Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

  I grab a strand from my shoulder and peer down at its ends. “No.” My voice distorts as I squash my chin to my chest to get a better view. “Does it look different?”

  She shakes her head, befuddled. “Maybe. You look, like, lighter.”

  Continuing toward my door, I shrug. “Hm. Weird.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, your first appointment is here and waiting.”

  “I’ll be right with them,” I tell her, carrying my stuff into my office and settling in for the day.

  My cell phone chimes as I hang my purse on the door hook. Unable to resist, I dig it out to read what I assume is going to be a text from Jet.

  My stomach gurgles when I see, instead, Roses? Someone’s got it bad.

  Rae. Dagnabbit! How the heck does she know about that? There wasn’t a whisper of it online. I know, because I signed up for a service that sends me alerts any time Jet’s name is mentioned. (Who’s the stalker now?) If he and I are going to be a thing, though, I don’t want people knowing stuff about us that I don’t even know, ya know? I want to stay ahead of the gossip. Maybe Jet told her? That poor, sweet, innocent man. He and I are going to have to have a talk. Rae is not his ally in this game. The sooner he realizes that, the better.

  One of the best things about texts is that you can ignore a message and claim you didn’t know it had arrived. In this case, I can only pretend so long, since Rae’s all-too-aware of how regularly I check my phone. But I have a while before she becomes suspicious I’m avoiding her.

  Not enough 5-hr energy n wrld 4 me 2 stay awake n this pats defense revu

  says the text from Jet that pops onto the screen before I can set down my phone on my desk.

  The usual me would text back something flirty, but I need to get to work, so I don’t have time to think about how it makes me feel that Jet Knox sends me illicit texts during playoff preps. My gut reaction is to discourage him. I don’t want anyone to find out and treat me like a modern-day Yoko if the team loses Sunday. Silencing the device, I slide it underneath a pile of papers on the corner of my desk and concentrate on the stack of job descriptions already printed and ready for my first client. All thoughts of Rae and Jet will have to wait.

  It isn’t until after my first appointment ends that I have a chance to peruse the rest of my schedule. For the second time today, my stomach reacts unpleasantly. My entire afternoon is blocked out for a job fair planning meeting. It’s for the spring fair, so I’m merely sitting in, observing Arnold. Still, it’s an unwelcome reminder of the herculean responsibility I’m doing my damnedest to pretend doesn’t exist.

  The happiness I was feeling a few minutes ago dissipates like bubbles in a long, hot bath that’s gone lukewarm.

  When Carmen/Cassie/Chastity (I definitely need to figure out her name for real, no matter how temporary she’ll be) buzzes me as I’m gathering my things to leave for the day and announces Colin’s arrival, I experience a brief panicked moment. His new job only started yesterday! What could he possibly need so soon?

  As soon as he opens my door, he says, “Sorry I’m so early. If you’re not ready to go yet, I understand and don’t mind waiting.” At my blank stare, he prods, “Dinner? Oh, don’t tell me, you’ve forgotten and made plans with Mr. KC?”

  My shoulders relax. “Oh! No. I mean, yes. I mean…” In my angst and despair over the job fair planning meeting, I forgot about having dinner with Colin, my buddy, my pal.

  Standing in front of my desk, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then slides his hands into the pockets of his fleece pullover before taking them out again.

  After a deep, cleansing breath, I say, “I did forget, but I have no other plans. I’m just— I’m a little scattered right now. Let me get my things.”

  I pat the papers on my desk, trying to locate my still-buried phone, which has chirped and vibrated a few times throughout the day but has remained largely ignored, since I’ve been too busy to check it. Even now, it goes straight into my purse without a glance from me.

  Smiling mildly, he says, “Excellent. Because I have some interesting stories to relay regarding the Blue Rinse Brigade.”

  I laugh at his colorful description of the clientele at his new place of employment. “I can’t wait to hear all about it. Who’s driving?” When he points to me, I dig my keys from my coat pocket and jingle them. “Let’s go.”

