Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

  I laugh and think of the pictures I’ve studied countless times on Jet’s mantel. “He looks more like his mom than his dad.”

  Rae pulls back her head and wrinkles her nose. “I can’t imagine a woman looking like him. Yikes.”

  “She’s an attractive woman. Or probably was, when she was younger. She’s a bit horsey now.”

  My friend slaps the table as she nearly chokes on her latest bite of food.

  I point at her with my fork and try not to laugh. “Don’t you dare repeat that. Ever.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ll deny it until my death, and you’ll look like a liar, because Jet will believe me over you.”

  “I won’t say anything! Geez! I’m insulted you’d think I would.”

  “You like nothing more than to get a laugh, especially at the expense of someone like Jet. A well-timed ‘yo mama’ joke in the training room would be just your style, and I don’t want to be any part of that.”

  “Horsey,” she says, still shaking her head and chuckling. “Man. You know, Jet has a bit of an equine look to him, now that you mention it.”

  “Only in one place that I can think of,” I say to my plate with a smirk.

  “There’s no need to exaggerate. I’ve seen it, remember?”

  “It was a joke. Sorry I brought it up.”

  “I bet you bring it up all the time.” She wiggles her eyebrows across the table at me, then snort-laughs.

  “I do, as a matter of fact. I’m excellent at it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m glad you’re finally getting it while you can, because once the season starts, that gravy train gonna run dry, girl.”

  My fork freezes midway to my mouth. “Huh?”

  Eyes on her plate, she casually replies, “A lot of the guys don’t have sex during the season.”

  “At all?”

  “Rarely. They say it’s a waste of testosterone. Which is dumb and not at all scientific. But whatever. There’s no talking sense into some of these boneheads. They have so many ridiculous superstitions. You wouldn’t believe it. Anyway, if nothing else, abstaining makes them crankier and meaner, so I guess it works in that regard, especially for the defensive players.”

  “What about stories of guys taking groupies up to their rooms during road trips?”

  “Everyone falls off the wagon now and then. Not everyone subscribes to this practice. But a lot of guys do—the serious ones.”

  “Oh, man!” I groan, knowing nobody’s more serious about the game than my boyfriend. There’s still a tiny spark of hope in my horny heart, though. “Is this another stereotype you’re attributing to Jet, or for real? Maybe he’s not one of the abstainers.”

  She seems delighted to be able to reply, “He is, though. I’ve heard him talk to some of the married guys about it.”

  “So? Talking about it doesn’t mean he participates.”

  “Commiserating,” she clarifies. “Speaking from experience.”

  My optimism dissolves faster than soap on a rope. “Oh. Damn.”

  She grins, as if we’re talking about something as harmless as giving up sugar for Lent.

  I set down my fork and wipe my mouth. “This is no laughing matter, Rae.”

  That makes her laugh harder.

  “I’m serious! I can’t go”—I do the math in my head—“six months without sex.”

  “Four. I don’t think any of the guys care during preseason. Chances of making it to the postseason are slim.”

  “Whatever! Four to five months!” I shudder at the horror.

  “He’s going to be gone a lot, anyway, so it’s not like you’ll have much opportunity.” She smirks across the table at me. “A couple of months ago, you were all, ‘Sex? Who needs it?’ but now you’re having panic attacks and preemptive withdrawals at the idea of going without it?” She shakes her head and clicks her tongue. “Addiction takes hold so quickly.”

  “It’s not about getting off,” I say. “It’s about the connection, the affection, the… the intimacy.”

  “Bullshit. If that were the case, then cuddling would be enough. There’s no stupid superstition against cuddling. Then again, guys generally don’t cuddle unless there’s something else in it for them or something’s already happened. So, yeah. Dust off your king-sized vibrator and call it good.”

  “I don’t have one of those!”

  “Riiiight.”

  “And I’m not going to need one.”

  “You’re going to tough it out, huh?”

  “No! I’m going to convince Jet that abstaining is ludicrous.”

