by Brea Brown
“That’s just it; I don’t know.”
“You’ll figure it out. But don’t let anyone else’s opinions influence your self-assessment. Not Ma’s, not the public’s, not even Jet’s. You have to make the decision based on what you know of yourself and how you feel about Jet.”
Suddenly I don’t want to talk about it anymore, especially not with this person I barely know. The fact that she’s his sister makes it even more inappropriate. Blushing, I jam my hands in my pockets. “Gosh. I’m so sorry. This is weird. You shouldn’t have to talk about your family like this to me. You hardly know me.”
“I like you, Maura. We all do, for what it’s worth.”
“Thanks.”
“You make Jet happy. We love that big goober.”
“I do, too.”
“Maybe that’s good enough.”
When I snort and shoot her a skeptical look, she pats my arm. “It might really be that simple. Why overthink it?”
Twenty-Three
Draft Day Doubts
That disturbing conversation with Jet’s mom hasn’t been forgotten, but it’s faded to something less significant, an overbearing mother looking out for her youngest child’s best interests. I took Gidget’s pep talk to heart and returned to the group feeling less shaky. For the rest of the family’s week-long visit, I stayed busy at my worthy-yet-not-too-critical job during the day, and Gidget guaranteed I was never alone with Gloria again.
Two weeks after the family’s departure, too many other critical issues vie for my attention for me to dwell on Gloria’s plans for my future.
Like Draft Day.
Both Jet and I are trying valiantly to pretend it’s not happening. Driving here straight from work, I decided to take advantage of unseasonably warm early May temperatures to spend some rare alone time by the pool. I haven’t talked to Jet yet; he was finishing his evening workout when I arrived. I saw him through the kitchen window a few minutes ago, so he’s probably making himself a smoothie and on his way out to sit with me. In the meantime, I study Internet stories and images of him, gathering ammunition for the reassurances I’ll no doubt have to regularly toss his way if the Chiefs draft Nebraska Heisman finalist, Michael Wilcox, as his backup.
Fortunately, I’m finding plenty of material. The love affair between Jet and the fans is stronger than ever. A winner on and off the field, he’s given the entire city something to cheer about. He’s the franchise quarterback we’ve been craving for a depressingly long time. Even the usually acerbic radio cynics can’t find anything wrong with him. Most importantly, Coach Dick Bauer is his biggest fan.
I participate in these frequent Internet searches to keep my finger on the pulse of public opinion. Their opinions of both Jet and me. They love Jet. Me? Well, it’s overrated to be beloved, right? And it’s not that they hate me; they just don’t know me.
Plus, the person who threatens to take an eligible bachelor or bachelorette off the market is always going to be the target of some mean-spiritedness. For the most part, I don’t take it too seriously. I read the stories, because I want to make sure nothing serious is being said. As long as they’re focusing on my ugly clothes and my average looks, we’re good. The ones who speculate about wedding bells stress me out more, but since most of the speculation is wildly off-target, I brush that off, too.
The back door opens, so I quickly close the tablet and set it on the table next to me. Torzi, sleeping between my feet, raises his head for a second but returns it to his paws when he recognizes his master. Torzi and I have grown closer since the Knox family invasion. I rescued him from the kids more than once, when their version of playing didn’t gel with the Bichon’s more genteel idea of fun.
Striding across the patio, a plastic cup in each hand, Jet offers me the one from his right, and I sniff it, relieved when it smells like run-of-the-mill lemonade. Yesterday, he brought me one of his muscle recovery smoothies. I have no clue what my muscles were supposed to be recovering from (sitting at a desk all day? Driving in rush-hour traffic, perhaps?), but the smoothie was disgusting. I didn’t ask what was in it, because I was afraid the ingredients list might intensify my urge to purge.
After a few sips of my tart beverage, I ask Jet, “Do I want to know what’s in your cup?” when he sets it down in the shade of his chair and whips off his shirt.
“Strawberry, banana, and peanut butter,” he answers, kicking off his sports slides. “Want a sip?”
“No, thanks.”
He laughs. “Fine. They’re not that bad, once you get used to them. You have to learn to block out the taste of the protein powder.”
Before I can retort, he tosses his shirt on his chair and walks to the pool, where he dives in, surfacing a few seconds later past the halfway mark. He rolls onto his back and kicks water toward me, but the splash doesn’t come close to leaving the pool, much less reaching me. He grins, anyway. “You comin’ in, or what?”
“Nah.”
“Suit yourself,” he replies casually, flipping to his belly and transitioning to a lazy freestyle. I watch him for several laps but eventually close my eyes, because studying the muscles in his shoulders and back is working me up. After a few minutes, he climbs the steps to exit the pool, walks straight over to my chair and shakes water droplets over Torzi and me, like an overgrown dog.
Torzi immediately runs to the house. Jet calls after him, “Aw, c’mon! You’re no fun! Man’s best friend, my ass.”
“You’re obnoxious,” I say affectionately.
