Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

After sending her on her way with three referrals to large law firms, I greet my next client. My phone beckons me from my purse, but I can’t satisfy my curiosity right now. I have a jam-packed schedule until lunch. Whatever Jet and Rae want will have to wait. Knowing them, they’re bickering about something and trying to drag me into the middle of it. I can’t justify neglecting my clients to indulge their childishness.

  Finally, lunchtime arrives. I close my office door and retrieve my phone from my purse. While crunching on carrots and apple slices (recent online speculation about my “baby bump” has spurned a healthy eating phase that might last the week, if I’m particularly disciplined), I view my mile-long notifications list with wide eyes. I skip the stuff from the feeds and go straight to my waiting text messages. But all of them, from both Rae and Jet, are terse variations of, Call me when you get this, so I dial into my voicemail, holding the phone slightly away from my ear, as if afraid of what’s going to come out.

  The first recorded message is from Rae, whispering, “Uh, shit’s happening. Have you heard anything from Jet? Call me.”

  Jet’s next. “Hey, it’s me. You’ve probably already heard the news, but I’ll call you again when I get a chance. They’re bringing us together for another meeting before the press conference, so I have to turn off my phone. But I’ll try to call after that. If I’m allowed. Whatever. Love you.”

  What. The. Hell?

  Rae: “Okay, so is this effed up, or what? I can’t talk specifics, but we just had a meeting with everyone, and it’s not good. I could probably get fired for calling you, but what the heck was that guy thinking? Idiot! I’ve never liked him, but everyone puts up with his bullshit, because he wins games. Jet’s face was scary during the meeting. We’re not allowed to talk about it here, though. Are you under a gag order, too? Call me, text me, something.”

  Jet: “They’re sending us home early, since we can’t get anything done here with the media crawling all over the place. I’m worried you haven’t gotten in touch, but maybe you’re busy? Coach’s press conference is next. Then we have one more debriefing so they can tell us—again—not to talk to anyone. What a mess. See you later?”

  For the first time ever, I wish I had a TV in my office. A quick scroll through the feed notifications on my phone tells me Keaton Busch is the “idiot” at the center of whatever this is, but I’d have to click on the link to get the full story, and I’m somewhat afraid of what I’ll find when I do that. Obviously, I’m about to be disappointed, but not surprised, by yet another of my favorite players. Something tells me I’d be better off to wait for Jet to get home and tell me the unfiltered version.

  Before I can receive any more cryptic texts, I shoot a message of my own to both Jet and Rae.

  I’ve been slammed here at work, so I have no idea what’s going on. Gonna try to keep it that way. Is anyone dead?

  A few minutes later, Rae texts back: Busch probably wishes he was

  Jet: We shouldn’t text about this.

  I’m willing to leave it at that for now. OK

  Rae: Whatever. Cat’s out of the bag. Keeping mum shows support for that moron

  Jet: I’ll tell you about it later, Maura

  Jet replies with as much finality as you can put into a text bubble on a phone screen.

  Rae: Talk over dinner? At Jet’s? What’s on Beau’s menu tonight, Knox?

  Me: Don’t know. I eat whatever he puts in front of me

  Rae: Any chance he can toss me a salad?

  My heart drops. I love my friend, but the idea of listening to her sarcastic asides while Jet gets me up to speed tires me. On the other hand, there’s no way to tactfully tell her I’d rather be alone with Jet tonight, and he’s too nice (and afraid of her) to dare reject her self-invite.

  Sure enough, after a slight pause, Jet replies: OK

  Rae: See you later, then. 6:00?

  We all agree to that time, and I exit from the text interface.

  For several seconds afterward, I stare at the Internet icon on my phone’s screen, but I resist tapping it. I’d rather hear the news, whatever it is, from friends.

  Chastity buzzes me to announce my next appointment, saving me from any further temptation.

  Of course, there’s no way for me to avoid the news for the rest of the day. It’s the talk of the office. My co-workers are obsessed. Being who I am and whom I’m dating, they assume I have the inside scoop and won’t stop trying to tease details from me, no matter how many times I tell them I don’t have any more information than they do. Probably less, since I’m getting the details in drips and drabs. My brother won’t stop sending me news story links I don’t have the time or inclination to read. Every person who walks through my door and sits across the desk from me spends the first five minutes of their appointment discussing it. It’s a titillating topic, a scandal that has even stronger legs than the guy at the center of it all.

  Mr. Tight End stands accused of running a sex-for-money game involving groupies and other NFL players all over the league and has been suspended without pay pending further investigation. The charges are simple; implications are anything but.

  This is beyond disheartening, even considering my admiration for Mr. Tight End as a person waned long ago. Coach Bauer encourages all the guys to have fun and show their personalities, but Keaton takes it to a whole new level with his inappropriate social media posts throughout the week and lewd gestures on the field, many of which have earned him hefty fines. His touchdown dances are fan favorites, and I used to love them, too, but now I recognize them as another piece of his somewhat obnoxious “Look at Me!” persona, something that shouldn’t have a place in a game about teamwork and collaboration.

  The veteran players, including Jet, chalk it up to the guy being relatively young and trying to make a name for himself. Last season was only his fourth; he spent his rookie season sidelined by injury. For the most part, his teammates have encouraged what they deem his “youthful enthusiasm” and have let Keaton be Keaton.