  Once in the car, having determined our destination to be the “Irish” pub we often patronize relatively close to my office, he asks, “If you could try any job for a day, regardless of qualifications or location or pay or any of that, what would it be?”

  “What?”

  He repeats his question, then urges, “Come on. Anything. No limits.”

  I glance over at him and laugh at his eager expression. “I don’t know!”

  He lets that stand while I consider the question more seriously at a stoplight. Then it hits me.

  “You’ve got something!” he says triumphantly. “I can tell. Come on, then. What is it?”

  In spite of my best efforts not to, I blush and squirm.

  He rubs his hands together. “Ooh, what is it? Pole dancer?”

  “No!”

  “Then come out with it already.”

  “Movie critic,” I say, pressing on the gas when the light turns green. “With my own syndicated column. Or blog. Or whatever is the most modern thing with the biggest reach.”

  He hums approvingly.

  “What about you?”

  Seemingly surprised I’ve asked, he opens his mouth, then closes it.

  “It’s only fair that you play along, too.”

  “Promise not to laugh?”

  Already cracking up, I say, “No way. This is you we’re talking about. It’s hilarious, whatever it is.”

  He rolls his eyes like a recalcitrant child. “Okay, fine. Taste-tester at the Boulevard Brewery.”

  I chuckle. “That would be a fantastic job!”

  “I’d settle for tour guide, in a pinch, because you’d get to sample the finished product, I bet. If anything like that comes up at The Career Center, you must give me a ring.”

  “Will do.”

  “Promise?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Right, then. Well, thanks for indulging my little game.”

  “Was there a point to it?” Having arrived at the pub, I pull the car into an open spot and slide the shifter into “Park.”

  He shrugs while unbuckling his seatbelt and opening his door. “I simply wanted to see what you would pick if you weren’t telling yourself you’re not good enough.” With that, he exits the vehicle and walks ahead of me to the pub’s entrance, holding open the door for me.

  Hurrying to catch up, I say on my way past him into the warm, dim bar, “Listen, Mr. Miyagi, I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t need a philosophical ego boost from you.”

  We’re early enough that there’s no wait for a booth, so after we’ve been seated and have ordered our first drinks, he picks up our conversation like there’s been no interruption. “I’m not trying to inflate your ego. That suggests a certain level of insincerity. I’m simply trying to convince you to consider your worth. Or decide you’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

  Hoping to convey an air of boredom, I examine my ragged cuticles.

  He takes that as a sign to continue. “Take Jet when he was… well, a Jet.”

  The concept of Colin knowing anything about American football, much less Jet’s NFL résumé, piques my interest. “What do you know about that?”

  Pointing to the ceiling, he answers, “Plenty, thanks to the almighty Internet. I know he was drafted by the New York Jets, and they made a huge deal about ‘Jet the Jet’ with billboards and promotions and gimmicks, but they were more in love with his name than the type of captain—”

  “Quarterback.”

  “—he is, so he didn’t fit their system. At all. He was doomed for failure the minute he stepped foot in the changing room—”

&n
bsp; “Locker room.”

  “—his first season. But the fans were led to believe he would be the next Joe Namath, so they pinned all their World Cup—”

  “Super Bowl.”

  “—hopes on him, and when he couldn’t deliver, they very publicly demoted him after one-and-a-half seasons and promoted the backup capt— quarterback whose style better fit the team. Jet rode the bench as the Jets’ backup for more than two years. At one point, when he was brought in to sub for the injured starter, and he threw an interception—which, after the fact, everyone said was his receiver’s fault—he was benched again, in favor of the third-stringer.”

  He pauses to breathe, so I take the opportunity to ask, “Who are you, and what have you done with Colin?”

  He laughs, banging his fist on the table. “I’m your friend! And after we talked at the bookshop Saturday, I decided a true mate would research someone his friend thought was so high above her.”