  “Peer pressure is not going to have any effect on years of practice. Honestly, I think the sex thing comes from high school coaches, who want their young charges to get enough sleep at night and focus on the game, not girls. Then it becomes ingrained in these guys. Especially a yes-man like Jet.”

  “He’ll listen to me. He loves me.”

  Rae polishes off her last bite of enchilada, sighs contentedly, and replies, “More power to ya. Some of the ‘health’ myths these guys buy into are ridiculous. Jet’s been receptive to my suggestions for changes to his diet. I don’t think he cares what he eats, as long as he gets to eat. But some of his other wellness practices have been more difficult to break.”

  “Like?” This is the first I’m hearing of any weird rituals.

  “Like, he and a bunch of the other guys still insist on puking before big games, and that pisses me off.”

  “What? That’s disgusting.”

  “And horrible for them. If you can break him of that, I’d be ever so grateful.”

  “I’ll try.” I push my plate away. “He never told me about that.”

  “Well, it’s not one of the things they brag about. Another guy, he eats seven ‘lucky’ Twinkies before every game. I guess he thinks diabetes is a sign of good luck.”

  I snicker. “Is he one of the pukers? Because I’d puke if I ate that many Twinkies.”

  “No. I wish. A ton of the guys are obsessed with candy, in general. Or those awful energy drinks that are basically battery acid disguised as soda. But Schoengert drinks the nastiest concoctions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like raw eggs with spinach, chocolate syrup, and hot sauce. That was his favorite last season. But he changes it up.”

  “Disgusting. What does that have to do with kicking?”

  “Nothing! But he could get a kickin’ case of salmonella. What do I know, though? I’m merely a health professional. I’ve stopped trying to educate them. They’re all a bunch of nutjobs.”

  “Aw…” Hearing the ridiculous, albeit legal, lengths to which these guys go to give themselves an edge—including the lengths that could have a negative impact on my life—makes me realize how important winning is to them. It’s not merely entertainment; it’s their lives. “They want to feel like they have some control over the luck portion of the game.”

  Rae’s not moved. “They’re morons. You have no idea.”

  “Well, I love my moron. As long as he brushes his teeth after purging.”

  “How romantic.” She wipes her mouth, then takes another drink of wine, finishing off the last of it. “I’d like to take this opportunity to say, once again, that guys are revolting, and I’m glad I’ve never allowed one to come in contact with my private parts.”

  “Yes, you’re so much more evolved than those of us common hetero women.”

  “Damn straight. Actually, not.”

  Twenty

  Incompatible Lives

  My social life has blown up. When we first met, Jet may have claimed to be a homebody, but his definition and mine are clearly different. When I said I was a homebody, I meant that I come home from work and park my body on the couch, where I stay until it’s time to transfer that body to my bed. When Jet said it, I’m not sure what he meant. Maybe he thinks of this entire city as his “home.” After all, he’s treated like the lord of the manor everywhere we go. Or maybe he’s more social now that he has som
eone to take out.

  No matter the disconnect, there definitely is one. It’s not that I don’t like hanging out with his friends, but I miss whipping off my bra for Matt/Jason after work, changing into my fleece pajamas, and falling asleep on the couch to movies I’ve seen so many times, I could practically recite them while I sleep on the couch.

  I’ve started to put my foot down about going out every weeknight, because the next day at work is miserable. I don’t drink half the time—and never enough to get drunk and be hungover—but the amount of sleep I’m missing is enough to make functioning at my job a nightmare.

  And I need to be at peak performance there. Yet another month has passed, and I’m still no closer to the epic idea I’ll need to revolutionize our job fair system, in general, and kick ass with the fall event, specifically. Because somehow that’s become the only acceptable outcome. I went from, “Nooooo! I don’t want to do this at all!” to “This job fair will be talked about for years to come, or I will consider it a total failure.”

  Jet might be rubbing off on me—in more ways than one. It’s like I’m starting to care about stuff.

