Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

  “I like the sound of all of that.”

  “I’m all yours tonight. Tomorrow morning, the craziness starts, though.”

  “Then let’s enjoy the calm before the crazy.”

  A couple of hours later, I emerge from the bathroom after changing into my pajamas and brushing my teeth to find Jet already in bed, propped against the headboard, reading Sports Illustrated. I pause, not because of his choice of reading material (it is somewhat remedial, but to each his own), but because he’s on my side of the bed. Not that I’m going to make a big deal about it. I go around to the other side and get in, settling as quickly as possible, facing away from him, balancing on the mattress’s edge.

  This is bizarre. Stranger than I anticipated, somehow, and I figured it would be odd and awkward. I’m in bed with Jet Knox. I’m about to sleep with Jet Knox. Just sleep (I think). But still.

  Behind me, I hear him close the magazine with a loud flutter and toss it with a slap onto the floor. With all of the noise, I look over my shoulder at him.

  “You okay?”

  His smile is uncertain. “Uh, yeah. You?”

  “Fine.”

  “You know, I don’t need all this space.” He gestures to the expanse of mattress between us.

  Arranging my hands under my cheek, I try to get comfortable again. “This is good.” I close my eyes.

  After a few more seconds, a shadow falls over me, and a weight settles against my shoulder. I open my eyes to see Jet looming.

  “What are you doing?” I ask warily.

  “Looking to see how you expect to stay balanced like that without falling out of bed in the middle of the night.”

  “I’m not going to fall.”

  “You’re right.” He hooks his arms over my side and pulls me toward the middle of the mattress.

  “Hey!”

  Satisfied, he turns off the light and slides farther under the covers on his back. “There. You’re not going to fall.”

  “I was fine where I was.”

  “I would have worried about you all night. I would have been over here, waiting to hear the thump. The suspense was already killing me.”

  Laughing, I say, “If you wanted me to be closer to you, all you had to do was say it.”

  His laughter shakes the bed. “You got me.”

  “You’re right, though; it’s much more comfortable here.” I wiggle my hips but immediately stop when my butt rubs against his leg. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “Are you kidding me? That was the highlight of my day.”

  “Good night, Jet.”

  “’Night, Maura.”

  As I’m dozing, he startles me awake by asking, “So, who are you more like, your mom or your dad?”

  It takes a while for me to process his question, think about it, and formulate an answer, but he waits.

  Finally, I answer, “Neither. Maybe I was hatched.”

  “So your parents are more like your brother than you?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. When they were younger, they were more like him, I guess. Which is why they can afford to travel all over the place now that they’re retired. But the older they get, the more free-spirited they become.”

  “Like you.”

  I laugh at how he could come to that conclusion after all these weeks. “I’m hardly free-spirited. I’m just aimless, with my useless background education.”

  “Lots of people I went to school with got Film Studies degrees.”

  “Probably because it makes sense in California. In Kansas City, it’s worthless.”

  “Can’t be worthless or it wouldn’t be offered. You didn’t think it was worthless when you chose it. So, what changed?”

  “Nothing. I knew perfectly well it was a frivolous field of study. But it was interesting and fun—and easy. I graduated with a 4.0.”

  “Well, I’m impressed.”

  “You shouldn’t be. Anyway, that’s a lie. I did get all A’s in my major classes, but not so much in those general classes they force you to take. World history and applied math killed me. Don’t ever ask me to balance a checkbook.”

  “I won’t.”

  I adjust my head on the pillow, noticing it smells faintly like pineapples and Lysol. “I had every intention of making a career out of film critique. I envisioned myself writing movie reviews for Entertainment Weekly or whatever. But… I dunno.”

  I stop, then think, What the hell? It seems he’s actually listening to me, not figuring out the whole time I’m talking what he’s going to say next or what advice he’s going to give me, so it’s safe to tell him, “The longer I stayed in KC to save up money to move where that career is possible, the more it seemed like a crazy long shot, a silly kid’s fantasy.”

