute of this, her medical training is about to kick in when I hold up a hand and say, “I’m fine. But I don’t have any ulterior motives with Jet Knox. I don’t even know the guy. We talked at a party. That’s it.” Sip, sip, sip. Cough, cough.

  “There’s nothing wrong with networking,” Deirdre says. “I was simply brainstorming.”

  Yes. Brainstorming. Toss ideas out there and hope one of them sticks or leads to a better one. Because, for some reason, she and Greg are obsessed with fixing me, figuring out the perfect formula that will turn me into a winner.

  Dating Jet Knox would certainly do the trick. Then I’d never have to do anything else with my life.

  Puh-lease.

  So far this Christmas Day, I’ve listened to sixteen covers of “Last Christmas” and read two books. I’ve also consumed five cups of tea, but I’ve since moved on to spiked eggnog (I’m on my third cup). I’ve refused, however, to huddle under anything remotely resembling an afghan, to avoid doing exactly what I pictured myself doing in all of my lonely Christmas nightmares. Also, I’m not wearing fingerless gloves. (For some reason, I always imagined myself wearing fingerless gloves while sitting alone in my house on Christmas Day. Maybe it’s because they add an air of utter despondence to the wearer. In any case, I’m not wearing them.)

  For my viewing pleasure, I’ve watched the Christmas favorites, Love Actually and The Holiday, and I’m halfway through Home Alone. The rom-coms were obvious boneheaded choices to watch while alone and not just single, but hopelessly single. A part of me wanted to see if I was tough enough to handle them. I was. Barely. I turned on Home Alone to lift my spirits, since I always laughed so much at this movie when I was a kid. As an adult, though, it’s a completely different story. It’s downright depressing!

  Think about it. The whole family hates this kid so much they don’t realize they’ve left him behind until they’re over the ocean on their way to a completely different continent! Meanwhile, he’s all by himself in that big, empty house, fending for himself and defending the homestead against a couple of creepy burglars. The whole time, he’s wondering if he’ll be alone forever, because he took his family for granted and wished them away.

  Poor Kevin!

  Poor Maura!

  I honk into my fourth tissue while stopping the DVD for good. I can’t do it. I can’t make it through the rest of this miserable movie. It’s not at all funny to be home alone at Christmas. It’s tragic!

  Christmas is for being with people you love, your parents and siblings and grandparents (if they’re still kickin’) and— and significant other, someone who’s glad to be with you and who put plenty of time and thought into your gifts, someone whose gifts required you to do the same, someone you can curl up with in front of a fireplace and laugh with while your family tells them funny—or delightfully cringe-worthy—stories about you and Christmases past.

  It’s hard to imagine Greg and Deirdre having a day like that at the Snows’ house. From what Greg has said, D’s apple didn’t fall far from the proverbial tree. Not that he’s ever complained. More like bragged about how sensible and staid and steady they are. In other words, boring!

  Colin’s holiday visit to England, on the other hand, seems to be exactly what Christmas should be. Based on the pictures he’s emailed me, it’s a Dickensian wonderland, with carolers, lights, garland, and stone churches. And snow! Some of the snapshots he sent also included people in them. There was one of him walking arm-in-arm with his mom (who looks lovely and happy to have her son with her, not fussy and haggard, like he always describes her), ki
cking through the powdered-sugar dusting on cobblestone streets. Another showed him wearing his goofy paper crown from his Christmas cracker and, still another, sitting by the fire in a bulky sweater, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea. It looks like he’s having an amazing time.

  I should have cashed in all of that vacation time I’ll likely waste on Mondays I can’t face and invited myself along. He probably would have welcomed the company, someone to share his parents’ attention.

  Unfortunately, I don’t even have a passport. That’s how lame I am.

  Okay, this is ridiculous. I’m comfortable being alone with myself any other day. Why is this day different (other than the aforementioned reasons that I am now going to systematically disregard)? I don’t depend on others for my happiness. I don’t base my self-esteem on socioeconomic status or use career success as a yardstick of my worth as a member of the human race. One’s importance has nothing to do with one’s bank balance or letters after one’s name or the number of friends one has or spends time with on evenings, weekends, and holidays. I’m a happy, carefree, modern adult. It’s time to stop moping like an angsty teenager. It’s time for…

  I glance at my phone.