  I’m overwhelmed and exhausted and need at least one area of my personal life to quiet down so I can get a handle on what’s going on in the professional sphere. If I can make it one more week… That’s when Jet will be out in California for his yearly spring visit with his family. I’ll have two weeks to focus more fully on everything else.

  When I’m around him, it’s hard to concentrate on anything but him—us—period. Normally, that’s a good thing. A great thing. I love that when we’re together, I don’t think about anything stressful or draining. I just enjoy his company. It’s wonderful. We take walks and swim. We talk about movies and football and try to one-up each other with cheesy jokes and riddles. He gets his from the kids at the hospital, and his little brother, Simon, at Big Brothers, Big Sisters. I have to resort to the Internet.

  But all of that together time is making it a little too easy for me to continue to ignore the passing weeks and my lack of action on anything else in my life.

  Of course, he has no idea he’s enabling my procrastination. Because I haven’t told him anything other than that I’m in charge of the fall fair. That was months ago. He probably thinks I have it all figured out by now. He would.

  Today was another fine example of his unintentional, yet highly effective, distraction skills. On this fine spring day, our last Saturday together before he leaves for the west coast, he took me to my first Sporting KC match. I love the charged atmosphere at Chiefs games in Arrowhead, but those soccer fans were a whole other beast with their chants and songs and drum beats. The fresh air, sun, and electric crowd combined for a near-perfect afternoon.

  I made him promise we’d take Colin next time. I doubt it’s the same as it is among the English crowds, but I bet he’d still get a kick out of going. He’d be able to tell me what was happening. Jet only knew half the time. Not that it mattered. There was so much more to being there than watching the action on the pitch.

  Now, back at his place for the evening, we’ve settled in to watch Fight Club. Well, sort of. It’s sometimes hard to focus on the film with Jet lazily running his hand up and down my thigh like that while I sit sideways in his lap. But we’ve both seen the movie several times, so it’s not like we have to catch every word.

  At the iconic part where Brad Pitt explains to Edward Norton the now-famous Fight Club rules, Jet drops, “Oh, hey. I keep forgetting to tell you, I canceled my trip home.”

  When I’m incapable of replying to this bombshell, he grins, misinterpreting my speechlessness for delight.

  And let me clarify: the slacker in me is delighted. Oh, darn! I guess we won’t have time to think about that awful job fair mess. But it’s not our fault that Jet’s so amazing and cute and funny and entertaining.

  Even the most delusional part of me, however, can’t deny I’m drowning. Nooooooooo! Those two weeks were going to be the life preserver that allowed us to stop treading water and make some progress toward shore, or at least shallower waters where we can regain our footing.

  “But I thought—” I stop and take a deep, calming breath.

  He tilts his head at me, like Torz does when we say one of his favorite words. Or when I mutter curse words at him.

  I try again. “I thought you said you always go out there this time of year. Everyone always gathers at your parents’ house. Because that’s what you always do,” I repeat, hoping I don’t sound too panicked.

  He picks up my hand, kisses my palm (which is suddenly clammy), and murmurs against it, “But you can’t go with me.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “So I want to stay here. With you.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary. You should spend time with your family. You need that time.”

  “That’s why they’re all coming here for a late Spring Break, of sorts. This way, I won’t have to schedule everything around preseason training, like I do when they visit in the summer.” His eyes twinkle. “In fact, we’re going to start a new tradition and do it like this every year. Kansas City is in the middle of the country, after all, and I have a bigger house. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it sooner.”

  I may pass out.

  Still oblivious, he continues, “Plus, aren’t your parents going to be back in town? We can get everyone together. It’ll be so much fun.”

  Staring at his chin, I say carefully, “I think the first time I meet your parents should be a quieter thing. With the four of us. Don’t you?” I brave a look into his confused eyes.

  He pauses. “Does it matter?”

  “Maybe.” When he doesn’t say anything to that, I edge farther onto the rickety bridge that is this conversation. “I’d prefer to meet them without an audience.”

