Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

  “They don’t.”

  “But they obviously think they do. Or why draft him?”

  “Insurance.”

  He looks up. “I hate that I’m threatened by that. When am I going to stop feeling like I’m everyone’s second choice, like I’m a placeholder for when someone better comes along?”

  Gripping the edge of the counter, I look down at my knees.

  “Maybe I wasn’t upset enough when we lost that playoff game,” he speculates. “But I was upset. I just didn’t think it served anything to mope about it. And I had you. And I-I was too happy and hopeful to be sad or mad about it. I thought it made more sense to move on and look ahead to next season. But maybe I moved on too soon. Maybe the coaches and the front office and the guys, maybe they think I don’t want it enough, that I’m satisfied with making it to the playoffs and getting our asses handed to us. But I’m not.”

  “Nobody thinks you are.”

  He shakes his head and looks down at his feet.

  “C’mere,” I implore him. When he shuffles back in front of me, I put one hand on each shoulder and squeeze, locking his eyes with mine. “You’re amazing. You are the franchise’s quarterback. This kid is exactly that: a kid. They’re going to be counting on you to show him what you know so that one day, when you’re no longer interested in the job, they have someone to take over seamlessly, someone who learned from one of the best at the peak of his career.”

  He ducks his head.

  I run my fingers through his hair. “And you’re not my second choice. I’m not waiting for anyone better to come along.”

  His chin lifts.

  Suddenly terrified, I bob my head once to underscore what I’ve said.

  His eyes soften. “Aw, Maura.” He parts my lips with his.

  “Now, you taste like chocolate,” I say after a few languid seconds.

  He lifts me from the counter and carries me from the kitchen. “You taste like heaven.”

  Twenty-Four

  Chief AND Chef

  Three weeks later, Jet invites me over for dinner. Because of his training schedule, we haven’t seen each other for days, which is just as well, because one of those days coincided with Arnold’s spring job fair, and I was busy with setup, execution, and tear-down. We’ve both had exhausting weeks, so I’m surprised when I arrive to find Jet in the kitchen, cooking.

  “Where’s Beau?” I ask him after a lazy hello kiss.

  “Not here,” he answers with a wink. “Why? Do you need to talk to him about something? Exchange recipes? Ask him his opinion on gluten?”

  “No, I—” Torzi trots into the room and stretches himself to his full length along my leg, nudging at my knee with his cold nose. I scratch absently at his furry mop of a head. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

  Jet grins. “I can’t.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t look so scared. My mom walked me through it. She promised I couldn’t screw it up.”

  He dumps the boiling pasta into a colander in the sink, then gives the strainer a firm shake. I admire the muscles in his forearms, sticking out from the rolled-up sleeves of his light purple dress shirt. Based on the shirt and his dark dress pants, belt, and shoes, he hasn’t been home for long, although I don’t remember him mentioning any meetings after practice, especially none that required dressing up.

  “You look nice,” I say, fishing for information.

  “Thanks,” After dumping the drained pasta back in the pot, he blots sweat from his forehead with the towel draped over his shoulder.

  Okay, then. Must not be that exciting.

  “So, what is this foolproof dish you’ve prepared so lovingly for me?”

  “Spaghetti and meatballs.”

  I suck my upper lip into my mouth and bite down on it.

  He laughs. “Okay, it’s something a third-grader can probably make, but I never learned to cook. Never had to. I made the meatballs from scratch, using Mom’s recipe, so it’s not like I tossed a jar of store-bought sauce in a pan and called it good.”

  Putting up my hands in a soothing gesture, I say, “I’m not judging.” I glance into the dining room and emit a low whistle at the sight of the crystal, silver, and china sparkling in the candlelight. “You went all out in there!”

  His ears redden. “I thought you deserved a little extra effort tonight. I haven’t been very attentive lately.”

  “I’ve been too busy—and tired—to care.”

  “That doesn’t make it okay.” He removes the large pot of bubbling red sauce from the gas range and sets it on a hot pad on the counter. “Why don’t you take off your shoes and relax at the table while I fix our plates in here? The wine’s already been poured.”

  “If you’re sure you don’t need help…”

  “Nah. I’ve got it. I think. Probably. I’ll be less nervous if you’re not watching me.”

  I laugh at his self-consciousness, the likes of which I haven’t seen since those heady days after our first date. “Okay. Call me if you need me.”

  With Torzi on my heels, I walk into the dining room and take the seat obviously intended for me, with the long-stem red rose strategically straddling the pewter charger. “Ooh, là là.” Torzi jumps onto the chair next to me and sits primly as if awaiting his own service. I kick off my shoes under the table and hold the flower to my nose.

  Hm. Smells like a rose.

  I twitch my schnoz, then offer the bloom to the dog for his own inspection. He sniffs and sneezes.

  “Pretty much,” I say, setting the flower on the table, out of the way. “It’s the romantic thought that counts, though, right?”

  “Are you guys talking about me in there?” Jet calls from the kitchen.

  “Nope. Just taking time to smell the rose.”

  He enters the room with plates lined on his arms, like a seasoned waiter. I hop up to help him set everything on the table.

  “Wow. That’s a ton of food.”

