Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

  “It’s not a line. I’m serious.”

  “Then you’ll be relieved to know I have plenty of faults.”

  Rae nods her silent agreement as she closes the lid on the donuts and puts her mug in the dishwasher.

  I stick out my tongue behind her back. “Rae would be more than happy to tell you all about them.”

  “I’d rather discover them in person. Do you have any plans today?”

  “No!” I quickly answer. “Not at all. Rae’s here now, but she’ll be leaving soon. She stopped by this morning to”—she makes a cutting motion across her neck and points to the donuts—“catch up,” I finish lamely.

  “I see.” His smug tone indicates he knows we’ve been talking about him. “Well, if you’re available later, I thought I might swing by to get you after the postmortem at the training complex.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Nowhere special. You showed me your place, so I thought I’d show you mine,” he answers coolly. “And introduce you to Torz.”

  I mutter, “Gosh, that sounds serious,” and he laughs in reply, but I’m not kidding. My heart palpitates. Maybe it’s the coffee and sugar, though.

  “What do you say?” he asks eagerly. “I’ll come by at one-ish? The team meeting should be short. Nobody wants to talk about it, and it doesn’t take too long to say, ‘We’ll get ’em next year, guys.’”

  “Fine,” I answer meekly. “Sounds… good.”

  “Great! I’ll see you then, Maura.”

  “Yeah. See ya.”

  So, this is really happening.

  This thing with Jet makes me feel like I have multiple personalities. Or at least two. I’m afraid I’m sending him mixed signals. Since I’m sending mixed signals to myself, though, I’m powerless to transmit a more consistent message.

  One of the Mauras can’t get enough of the guy. He’s funny and charming, he’s a great kisser, he thinks I’m close to perfect, and—I’m just going to say it—he’s rich and famous.

  The other Maura is freaking out. He sends over-the-top flower arrangements, drops in unannounced and uninvited in the middle of the night, says suggestive things to me that could be interpreted as cheesy or sleazy, goes behind my back to get information about me, and is too damn sure of himself and everything he says and does.

  As a result, I’ll be creeped out one second and incredibly turned on the next. It’s like he’s holding a plastic grocery sack over my head, but I’m one of those weirdos who gets off on it.

  Now, as I sit in the passenger seat of his sporty, low-slung car (Chiefs red, of course), I’ve finally figured out what the flashes of repulsion are about. I don’t want to admit to myself that I could be falling for this guy, like Colin predicted. The last thing I ever want to be is predictable. Or impressionable enough for Jet’s charms to work on me. I’m many things, but I’m not dumb. Only dumb women allow cheesy lines to charm them out of their panties.

  That’s where the me who’s allergic to romance comes in. She shoves Horny Maura out of the way and cock blocks Mr. Knox. As she should. But I can’t help wishing she’d go away. Maybe for an hour. Or one night.

  She definitely needs to stop calling me a gold digger. Because I’m not one. There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to a guy who happens to be wealthy. The two things aren’t related in my brain at all. He’d be hot if he drove a cheap beater and lived in a one-room apartment. I genuinely like him as a person, despite wishing he’d slow down.

  The state trooper we passed on the shoulder wishes the same thing.

  Jet curses under his breath when the officer flashes his lights, and “bloop-bloops” his siren in greeting behind us. His face matching the paint job on his car, Jet looks over at me as he pulls onto the highway’s shoulder and digs his wallet from his back pocket. “How embarrassing. You mind grabbing my paperwork from the glove box?”

  I do as he asks and smile sympathetically as I hand it over. “There you go, Lead Foot.”

  He laughs. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  I shrug. “I’m not your mom.”

  Also, I thought he knew how fast he was going, given that handy gauge called a speedometer, and the fact that we were blowing past everyone else on the Kansas City freeway system like they were standing still. I figured, his ride, his rules, his speeding ticket. If he’d been driving recklessly, that would have been another story. But I never felt unsafe. In fact, I was enjoying the ride.