  Or not at all. Ever. Would that be weird?

  “Audience?” He laughs. “My brothers and sisters aren’t an audience; they’re family.”

  “Right. But they’re still strangers to me.”

  “They’re going to love you.”

  “You don’t know that, and that’s not the point!” I explode.

  His eyes widen, and his head jerks backward at my outburst.

  I rub my temples. “I’m so sorry.”

  His hand lands on my knee and squeezes. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m— Nothing! I’m just really stressed right now.”

  “You are? Since when?”

  “All the time,” I say miserably, then backtrack when he seems more confused than ever. “Well, not when I’m with you. Which I guess is a lot of the time. But at work, I’m dying. Things are starting to pile up at home, too. With Greg and Deirdre’s wedding happening in two months, that stuff is ratcheting up.”

  “How can I help?”

  “You were supposed to help by going away for a couple of weeks.”

  As soon as the words are out, I regret them.

  “I’m sorry,” I quickly say again, placing a hand against the side of his face and kissing his lips. He could be a statue, except his eyes shoot to the side and down at the floor. Then his Adam’s apple bobs.

  “You can’t do anything to help me, especially with the work stuff. I have to do it all by myself, like a big girl. But I’ve learned that event planning isn’t my strength, and I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing, so I’m paralyzed by my ineptitude, and I’m mostly doing nothing about it, rather than facing it.”

  I’m relieved my explanation seems to have gone a long way toward fixing my outburst, and he’s willing to resume eye contact with me, but I add, “Really. I’m so sorry I said that about you going away.”

  “Well, you obviously feel that way, and if you do, I can go back to my original plans.” He twists the drawstring of his hoodie around his fingers and frowns.

  Oh, shit. Not the pout. It’s the one thing Jet does that never fails to grate on my nerves. The puppy-dog eyes, the down-turned mouth, the small voice. It makes me want to
scream. Grown-ass adults don’t pout. If he’d rail at me when he’s hurt or mad or doesn’t get his way, I could give it right back to him, but I have no recourse with the pout. If I give in to my irritation, I look and feel like a huge bitch. But it seriously pisses me off that the only acceptable reaction is a sympathetic one that encourages his childish behavior.

  Today’s no different, and I hasten to appease him. “No! No. I do want to meet your family. But I’m overwhelmed. By everything.”

  He smiles tenderly at me, and the pout is forgiven. I’d probably forgive him anything with him looking at me that way. “Aw, Maura. It’s going to be okay. All of it. I promise.”

  For a second, I believe him. I press my forehead to his and nod. “Okay.”

  “I was mega-nervous about meeting your mom and dad, too, but it turned out fine.”

  And… we’re back to freaking out.

  “You’re Jet Knox. They already knew you and loved you before you ever sat at my mom’s table and complimented her cooking and ate that huge slice of banana cake when you were so full, you wanted to puke.”

  “Well, when a woman’s chanting your name and ‘Eat! Eat! Eat!’ it’s hard to refuse.”

  I laugh and grimace. “Oh, my gosh.”

  “The Knox jerseys were a nice touch, too. I thought your mom was going to fall down when she struck that Heisman pose for me. I felt bad having to admit I never won one.”

  “And speaking of Heisman finalists, is my dad still harassing you about Michael Wilcox and the possibility of you guys drafting him?” I ask, referring to the University of Nebraska alum who’s been slated as one of the incoming class of quarterbacks to watch.

  Jet’s sheepish smile is answer enough.

  “That’s it. You have to tell him to stop.”

  “It’s not a big deal. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  “He’s so clueless! I wish he’d pick up on a social cue once in a while and not have to be told to cool it. I’ll find a way to get him to stop bothering you about it.”

  “Be nice, though. I don’t want him to think I was complaining about it. He’s passionate about Chiefs football. I’m never going to complain about that.” Jet tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “I love Linda and Bruce. You’re going to love my family, too. And they’re going to love you. It’ll be perfect.”