Crossing to the weather-proof cabinet that holds the towels, he chooses a fluffy red one and pats himself until he’s no longer dripping but still damp. He retakes his seat on his lounge, crosses his ankles, and tilts his head back, closing his eyes. “That felt good.”
“Rough day at the office?” I ask, half-joking.
“My boss is a Dick,” he says, eyes still closed, then smiles, lowers his chin, and looks over at me. “How about you?”
“Spent the day pricing print shops for my Hollywood cut-outs. May have to scale back my plans.” He winces, but I reassure him (and myself) before he goes into fix-it mode, “It’s okay.” Swiftly changing the subject, I say, “What’s the latest gossip? Any off-season shenanigans that haven’t been sniffed out yet by the media?”
Jet thinks about it for a second, as if debating whether to tell me. He squints across the sparkling surface of the pool. “Pete Jay and his wife are getting a divorce.”
“What? No way!”
“Way.” He nods solemnly.
“That’s awful.” Monica wasn’t one of the friendliest wives at the Pro Bowl, so I never got chummy with her, but this may be an explanation for her subdued demeanor. It wasn’t that long ago. Maybe things were already ending between the two of them. “What happened?”
He shrugs and gulps another swallow of smoothie, then licks his lips. “Who knows? I’m not that close with the guy. I see him a couple of times a year, but we’re usually trying to kick each other’s asses in a game, not sitting around talking about our feelings, you know?”
I manage a good-natured laugh but defend my question. “I thought maybe you’d heard more details in the rumor mill.”
“Nope. Probably the usual, though. You don’t get to be where that guy is without making sacrifices in other areas. He’s not just one of the best QBs around; he’s busy with a ton of things off the field. Endorsements, business partnerships, hosting Saturday Night Live…”
“Is that what you want?”
“No!” He bends his knee and rubs at a spot that’s been bothering him lately. Then he reaches across the space between our chairs and grabs my free hand. “No. I don’t. That’s too much. I’m perfectly happy doing my job on the field and doing my work in the community, then coming home. To you.”
I smile at his sweetness, despite its technical inaccuracy. For one thing, he has endorsements, too. And more offers every day. For another, he doesn’t “come home” to me every day. I still have my own place and spend a
s many evenings there as I do here. That’s how I’d like things to stay for now.
Steering us away from that volatile topic, however, I say, “I’m glad they didn’t have kids. Makes things easier, I guess.”
After setting down his smoothie, he grins and drops to all fours on the patio between our chairs, then bites the swimsuit tie at my hip.
“Hey!” I set down my drink to avoid spilling it on us.
He kneels beside me, nibbling on my shoulder strap. “Divorce talk is depressing.”
“But it happens. Often.”
“Everywhere. To everyone. Not just football players.”
“Yeah, but certain lifestyles make marriage more difficult. You can’t deny that.”
That brings to mind Ginny and the nugget Gloria dropped about her cheating on Jet, something he seems determined to keep from me forever. I haven’t had the guts to broach the subject, and today, with all of its other distractions, doesn’t seem like the right time, either.
He sighs. “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“I would have found out eventually, and I would have been annoyed that you didn’t tell me,” I say, returning my attention to the Jays’ situation.
“Which is why I ultimately did tell you.” He kisses my throat. “Mmm. You smell like coconut.”
I laugh. “You’re the master of distraction.”
“It’s what makes my fake hand-off one of the best in the league.”
“Oh really, now?”
He abruptly stops smooching on me and sits on the side of my chair. “I better stop before I can’t,” he says, certain physical evidence reinforcing his claim.
“Why would you want to? Rae said your silly abstinence rule was only in effect during the season.”
Looking over his shoulder, he regards me for a few seconds, then sniffs. “It’s not silly. What would Rae know about it?”
“You may ignore the trainers, but they’re still around when you guys talk about that stuff.”
“And she ran right to you to report on it, huh?”
“No, it came up naturally in conversation. She wanted me to be prepared to make plenty of my own sacrifices come September.”
“Great. I appreciate her help.” He returns to his own chair and shrugs back into his t-shirt, droplets on his shoulders soaking through and freckling the dark gray material.
“Don’t be mad at her for telling me the truth. If it were up to you, I’d still be clueless about it.”
“Everyone knows it’s a thing.”
I tilt down my chin and look at him over the top of my sunglasses. “I thought it was a myth. Because it’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not.”
“I was assured it was a regular season thing only.”
“It is. I’m just not in the mood, okay?”
“Some parts of you didn’t get the memo.”
He rubs the top of his wet hair. “Stuff on my mind, that’s all.”
“And you can’t think and split my uprights at the same time?”
We both laugh at the crassness of that euphemism, but he sobers and says, “Probably not. I’m not a good multitasker.”
After a few seconds of silence, I ask, “Are you really going to abstain all season long? Not that I’m worried about it.”
Justifiably smug, he grins at me. “You’re worried.”
“Four months is a long time! I have needs.”
Tossing his head back, he laughs, then turns his head to look at the pool again and avoid my eyes as he replies, “I do, too. Trust me. But my job has to take priority.” He bravely looks me in the eye when he makes that risky statement.