  …Chiefs football!

  When I turn off the DVD player, the sights and sounds of the pre-game show greet me. While it’s not typical for there to be games on Christmas Day, the holiday falls on a Sunday this year. That sucks for the players, staff, and crew and their families, but it’s good news for bored, lonely losers like me. I’ve been looking forward to this game all day.

  We win the coin toss but opt for getting the ball first after halftime, rather than now. Usually, I agree with the decision to defer, but tonight, I’d rather not give Denver, one of our biggest rivals, the chance to strike first. Plus, watching an offensive drive is more exciting, and a successful drive ending in some points would go a long way to lifting my yuletide melancholia.

  After allowing some quick gains, our defense finally seems to wake up, keeping the Broncos well on their half of the field, miles from the goal line (technically, eighty yards), with a long way to go if they want to keep the ball. A couple of boneheaded offensive penalties follow, pushing them back farther still.

  “Ha ha! Losers!”

  While I’m still gloating about that, one of our linebackers takes out Denver’s quarterback, Pete Jay, before he can get rid of the ball.

  “Sack!” I let loose in a delighted screech, followed by vigorous clapping.

  That brings on the punting unit.

  I sit on the edge of the couch and watch our punt returner signal for a fair catch before I rush into the kitchen to mix myself another glass of ’nog during the commercial break.

  Returning to my perch, ready to root for my team, I say as the break ends, “All right, guys. Let’s beat some Bronco butt! You can clinch the Division if you win this one.” You know, in case they don’t already know that. And can hear me.

  After a long swallow, I watch over the rim of my cup while Jet trots onto the field. Now, that’s what I’m talking about. Mr. Tight End, who? There’s a new tight end in town, ladies. Licking my lips, I set my cup down on the coffee table without taking my eyes from the TV.

  “I danced with him,” I say out loud to the empty room. “Yep. A lot. He said some things to me. About… things. That I can’t remember right now. But, oh! He called me ‘pretty!’ That’s right. Jet Knox called me ‘pretty.’ And he smells good. Well, maybe not right at this second, but he smelled good when he called me ‘pretty.’ Yes, indeedy, he—”

  I gasp when he drops back to throw, and the pocket of guys who are supposed to protect him from the other team disintegrates around him. “Oh, gosh! Watch out!” I bellow, putting my hands over my eyes and peeking through my fingers as a long-haired gorilla of a guy comes from Jet’s blind side, swinging his arms in a determined effort to take off the QB’s head.

  On nimble feet, Jet scrambles out of reach and launches the ball down-field, where the original Mr. Tight End, Keaton Busch, has run a route and is wide open, waiting for the pass. Busch catches the ball, fakes out a defender in the open field, and runs for the end zone. He has one more man to beat, which he does, easily, when one of his teammates comes to his rescue and provides a phenomenal block. BOOM!

  I jump from the couch and raise my hands above my head. “Aw, yeah! Touchdown, Kan…sas City!” I crow, swinging my hips and smacking myself on the butt. “Whoop-whoop! What’s that, Broncos? Ride ’em? I think we just did!”

  The camera cuts to a shot of Knox joining Busch in the end zone, where they bang their helmets together and hit each other so hard on their bottoms, I can feel the sting from eight hundred miles away. That’s a whole lotta beautiful butt-slappin’.

  “Yeah, baby!” I drain the last of my eggnog and point to the TV. “He called me ‘pretty.’”

  Six

  Catching up with Colin

  Nearly two weeks later, all evidence of the holiday season seems to have magically disappeared. The city has removed the snowflake lights and holiday banners they hang from select street lights in early December. The New Year’s confetti has been swept from the streets. All that remains is cold, gray winter, soon to be followed by short, wet spring, then hot, steamy summer, and…

  I shudder at what awaits me in the fall, usually my favorite season but sure to be a different story this year, thanks to the news I received earlier today.