  “You don’t have to eat it all. I think my mom’s recipe feeds twenty.”

  Or his two brothers.

  I filter at the last second and retake my seat, inhaling the fragrant steam coming from the pile of pasta, sauce, and meat in my shallow bowl. Jet places a small plate of salad next to each of our bowls and a basket of Italian bread chunks in the middle of the table, next to the butter dish, then stands back.

  “I think that’s it,” he says but remains standing next to the chair at the head of the table, catty-corner from mine.

  I wait while he shifts from foot-to-foot. He leans over and spins the bread basket a quarter turn.

  Keeping my eyes on him while unfurling my napkin in my lap, I ask, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he answers distractedly, still focused on the bread. “I want it to be perfect, that’s all.”

  “Well, I’m starving and tired, so it doesn’t need to be perfect.”

  He finally lowers himself into his chair, but he steeples his hands over his bowl and stares at me.

  “Umm,” I say. “Am I supposed to say something?”

  He nods at my food. “Take a bite and tell me what you think.”

  I’m afraid; very afraid. It smells good enough, but what if it’s awful? What if it’s the worst thing I’ve ever tasted? I stare down the giant meatball in the center of my mountain of spaghetti noodles and swallow tightly. “Uh, okay. Let me cut into this gigantic ball o’ meat.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I guess I didn’t take into account that my ‘handful’ would be a lot bigger than my mom’s.”

  I’m relieved when I cut the meatball and it not only falls away tenderly, but the meat inside is cooked through. “Okay. Here goes,” I say, pretending my trepidation is fake. I dip the beef chunk in some sauce and deliver it to my mouth, expecting the worst. My shoulders relax when I’m able to shoot him a sincere smile and say after swallowing, “Excellent.”

  “Yeah?” He lifts his own fork, finally brave enough to see for himself.

  Torzi whines
next to me.

  I send him a sympathetic glance. “Sorry, bud. I don’t think so.”

  Jet swallows his first bite, then points his fork at the dog. “Go,” he commands.

  After a protesting growl-grunt, the dog does as he’s told, prancing off in a huff.

  “He wasn’t hurting anything,” I say, taking a sip of wine.

  He rolls his shoulders, as if trying to loosen up. “I’d prefer to be alone with you, without him making his wise-ass comments over there.”

  I laugh and reach for the piece of bread balanced on top of the other slices in the basket. Jet freezes, mid-chew, and watches my hand. I snatch the slice and playfully clutch it to my chest. “What? Did you want this piece?”

  He smiles sickly. “No.”

  Wondering what his problem is, I say coyly, “Because it’s mine. If you want it, you’ll have to come over here and get it from me.”

  His eyes flicker back to the table. I follow his nervous glance. That’s when I see the corner of the baby blue cube peeking from the center of the basket.

  The piece of bread in my hands tumbles into my lap and bounces onto the floor. Torzi swoops in, snatches the dropped food, and sprints away with his scavenged goods.

  Neither Jet nor I take our eyes off the bread basket.

  “What’s—” I finally manage, pointing at the blue box. “Is that— Wh… what is that?”

  His hand shakes when he reaches to lift the basket from the table and holds it in front of me. When I make no move to pluck the Tiffany ring box from its yeasty nest, he does it himself. Dropping to his knee next to my chair, he pries the squeaky lid open, revealing a huge diamond-and-platinum engagement ring.

  “Maura, I love you. I had a whole speech planned out to say when I gave you this, but now I can’t remember any of it. I do remember I’m supposed to ask you one question, though: will you marry me?”

  If I keep staring at that giant rock, I won’t have to look at his face. Or into his eyes. So, I keep staring at the ring.

  Finally, when I can’t possibly get away with staying silent, I breathe out and say sadly, “Oh, Jet.”

  He shifts on his knee, which pops. “That’s not exactly the tone I was hoping you’d use when you saw this.” He runs his tongue along his teeth. “In fact, that sounds—”

  I look away, at the wooden floor next to his knee. He bends farther, trying to make eye contact, but he’d have to lie down to achieve it.

  I mumble, “Not yet. Not now.”

  Closing the box with a snap, he pockets it and returns to his chair, his hands on either side of his plate, which he seems to be studying, as if a decent explanation is in the noodles. “Not yet,” he repeats.

  I cover one of his hands with mine, but he yanks it away.

  “Not never, either,” I say. “Just—”

  “When?”

  My mind races. “Well, I don’t know. But we’ve only been together for four months!”

  “Closer to five. Our first date was at the beginning of January. It’s almost June.”

  “Okay, whatever.”

  “Not ‘whatever,’ Maura.” He finally looks up at me, but I wish he’d look back down. I wish I could look away. “I love you, and you say you love me—”

  “I do! It’s not like I’ve been lying about it. I do love you.”

  “Then I don’t understand. Who cares how many months we’ve been together? I already know I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He pinches at his eyes. “Aw, damn. That was part of what I was supposed to say when I opened the ring box.”

  “And that’s lovely, but I’m not as sure about ‘forever’ as you are. I’m not as sure about anything as you are.”