  “Well, Jet’s not a loser, either, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  He wags his finger and pooches out his lower lip. “On the contrary. My point is, for the first five years of his professional career, Jet Knox was told over and over again that he was shite. But what was his response to that?”

  I shake my head, not having a clue. I do remember the Chiefs got a great deal on him and that his first contract with the team was a measly one-year deal with all sorts of provisos and outs and an almost insulting salary, by today’s standards, because he was so desperate to get out of New York. But having never followed the Jets, I’m unaware of anything more than what ESPN reported when he made the move.

  Colin’s all too pleased to educate me. “He was an absolute star about the whole thing. He mentored his replacements; he kept morale up on the bench when games weren’t going well; he never once said a bad thing about the Jets organization in the media; he didn’t so much as pout on the sidelines. He took it like a hero and was a valuable member of the team, despite the fact that the team didn’t want him anywhere near the pitch.”

  I’m too proud of my sort-of boyfriend to bother correcting my friend’s terminology.

  “That’s pretty cool,” I mumble.

  “Very cool. This guy’s credibility shot through the ceiling for me when I read that about him. He’s classy, Maura. Classy.”

  “And this is supposed to make me feel less inferior around him?”

  “It’s supposed to inspire you!” He throws his arms wide, almost knocking our arriving beers from the precariously balanced tray in our server’s hand. “Oops. Sorry, mate,” he says, placing his hands in his lap. We order our usuals, and as soon as we’re alone again, he continues, “It’s supposed to prove that Jet hasn’t always been the celebrated hero, but he didn’t let anyone else’s opinion of him affect how he felt about himself. He never stopped believing the possibilities.”

  From my purse, my phone chimes with an incoming text. Out of habit, I slide it from the bag and glance at the screen, noticing it’s from Jet.

  Colin stands. “Judging by that rosy glow on your face, that must be from the devil of which we speak.” He grins. “Someone’s ears must have been burning. I need to pop to the gents’.”

  I have the manners to wait until he’s truly gone before reading the message.

  Longest day ever. Have a minute to talk?

  At dinner with Colin, I tap back. Call you later?

  Gotta hit the sheets early tonight :(

  8:00 too late?

  Ha! No. Should I be worried about this Colin guy? ;)

  The winky emoticon saves him. Because a whiff of jealousy from someone who’s been on one date with me and that’s Game Over. I’ve had my fill of possessive boyfriends; I promised myself I’d never go there again.

  No QB controversy here

  LOL. OK. Have a nice dinner. TTYL

  Later

  My phone is securely back in my purse, out of sight, by the time Colin returns. “All’s well?” he checks.

  “Very well. Jet wants to know if he should be worried about you.”

  He pretends to choke on his latest swallow of beer. “Me? Whatever for?”

  I shrug. “Who knows? Men can be so weird.”

  Colin rests his hand, palm-up, on the table and wiggles his fingers. “Give me your mobile.”

  Wary, I balk. “Why?”

  He tilts his head and shoots me a long-suffering look. “Are you saying you don’t trust me?”

  Since I do—mostly—I dig out my phone again and place it in his hand. He immediately snaps a silly selfie, complete with lolling tongue, then says aloud while he types painfully slowly, “This. Is. Colin. No. Worries.” He taps “send” and returns the phone to the tabletop between us.

  I’m still laughing when the phone lights up with an incoming message. Faster than I am, Colin snatches the device, but while cracking up at Jet’s response, he holds it up so I can see.

  I steady his hand and read:

  Gay?

  Before I can grab the phone back, Colin pulls it from my reach and swipes at his eyes. “No, no. That’s perfect. We’ll let that be the last word for a while. You can explain things more fully later.” Nodding at something over my shoulder, he says, “Here comes our food. Let’s eat and talk about my new job. The ladies are brilliant.”