  After he hands the officer his license, registration, and proof of insurance, he sits with his hands on the steering wheel, stares straight through the windshield, and waits for the cop’s next instructions. I watch the trooper, who looks at the license, looks at Jet, and looks back at the license.

  “Mr. Knox, do you know how fast you were going?” he asks as a matter of routine.

  Jet gulps and grimaces. “Uh, no. Not really, sir.”

  This tightens the trooper’s lips. “The posted speed limit through here is sixty. I clocked you going about ninety.”

  “That’s fast,” Jet says. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to go that fast. This car… I wish there was an alarm or something on it that would grab my attention when I start to speed. I’m babbling. Sorry, Officer.”

  “Let me run all this, and I’ll be right back,” the patrolman says before walking away.

  As soon as he’s gone, Jet looks over at me and grimaces. “I’m so screwed.”

  I can’t help but laugh at his worried expression. “Maybe you should be more aware of what you’re doing when you’re operating a deadly weapon.”

  He rubs his chin. “Wait until the front office hears about this.”

  “Ruh-roh. Is this a violation of some personal conduct policy?”

  “Not technically. But I’m in for an uncomfortable lecture, at least.”

  “Way to go.”

  “Thanks.” He reaches over and grabs my hand. “I guess I was distracted. And in a bigger hurry than I realized.”

  Before I reply or can do anything but stare at our joined hands while I marvel how a line like that could possibly do to my insides what that one is doing, the trooper returns, handing Jet’s stuff to him through the window.

  “Here you go, Knox. Just a warning today. But watch your speed, got it?”

  “You bet! Totally!” Jet stumbles over himself in shock.

  “Hey, tough loss yesterday, man. Damn Pats. If it’s any consolation, they’re probably gonna win the whole thing. Again.”

  Jet’s hands freeze while sliding his license into his wallet, but otherwise he doesn’t show he’s surprised the officer is talking football. “I wish they hadn’t made us look like such amateurs out there. We’ll get ’em next year, though.”

  “’Atta boy. Well, you have a nice day.” He nods at me. “Ma’am.”

  I wiggle my fingers at him.

  As the trooper pulls around us and back onto the highway, he and Jet salute each other. Jet turns to me and grins. “That was a freakin’ miracle. If anything, I thought he’d throw the book at me because of yesterday’s game.”

  “No use kickin’ a guy when he’s down, I guess.”

  He restarts the car. “You have a point there. Yell at me if you notice I’m going too fast.”

  Hmm. I may have a few retroactive violations to address. But I merely smile and say, “Right-oh.”

  Fourteen

  Fort Knox

  Between the gate at the entrance to the driveway, the gray stone, dark wood, and black ironwork, Jet’s place looks moderately medieval. I almost ask him where the moat and drawbridge are, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings, and it is an impressive place. Just not my style. At all. Not at all what I pictured for him, either.

  Geographically, it’s a five-minute drive (if that) from Arrowhead Stadium, so close it feels like we should be able to see it from the front porch, but his house is set so far back from the road and burrowed so deeply in mature woodlands that it’s impossible to glimpse any other inhabitants from he
re, and vice versa. If not for the whooshing of traffic, the illusion of being hours from civilization would be complete.

  Inside Fort Knox, he pockets his car keys and opens his arms wide. “Well, this is it. My home. About half the year.”

  “Wow. You’re out of town that much?” I ask.

  Before he can answer, tinkling tags and clicking claws announce the arrival of a white puff that runs to greet us. Well, not us. Jet. The dog I assume to be Quatorze pays absolutely zero attention to me. Not even a sniff of my shoes. Fine by me.

  Jet lifts the oversized cotton ball and cradles it like a football, then cranes his neck to keep his face away from the dog’s lapping tongue. “Yeah, when you add it all up and include time I spend out of town for other stuff during the off-season, that’s about right.” He laughs. “Torzi, cut it out!”

  “That’s a lot of time away from home.” I nod at the fluffy pooch. “He must miss you.”

  Meanwhile, my hopes soar. I can handle a part-time boyfriend. Yeesss. This could work.