That’s it. Time to officially launch Operation: Regular Season Satisfaction. “You know, National Geographic did an article about this—”
“What?” He snaps his towel at me. “Get the heck out of here. You’ve been researching it?”
“Yes! This is important to me.”
“Did they compare us to chimps?”
“No! It was a legitimate study about athletes and sex and how it affects testosterone levels and—consequently—aggression in contact sports, like football.”
“And? Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Use it or lose it, apparently. Sex raises testosterone levels. Like energy produces energy.”
“Come off it.”
I grab the tablet from the table. “I’m not making this up!” In a matter of seconds, I’ve navigated to the article. I hand the device to him.
“You have it bookmarked? Holy shit.” He looks down at the screen and skims the story. “Ha! They say there wasn’t anything conclusive about psychological effects in the study.”
“So?”
“It’s a mental game almost as much as a physical one.”
“But if the physical part isn’t harmed by sex, and the rest is all up here”—I tap my head—“then it’s a matter of changing the way you think. We can work on that.”
“It’s not worth it.” When all I do is glare at him hard enough to singe every hair from his body, he qualifies, “Whoa, that came out wrong. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not going to be able to change fifteen years of thinking based on one article.”
“Oh, I have plenty more where that came from. Maybe Pete and Monica needed to have more sex.”
He hands the tablet back to me. “Pete Jay’s sex life is none of my business. But I’ve developed a system for me. It works. And if something ain’t broke, you don’t fix it.”
“Is making yourself puke before games part of your awesome, unbroken system?”
“Damn it, Rae,” he curses under his breath.
Before his annoyance turns into a full-blown pout, I journey from my chair to his. Stretching myself between him and the arm of his lounger, I kiss his chin. “I told Rae I still love you, in spite of your gross pre-game habit. Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not.”
I poke at his mouth with my index finger. “Your lips are all white and pinchy, like they get when you have to throw the ball away on third down.”
“I’m about to tickle you.”
“Oh, now. Don’t waste your testosterone on such silliness.”
He wedges himself sideways to get a better angle at my midriff, but his action throws off the weight balance of the chair, which tips us onto the stamped concrete patio, me on top of him, the chair on top of both of us.
We’re both laughing too hard to say anything (or get up) right away, but I recover first and say, “Oh, crap. Are you okay?”
He smiles into my face. “Yes. Are you?”
Before I can answer, his phone rings on the table above us. A few seconds later, mine competes for attention. Soon, a new, more insistent chime sounds from Jet’s cell. It’s a noise I’ve never heard before, but his slackened face tells me he knows exactly what it means, and it ain’t good.
“What the hell is that?”
Gently, he pushes the lounger away from us and slides out from under me. After offering me a hand up, he rights the chair and looms over his phone, staring at it for a few seconds before prodding it with his pointer finger, as if it’s a small, dead animal that may be diseased.
My phone rings again, but I barely glance at the lit-up screen long enough to see it’s my dad. I figure I can call him back.
Jet cranes his neck to read the latest notification to come through. “Well, I have a new backup.”
My phone continues its frenetic activity, this time with an incoming call from Rae. I blindly reach over, reject the call, and push away the device. “Big whoop. These people act like nobody’s ever drafted a quarterback before. You’re not worried, are you?”
“Nah. I’m in good shape; I know the playbook inside and out; Coach loves me; and the guys respect me as a leader. There’s no controversy here. People just like drama.” But the confidence in his voice isn’t mirrored in his eyes.
Damn it. I wish I’d thought to turn off our phones earlier.
He scrolls throug
h the first of many comment threads about the breaking news. Resigned, I slide on my shorts, gather the rest of my things, and head for the house.
“Hey, where you going?” he calls after me without looking up.
“Inside,” I toss over my shoulder. “There’s some leftover chocolate cake calling my name.”
By the time Jet follows me into the house, his phone is nestled in his t-shirt pocket, and I’m sitting on the kitchen counter, next to the sink, licking cake and frosting from a fork. I load up the next bite and offer it to him.
“No thanks. I have to be a good boy.”
“Overrated,” I muffle around a mouthful of chocolate.
“You’re a bad influence,” he says, scooting up to me and settling between my knees. He kisses my mouth and dips his tongue in.
After I pull away, laughing, I say, “You’re still technically consuming the cake, even if I’ve chewed it first.”
“Nope. There are no calories in food from someone else’s mouth. It’s science.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“No, delicious.” He runs his tongue along his teeth.
I swallow. “I’m sorry about the Draft pick.”
With a mighty, cocoa-scented exhale, he says, “Not you, too.”
“I’m not looking for drama where there is none. If I thought you didn’t care, I’d leave it be.” I set aside the rest of the cake and tuck my hands in my armpits while I wait for him to reply.
Instead of doing so right away, he picks up the dessert, steps back from me, and shovels cake into his mouth.
Oh, crap. It’s worse than I thought.
After several bites, he stops and tosses the now-empty container and fork into the sink, as if appalled at himself. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, jams his fists onto his hips and says at the floor, “Fuck. I— Why do they need that guy, huh?”