  The buzzer on my desk startles me from my unfocused, despairing stare.

  “Like, Colin Bennett is, like, here?” Becca, one of the many part-time receptionists, announces in typical questioning fashion.

  I press the button on my phone and say, “Like, send him in?”, standing and rounding my desk to greet him.

  After he closes the door and faces me, he shakes his head and backs away from my impending hug. “Ah, you’d probably better not,” he says in a thick voice. “I’ve caught a bug, so I’ll have to forgo my three hugs today. I’d hate to get you sick.”

  I drop my arms and retreat behind my desk. “I hope you weren’t sick while you were on vacation.”

  He shakes his head. “Picked it up on the return flight, most likely.” After taking the seat across from my desk, he considerately scoots the chair back a foot or so. “Anything interesting out there?”

  I riffle through the temporary postings I’ve already printed out for him to peruse, looking for the one I think he’ll like the most. As I’m about to pass the stack across the desk, my cell phone rings, or—more accurately—moans, on my desk.

  “Oh, crap,” I mutter, fumbling for the device, trying to hit the button to reject the call and send it to voicemail. I eventually manage to silence it but not before Colin shows noticeable amusement at the noise and my response.

  “What the bloody hell was that? A cat in heat?” His laughter brings on a coughing fit that lasts long enough for me to consider he might need a good whack on the back—for more than his health.

  When he finishes spluttering, I slide a box of tissues toward him and say with as much dignity as I can muster, “That’s one of my favorite actors, singing.”

  “‘Singing’? Are you sure about that?” He hacks and honks into a tissue that he then tosses into the tiny trash can next to my desk. “It sounds like maybe one of his crazed fans got hold of him and is torturing him in their cellar. Or perhaps he has a severe case of food poisoning. I sounded a bit like that after you and I ate that egg salad that was off. You say that was an actor making that noise on your mobile?”

  “Yes. He experiments with music in his spare time.”

  “That certainly sounded more like an experiment than a song.”

  “I put it on my phone as a joke, and I keep forgetting to change my generic ringtone back to something less… moany.”

  While we laugh at each other, I idly wonder who would possibly be calling me in the middle of the work day. All of my usual callers should be at work; plus, they have their own custom ringtones. I’ve written it
off in my head as a wrong number when the phone, now in vibrate mode, buzzes in the middle of my desk to let me know I have voicemail. Both of us stare at the device for a second before I grab it and toss it into my deepest desk drawer.

  Colin turns his head and looks at me from the corner of his eye. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I answer honestly. “I’m trying not to be rude. You’re here in a professional capacity—”

  He snorts at the notion.

  “—and I want to give you my full attention. And tell you about these jobs, so we have time to catch up before my next appointment.”

  Seeming unconvinced, he nevertheless humors me. “Hmm. Right.”

  “Anyway, I’ve found several things you might like—or at least be willing to do for the short amount of time they run.”

  His smile falters. “About that…” He averts his eyes. “I dunno. Maybe it’s time I go for something longer-term.”

  “Really? Okay. Give me a second.” I turn to my computer to navigate through the interface and widen the date parameters of my earlier search. While I wait for the sluggish results to populate, I say, “You never told me how the job at the mall worked out.”

  “You were right about the hat,” he replies. “But I was told I wore it well.” After I laugh and chide him for not bothering to take a single selfie, he continues, “Also, I learnt that people have some odd sentiments engraved on mementos. And they engrave odd items, as well. For example…” He leans forward. “One bloke brought in a toaster. A toaster! And he had me etch”—he assumes a scarily good redneck accent—“‘Luann, You melt my butter. Love always, Bubba.’”

  “You’re making that up.”

  He rests his hand against his chest. “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me, since you don’t believe in romance.”

  He may look completely guileless, but he’s an amazing liar, especially in the interest of getting a laugh. He’s fooled me countless times with funny stories that have wound up being utter fabrications, told merely for comedic effect. And that’s fine. I don’t mind being part of the punchline.