  “Hm.”

  “Now, whatever ‘skills’ or training I once had are rusty, at best, or obsolete, at worst. I’m out of touch with the latest technology they use to make films; I have no clue how the entertainment industry works; I wouldn’t even know where to begin to find a job doing what I went to school to learn. It’s overwhelming and hopeless. So, I help people find jobs.”

  “Which is important.”

  “I guess.”

  “It is! It’s hard for some people to find work. What you do is so much more important than what I do.”

  “Our respective salaries would suggest otherwise.”

  “Pay rates in this country don’t make any sense, and you know it. You help people figure out what they want to do with their lives, support their families, and feel good about themselves. I toss a ball around a field once a week, sixteen—or so—weeks out of the year.”

  “Okay, but I could have done what I do without spending all that money going to school to get a degree.”

  “I’m not using my degree, either.”

  “But you probably will someday. You plan to.”

  “And hey,” he says, ignoring my valid point, “you do use your degree. When we watch movies, you show me stuff all the time that I never would have noticed by myself.”

  “Rae hates that. She tells me to shut up.”

  “Well, I like it. I think it’s cool.”

  “It’s not making me any money.”

  “So? Does it make you happy?”

  I consider it. “Yeah. It does.”

  “There you go, then. That’s all that matters. Anything can make you money. Money is boring. Happiness rocks.”

  “Happiness does rock,” I confirm with an audible smile.

  His voice is sleepy when he adds, “You make me happy.”

  I blink into the darkness, realizing that’s the nicest thing I can ever remember anyone saying to me. Before too much time passes and he thinks I don’t appreciate the sentiment, I swallow the lump in my throat and reply, “You make me happy, too.”

  Sixteen

  Playing Hosts

  I don’t honor my brother’s wishes to get an autograph from every single player. Nor do I carry him around on my cell phone so he can experience the Pro Bowl with me. I do, however, email him and Rae a report at some point every day, when I get a minute. Because putting it in writing is a decent way to convince myself it’s happening. I want to brag a tiny bit. After all, I’m in Hawaii, surrounded by the likes of Michael Lewis and Pete Jay. Pete Jay! (Yes, his forehead is as stunning in person as it is on camera.)

  The main objective of the trip, for me, is relaxation, but it’s as much work as reward for Jet. Every day is tightly scheduled for him, and not surprisingly, he keeps apologizing about how hectic the itinerary is. There’s absolutely nothing for him to apologize about, though, because I’m in heaven. It’s eighty degrees in late January. This is a much better use of my vacation time than staying with my parents and Greg and Deirdre at Mom and Dad’s timeshare in Florida for a week in the summer.

  Watching Jet have such a great time with players who try to take his head off during the regular season is its own special form of entertainment, too. Most of the guys, Jet included, are overgrown kids. Some of them take them
selves too seriously, always wearing their sunglasses and headphones, followed by entourages, too cool to mingle with everyone at the social functions. But they’re in the minority and are the butt of everyone else’s jokes. Knowing many of the big names think those guys are ridiculous is a relief and has destroyed my assumptions of the men who have the most right to act like big shots. The majority of them are polite to a fault (three-time Super Bowl champion Pete Jay apologizes every time he slips and says a bad word), not to mention funny as hell.

  It doesn’t take long for Jet and me to fall into a comfortable routine, either. I’m never awake before him, but his gorgeous smile greets me every time my eyelids flutter open each day. Only the first morning was he still in bed, but he seemed embarrassed by that, so it hasn’t happened again. Usually, he’s wheeling in the breakfast cart, pausing at the foot of the bed and asking, “Here or by the pool? It’s a beautiful day.”

  It feels weird to eat in bed when he’s already fully dressed, so I meet him by the pool after using the bathroom, repairing the worst aspects of my early morning appearance, and changing into a swimsuit.