  Twelve

  Losing and Winning

  When the Patriots do to the Chiefs what they’ve done to every other team this season, it’s safe to say I’m the most disappointed fan in Kansas City. The ride is over, and it had only begun. Plus, now I’m going to have to figure out what to do with Jet. For real.

  Or not. Doing nothing is working well so far. Why change my strategy, mid-game? Things will work themselves out. Surely, he’ll tire of me before we get to the point that I have to do something drastic like step in and take control. Surely.

  Rae asks me on the phone if I’m going to meet the fallen hero at the airport, but I laugh nervously and say, “Oh, I’ll see him soon enough. When he’s more rested.”

  It’s only after I hear her relay this message to him that I realize he’s standing right there with her.

  He shouts in the background, “Come on, Maura! Let’s get plastered in the airport bar. Like real losers.”

  “Mmmm.” I pretend to consider. “Nah. Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow. Or he can call me. Whichever. The office is closed for Dr. King Day.”

  “I’m not your messenger! You two need to work this out without me,” she gripes before going ahead and telling him what I’ve said. I don’t hear his reaction. After a pause, she says with a smile in her voice, “Uh-oh. He’s pouting now.”

  “Is he still right there next to you?” I ask.

  “No, he walked away. So I can’t be the go-between for any more of your sweet nothings.”

  I change the subject. “Have you talked at all to Molly while you’ve been away?”

  “Molly?” she asks blankly.

  “KCI Molly,” I remind her, laughing. “Gosh! How soon we forget. And you call Jet a player.”

  She chuckles. “Oops. Oh, yeah. That Molly. No, I told her not to expect me to be in touch until after our season is over. I knew it’d be crazy-busy on the road, and I didn’t want her reading anything into my silence.”

  “Good move. But now the season is over. Are you going to call her when you get home?”

  “What are you, my matchmaker? I don’t know. Probably. I have a feeling Jet will be monopolizing my best friend’s time, so I guess I’d better find someone to keep me company.”

  “Maybe we can go on a double date,” I suggest flippantly.

  As expected, she vetoes that. “It’s one thing to hang out with Jet when we’re on the road for work, but I don’t want to socialize with him once we get back to town. He already knows way too much about me.”

  “Such as?”

  “He could probably order for me at a restaurant.”

  I laugh. “You’re almost as aloof as I am.”

  “Oh, I�
�ve told him he has a challenge ahead of him with you, and not to expect any help from me. No offense.”

  “I don’t see how he could take offense to that,” I say drily. “But thanks for busting me out. I’ve been doing a good job of getting him to think he’s making progress, and now you come in and with one statement let him know I’m only making all the right noises.”

  “He wants you to make all the right noises,” she mutters. “Why would you want to lead him on? I don’t understand you sometimes. Oh, shit. Here he comes again. I hope he doesn’t sit next to me on the plane. Gotta go.”

  “Bye. Try to be nice.”

  “Take your own advice. He’s not used to man-eaters like you.”

  After I hang up, I stare at my bedroom ceiling for a while, chewing my lips. Man-eater, my ass. To hear her tell it, I make a hobby out of using men for my pleasure, then kicking them to the curb. That’s certainly not true. I rarely date at all, and not once since I chucked Jamie almost a year ago.

  I haven’t been ready.

  It’s not that I’m still hung up on him, but I’m definitely hung up on some of the things he said to me when I broke up with him. Before he stormed away from me at the park, where I gave him the bad news, he told me I was “emotionally stunted,” and that I’d probably never be ready to “take things to the next level.”

  I hate that phrase. What does that mean? We were already sexually intimate. What other level is there? Rings on our fingers and a lifetime of boredom and resentment? Kids, pets, and a mortgage with both of our names on it? No thanks. Then it wouldn’t have been fun anymore. It would have been work.

  Why is everyone so determined to make more work for themselves? And why do I attract men who want all the things I don’t? Where are all the commitment-averse guys that other—some would say “normal”—women complain about? I’d take one in a heartbeat.