  “He misses me when I’m gone for a couple of hours, as you can see. That’s why I take him with me whenever I can. Don’t let him fool you, though. When I’m not here, Jacob’s his best bud. Right, Torzi? You know how to play people.” He sets the dog on the floor and gestures toward the retreating animal. “See? He’s done with me.”

  We head in the opposite direction, stepping down into a sunken living room. “I’ll show you around,” he offers.

  I follow him through the living room, which features the biggest television I’ve ever seen in a residential dwelling, into a modern kitchen with carved dark wood cabinets, granite counters, and stainless steel appliances, and a dining room that could host a dinner party for the whole starting lineup, plus their dates. He shows me where I can find a bathroom—or three—if I should need them. Then he points into the backyard, where a hot tub and heated saltwater pool emit clouds of steam, a guest house beckons, and an outdoor kitchen hibernates, abandoned for the winter. Out-of-place in the perfectly manicured garden crouch two huge playsets, an alien spacecraft and a pirate ship.

  “Holdovers from the previous owners?” I ask. “Or do you like to role play?”

  “They’re for my nieces and nephews, when they come to visit. Uncle Jet’s house can’t be boring, right?”

  “No. That’s not allowed.” I’m suddenly dying to go out there and explore those things, though. Maybe later.

  I’m also curious about his bedroom, but I’m relieved he doesn’t take me upstairs for a tour of the second floor. That seems a tad personal for a first visit. (Apparently, I’m becoming a prude in my old age.)

  Instead, he leads me back to the living room, where he sits on the couch and pats the cushion next to him. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says lightly.

  I wish I could promise the same thing.

  Still, I sit and look around the room. “This place is…”

  …massive, like you.

  …overwhelming, like you.

  “…incredible,” I finally settle on, leaving off the “like you” that still fits. “I had no idea this was back here. And that you lived here.”

  “I’m not exactly listed.” He grins. “But thanks. It’s a place to sleep. And it’s close to work. Plus, there’s plenty of room for when my family comes to visit.”

  “You’re originally from California, right? Are they still out there?”

  “Some of them. Mom and Dad and my big sister and her family live there. One of my brothers lives in Minnesota; the other one lives in Texas. I have a younger sister who lives overseas. Her husband’s in the Air Force. They’re stationed in Germany.”

  “Whoa. Your family is huge.”

  He shrugs. “I guess. I never thought much about it.” He grins. “It’s tons of fun when they’re all here.”

  “Does everyone get along?”

  “Yeah! We didn’t have a choice, growing up. Mom and Dad didn’t tolerate fighting. Now, getting along is a habit, I guess. We give each other crap all the time, but that’s all in good fun.” He turns his head and squints. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re trying to figure out how fast you can get from this couch to the door.”

  I try to laugh off his too-accurate perception. “I’m not. But I had no idea you had such a big, close-knit family. I bet they’re beyond proud of you.”

  “I suppose. As long as I’m not screwing up.” He smiles wryly. “But yeah. ‘Proud’ is a good word for it. My mom can be overprotective, too. She worries.”

  “It must have been hard for her to see you go through such a tough time in New York.”

  “I wouldn’t say New York was all that tough.”

  “The internet doesn’t lie.”

  We laugh, then he says, “Hang on. Did you Google me?”

  I blush but quickly remember it’s not my embarrassment to own. “Uh, no. Colin did. I think he was looking for more material to tease me about you, but he wound up with a huge man-crush, instead. So the joke’s on him.”

  Jet raises his eyebrows. “Seriously? That’s hilarious! As far as I know, there’s just a bunch of stuff out there about what a disappointment I was after the draft.”

  “He seemed more impressed by how you handled yourself through all of that.” His response is a self-deprecating chuckle, so I say, “Nobody would have blamed you if you’d checked out.”

  “That’s not who I was raised to be. New York hired me to do a job, and I couldn’t get it done. If anything, I was trying to earn my keep, since they were paying me to sit on a bench.”