  He squints into the sun, closes one eye, and beams up at me, his teeth gleaming in his unshaven face. “’Morning, Beautiful,” he says while pushing a steaming cup of Kona blend coffee across the table toward me. Somehow (don’t ask me how), some way, the endearment doesn’t sound sleazy or objectifying, either. It’s sweet and heartfelt. It feels… right.

  After he leaves for his morning commitments, I head for the beach. The resort has its own stretch of sand, of course, but guests with kids arrive around noon, so I savor the morning quiet with a book, then head back to the room when it starts to get crowded. It’s not that I resent the noise—it’s fun to watch the little ones dart in and out of the tide and pat the damp sand into “castles” and other sloppy shapes—but I worry I’m in the way. I don’t fit in with the happy families, and it feels like I’m intruding on their private time together.

  As one of the only ones not married (or legally connected through children) to the person who brought me, I often get the feeling the other women are sizing me up, trying to determine if I’m a temporary addition to the wives and girlfriends club or someone they’d better get used to seeing. Since I don’t have a clue which one I am, either, it’s hard to know how to act. Being too friendly seems presumptuous; being too standoffish comes off as snobby. The last time I was part of a “girlie” group of friends, though, was high school. Look how that turned out. I’m sorely out of practice, and it shows here.

  So I make polite conversation with the other WAGs at meals and group activities. Tomorrow, at the game, I’ll be lumped together with the AFC West players’ guests in a luxury suite, but I’m more comfortable around the players themselves, joking and talking about football like one of the guys. That probably doesn’t do me any favors. Being here at all is sufficiently weird, though; I have to be myself, or it won’t be fun.

  It worries me enough to query Jet about it on our last moonlit walk. With our hands linked and swinging between us, like two carefree kids, I ask, “Am I being too… familiar with some of the guys?”

  He laughs. “I don’t know. Are you? Should I be keeping a closer eye on you?”

  I nudge him. “Not like that. But am I coming off as a dorky fan trying too hard to fit in?”

  “No! You’re awesome. You’re the best girlfriend here. Everyone loves you.”

  “I don’t feel like the other women like me.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” he says quietly, kicking at the water.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t hang out with you and the guys later tonight.”

  “What?” He stops walking. “Aw, come on, Maura. Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what? All I’m saying is, maybe I should give you guys some space and keep to the room. Watch a movie.”

  “It’s our last night!”

  “Yeah. That’s my point.”

  “If I show up without you, they’ll be disappointed.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Keaton thinks you’re hilarious.”

  Only a few weeks ago, that statement would have made it possible for me to die happy. But the more I get to know Keaton, the less I like him and the better Jet looks in comparison. (And yes, I compare them. It’s only natural. Don’t judge me.) So in this case, Mr. Tight End’s approval doesn’t outweigh the burden of so many others’ possible disapproval.

  “That’s nice, but—”

  “And if you stay in the room, people will think we had a fight, or something.”

  “So? Who cares?”

  Instead of answering, he resumes walking and lets go of my hand. I keep stride with him. Finally, he says, “Whatever. Do what you want. But don’t do it because some people are petty assholes.”

  “I don’t want anybody thinking I’m flirting with their man. Or that I’m rejecting them in favor of hanging out with the famous people.”

  “You say who cares about what people will think about you not going out tonight, but you’re willing to give up a good time because you do care what they think about other things. That makes no sense.”

  “I don’t have to make sense.”

  “Whatever,” he repeats.

  “Jet, don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad; I’m disappointed.”

  “Oh, geez. Anything but that,” I say in mock horror, trying to bail us out of our first official argument.

  “Then stop being dumb and worrying about what a couple of jealous mean girls might think about you.”

  I swallow loudly and halt in my tracks. The sand sucks at my feet, which sink as the tide laps around my ankles and zooms back toward the deeper water. It takes him a few steps to realize I’m no longer next to him, but when he does, he stops, too, and half-turns to look at me. “What’s wrong now?”