  He drops his hand, revealing reddened eyes. “I’ve been waiting. I’ve been patient. I’ve been trying not to shout proposals at you for months. But lately, you’ve said some things that made me think you were ready. Still, I waited some more, to be safe. But you’re still telling me no?”

  “No! Not ‘no.’”

  “But not ‘yes.’”

  “Not yet.” I gesture toward his bulging pocket. “That ring… It’s a perfect example of what makes me unsure about all of this.”

  He digs it from his pants and opens the box, looking down at the glimmering jewel. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Probably nothing. Technically. But it’s ginormous!”

  “So? I spent one month’s salary, like they say.”

  That one bite of meatball is about to stage a comeback for the ages. “No, you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did! Because you’re worth that and so much more.”

  I cross to the windows and pull the curtains closed, despite the fact that Jet has no nearby neighbors, and his house isn’t visible from the road. “Put it away.”

  “What’s your deal?” He sets the open box on the table between us.

  I jab a finger at it. “You think I’m going to wear a ring that costs the equivalent of one month of your salary?”

  “I was hoping, but obviously that’s not happening.”

  “When that stupid marketing campaign came out about spending a month’s salary on forever, or whatever the hell they said, they were speaking to guys who make 50K a year, not twelve mil.”

  “See? Everyone knows my personal business. You spouted off that figure like it’s your social security number.”

  “It was in the papers constantly after your last contract negotiation.”

  “Well, I have no idea how much you make.”

  “Forty-five thousand and change. Before taxes.”

  “Am I supposed to feel bad about that?”

  “No! But you need to understand the huge difference between your reality and mine.”

  Resting one hand on the side of his face, he plunks his elbow in his other hand and rubs his ring finger against his lower lip. “I hate talking about money; it makes me uncomfortable. Money has nothing to do with my wanting to marry you.”

  “Well, it has a fair bit to do with why I’m not ready to marry you.”

  He drops his hands to his sides and thrusts his upper body forward. “Because I’m too rich? That’s idiotic.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You already called me stupid for spending so much on your ring.”

  “That’s not my ring. Which is what I’ve been trying to explain, if you’ll let me.”

  With a quick poke of his finger, he closes the Tiffany box with a thwack, nudging it away from us, toward the other side of the table. Then he crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m waiting. Again. As usual.”

  With extreme effort, I ignore that dig and go back to my original point. “You think you know me, but that ring proves you don’t. I could never wear that ring.”

  “Fine! I’ll get you a different ring. I’ll get you a glass piece of shit from a gumball machine, if that will make you happy. What do you want from me, Maura? Because all I want is to make you happy.”

  I fish my shoes out from under the table and slip my feet into them. Standing, I say, “You’re hurt and upset, and I’m not going to be able to get you to understand where I’m coming from tonight.”

  “I do understand, more than you do,” he says hotly, standing too. “You’re rejecting me out of habit. You can’t control how you feel about me, and since it scares you, you run away any time there’s talk of making us permanent.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are! I don’t think it’s possible to make us permanent. That’s what scares me, okay? This… this relationship is unsustainable in so many ways, most of all because you don’t see that.”

  He blinks, opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, and finally says in a near-whisper, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I droop. “That’s part of what I love so much about you. You think anything is possible. That’s amazing. But it’s also incredibly frustrating. And intimidating.”

  �
��So I can’t win.”

  Exasperated, I drop my chin to my chest and shake my head. “It’s not about winning.”

  “And you’re also not saying ‘not yet.’ You’re really saying, ‘never.’ You just don’t have the guts to say it to me right now.”

  As my blood pressure rises, so does my chin. “Don’t have the guts, huh?”

  “No.” He jabs his fists against his hips, his elbows sticking out from his sides. “I don’t think you do.”

  I chuckle mirthlessly. “Hm. Let’s see if I can find the guts to tell you how I’m really feeling, then.”

  He smacks himself on the chest. “Lay it on me, babe. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, for a start, maybe I don’t want to be married to someone who’s gone all the time. Maybe I don’t want to live here at Fort Knox, rattling around the empty rooms. Maybe I don’t want to be the CEO of the Jet Knox ‘brand.’ Maybe I don’t want my appearance to be criticized every time I leave my house. Maybe I don’t want to be married to a titty baby who pouts every time he doesn’t get his way. Maybe I don’t want to go without sex for four months straight because my husband thinks it’s bad juju to ejaculate during the football season!”

  My heart pounds while I wait for him to react, but he simply gapes, nostrils flared. Finally, he blinks rapidly, but he still says nothing.

  Already regretting ninety percent of what I’ve said, I rub my temples. “Jet. I’m sorr—”

  “Whatever.” He turns away from me and starts clearing our congealing plates from the table.

  “No, I—”

  “You should go home. I want to be alone.”

  “But—”

  “Just leave, Maura!”

  Even though I was ready to go voluntarily a few minutes ago, it hurts to be kicked out. Tears stinging my nose, throat, and eyes, I say, “Okay, but I’m sorr—”

  “No.” He closes his eyes. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear any apologies or see your pity.”

  With that, he exits the room and begins loudly and not-so-gently “doing” the dishes.

  I let myself out.

  Twenty-Five