  “Well, you did it with more class and grace than most guys would have. I mean, good grief! Before you left New York, you wrote a letter to Jets fans, thanking them.”

  Okay, so maybe I did a little of my own research after talking to Colin. I have to admit, that little Limey got me curious about Jet the Jet.

  “Yeah? So?”

  “These are the same fans who cheered once when you were knocked unconscious at the end of a play!”

  He laughs and scratches the side of his nose. “Well, I was out of it, so it didn’t hurt my feelings.”

  “C’mon. Be serious.”

  “I am! When you’re a quarterback, you’re either the hero or the zero. Period. You’re not a person to the fans; you’re a— a tool, for lack of a better word. And if you work well and get the job done, they’ll love you for it. If you screw up and make them look foolish to other fan bases, they’ll cheer when you get your lights knocked out by one of the league’s greatest pass rushers.” He shifts his eyes toward his lap. “Or they’ll—I don’t know—fly a plane over the stadium with a banner behind it that says, ‘Knox Sucks.’ Because that happened, too. And I was awake for that one.”

  “That’s horrible!”

  He looks up and waves off my pity. “It’s all part of it. And it’s not like I was positive 24/7. I had some moments in private that weren’t classy or pretty. Lost my fiancée at the time over it.”

  “Torzi’s mom?” I ask, trying to keep it light.

  He smiles sadly. “Ginny. Yeah. I’m afraid I was less-than-pleasant at home. Nothing major,” he hastens to reassure me. “But moody. Quiet. Tired. I wanted to sleep all the time.”

  “Sounds like you were depressed.”

  “Not sure about that, but I had lots of free time to kill. I still had to know the playbook and stay in shape so I could be ready to go at a moment’s notice, if need be. But I didn’t have to do any of the public appearances I would have had to do as the Number One guy. So, when I wasn’t working on the community service projects I’d already committed to, I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

  “What type of volunteer work did you do?”

  “Same stuff I do now. I’m a Big Brother, and I visit kids in the hospital.” His face brightens. “It’s one of the highlights of my week, especially in the off-season.”

  He’s too good.

  “You have
that look again,” he says.

  I shake my head to clear it, then force a smile. “Sorry. Tell me something that proves you’re not perfect. I can’t handle perfection.”

  “I admitted I was such a dick to my girlfriend that she”—his jaw tightens, then he finally finishes—“left me. And our dog. That’s hardly perfect.”

  “Okay, but all that other stuff…”

  “Because I come from a big family and we get along, we’re perfect?”

  “And you volunteer with kids.”

  “Big whoop. I like kids.”

  “You’re such a Boy Scout!”

  “Nope. Never got into scouting.”

  “But you’re good.”

  He lifts his shoulders toward his ears, then drops them again. “It’s important to make the world a better place, however I can. Most of the time, that means entertaining football fans once a week. That’s hardly world-changing. The least I can do is spend a couple of hours a week cheering up sick kids. Or helping someone with their homework. Or whatever else needs to be done.”

  “When I’m not at work, I watch movies. And eat ice cream.”

  He laughs. “Well, I’m not allowed to eat ice cream all that often. But I do a lot of hanging out, too. Watching TV. Swimming. Playing with Torz. After a while, I get bored. I guess it’d be different if I was hanging out with someone other than my dog. Hint, hint.” He flutters his lashes at me but can’t keep a straight face for long.

  “You’re a real charmer.”

  “I’m pathetic!”

  “What are you saying, then? You hang out here, alone, all the time?”

  He averts his eyes. “Um, pretty much.”

  “Interesting.”

  And hard to believe. This doesn’t gel with any professional athlete stereotypes. Aren’t they having orgies and wild parties all the time? Surrounded by stacks of money? I look around. Not a single bundle of Benjamins anywhere.

  “I’m a normal guy,” he insists. “Maybe more boring than most guys. Definitely not perfect.”

  Neither of us says anything for a while. Then he looks up at me, so serious, I suddenly do want to bolt for the door.