  “I’m not dumb.”

  He drops his head and jams his hands in his pockets. Walking back toward me, he says, “That’s not what I meant.”

  “But that’s what you said.”

  “I said you were being dumb.”

  “Same thing.”

  He lifts his head and shows me his profile as he stares at the black, glassy waves but chooses not to say anything else.

  Pulling my feet from their quicksand anchors, I say, “I’m going to head back and call it a night. Big day tomorrow.” I zip my hoodie further closed against the cool sea breeze and tuck my hands into the front pouch.

  Jet grabs my elbow before I get too far.

  “Maura, wait!”

  “Let me go.”

  He does but keeps up with me. “I’m sorry.”

  “No apologies, remember?”

  “But I owe you one.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Jet.”

  “Just don’t be pissed, okay? I… I’ll stay in the room with you tonight and watch a movie. You’re right; tomorrow’s a big day. I’ll probably only feel like shit all day if I go out with the guys. Especially if you don’t go with me. I want to spend time with you.”

  “You already told the guys you were in.”

  “So? I’ll text Keaton and tell him we changed our minds. They’ll understand. They’ll think we’re, you know…”

  I can’t help but laugh, so he relaxes but quickly adds, “Not that we have to. I’m just saying…”

  Threading my arm through his, I rest my cheek against his triceps. “They’re going to think whatever they want to think.”

  “Exactly. You were right before. Who cares?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Me neither. Now which movie are we going to watch? I’ve been dying to see that Jane Austen thing you mentioned on our first date.”

  “Beautiful liar.”

  He laughs and musses my hair as we stroll within view of the resort, then drops my arm and trots ahead. “Race ya.”

  Now that I’m back among average-sized people, I find myself starting every conversation looking over the other person’s he
ad. The first time I met Colin for lunch after returning from Hawaii, he kept looking over his shoulder and finally asked, “What’s going on back there?” When I explained my new social affectation, he laughed. “Oh, great. As if I needed to feel shorter than I already am.” He pointed to his face. “Eyes right here, Lady Maura.”

  That wasn’t the only adjustment upon our return. Escaping the Kansas City winter was amazing; coming back to it sucked. Although we were gone less than a week, the frigid temps have been a major shock to the system since we stepped onto the tarmac at KCI. I thought I was being a wuss about it, but Jet squinted into the wind, hunched his shoulders, and said down at me, “This is the pits. Back to reality, I guess.”

  In more ways than one. It’s unbelievable how quickly one becomes accustomed to luxury. I’m not only talking about beautiful hotel rooms and great service at nice restaurants. I’m talking about flying in a private jet. I’m talking about never having to ask twice—or sometimes at all—for anything. Having your every want and need anticipated is a heady experience. I understand better now how some of these guys become spoiled. It took me five short days to take it for granted. If that was my life all day, every day, it might be hard to stay grounded. It’s given me a greater appreciation for Jet’s down-to-earth demeanor.

  But easily the worst part about being back is each morning.

  Nobody wakes me up with breakfast and calls me “Beautiful” here at home. When I open my eyes after blindly swiping away the alarm on my phone, I see nothing. Nobody. It’s awful.

  I’d get a cat or dog if I thought I simply needed to see another face in the morning. But not any face will do. I want to see Jet’s.

  Which is crazy. It’s too soon, too fast, too… everything. Damn you, Hawaii!

  Maybe he didn’t turn out to be a psychopath, but he murdered your independent spirit in less than a week, Creepy Dateline Guy intoned that first lonely morning.

  I hate that guy so much.

  The more I get to know, Jet, though, the more I like him. That’s not always a given with guys and me. He’s finally coming down from the constant adrenaline high he must have been on going into the postseason, so he’s less manic and more relaxed than he was when we first met. It’s been a relief to get to know the real him. Sometimes I can forget he’s, well, who he is. Sometimes.