  I bet they’re not as amused by their resident goofball now.

  Twenty-Seven

  Conflicting Takes

  My stomach lurches when I drive past Arrowhead Stadium on my way to Jet’s and see the media encampment sprawled out in the vast parking areas usually filled with happy tailgaters.

  Oh, Keaton. You dumb, beautiful, sleazy assclown. What have you done?

  Despite thinking they’d be leaving the training complex early, Jet and Rae have put in a full day, and then some, so I’m the first one to arrive at Castle Knox. After taking it upon myself to send Helen and Beau home, I kill some time setting the table.

  When Jet arrives, he walks past me, through the living room, sniffing the air on his way to the kitchen. “Smells great,” he says shortly, as if I’m in any way responsible for the beef stir fry waiting for us.

  Rae, closely behind him, points to his back and mouths “Hangry” with a roll of her eyes as we follow him.

  I slow and hover on the threshold while he lifts the lid from the wok.

  “Is this ready?” he asks, stirring, then scooping an enormous portion into a shallow bowl without waiting for my answer.

  “I see today’s events aren’t killing your appetite,” I say, trying to lighten the mood without downplaying the seriousness of the situation.

  “This is the first real food I’ve seen since breakfast, thanks to all the B.S. going on.” He moves down the counter to the heaping bowl of rice and makes a major dent in it, piling it on top of his beef and vegetables, like snow on a mountain peak.

  Rae snags the wooden bowl of salad meant for her and nods her head toward the dining room on her way past me. “Come on. I’ll tell you the latest.”

  She looks all too eager to fill me in. I remain in the kitchen with Jet, sidling up to him and pressing my nose against his upper arm. “Why does she look so smug?”

  He shrugs. “Proves her point that all men are scumbags?” he hypothesizes, placing a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll
eat, and she can report.”

  I follow him into the dining room and sit to his right, facing Rae across the table from us.

  “You’re not going to eat?” she asks, around a mouthful of lettuce and sprouts.

  I shake my head. “Maybe in a minute. I have a feeling I might not want to have anything on my stomach while we talk about this.”

  “Good point,” she allows. “Jet and I have been listening to the details over and over all day. We’re desensitized.”

  “Speak for yourself,” he mutters into his bowl. “What’s happening is sickening. But my body needs to eat.”

  She waves her fork dismissively at him. “Whatever.”

  Before she can rehash what I already know, I tell them the few details I’ve gleaned throughout the day, then admit, “I’m still not clear about how it all worked, though—how extensive it is or who was involved.”

  I glance at Jet, who wrinkles his nose and says with a full mouth, “Not me!”

  I can’t help but laugh at his interpretation of my look. “I’m not accusing you! I’m— Wow. Uh…” I shake my head and tease, “That was a quick denial, though.”

  He finishes chewing, swallows, and grumbles, “Just sayin’.”

  Rae clears her throat, happy to provide the gritty facts. “The participants pay into the game at the beginning of the season—this would have been the third year, apparently—and score points by having sex with people in the cities they visit for games. The person with the most ‘scores,’ at the end of the season takes home the pot of money.”

  She stops, but I blink, my mouth gaping. Again, I peek at Jet, who continues shoveling rice into his face like he’s in an eating contest. He doesn’t take his eyes from his bowl, so I return my attention to a gloating Rae, who smirks at my speechlessness.

  “Yeah. That’s how we all looked for about the first half of the day, when the news broke.”

  “Where’s Keaton during all this?”

  “Oh, he’s been called to the Commissioner’s office to answer for his crimes. We’re just now getting wind of it, because the person who blew the whistle on him also sent her story to the media so there’d be no chance of the league sweeping it under the rug.” She taps her temple with the handle of her fork. “Smart chick.”

  “One of the, uh, ‘scores’ blew the whistle?”

  Rae nods. “A woman in Dallas. She had no idea what she was a part of when she went back to Busch’s room. I guess she figured she was simply hooking up with an NFL player.”

  “Groupies,” Jet hisses behind his napkin while mopping his mouth.

  Rae either doesn’t hear him or ignores him. “Turns out, part of the ‘game’ is providing proof of your score, and when Busch, who was drunk, according to this woman, tried to take her picture, she objected, so he explained to her why he needed it. He told her the whole thing, then logged into the spreadsheet where he kept track of the points system and had all the players listed by their real names. What a dumbass!”

  “Well, jocks aren’t known for their intelligence.” At Jet’s warning glower, I clarify, “Lots of blows to the head, right?”

  He growls something unintelligible, to which Rae replies, “Oh, don’t get all man-hurt, Knox. You have to admit, the guy’s a bonehead. He was so drunk and proud of his stupid scheme, he repeated the whole spiel for her when she pretended not to understand. She recorded it on her phone. Gosh, I’d give an ovary to see that video.”

  “Not a huge sacrifice for you,” I point out.

  She shrugs. “Well, it’s not worth an important body part. But I’d be willing to give up something.” Having told the story, she returns her attention to her salad.

  But I still have questions. Lots of questions. Like… “What’s going to happen to Keaton? Is he going to be released from the team?”

  I’m looking at Jet, but when he doesn’t answer right away, Rae snorts. “Probably not.”

  Finally, Jet sets down his fork and speaks. “The investigation is still pending.”

  “Seems pretty clear to me,” Rae says. “If the woman was able to give everyone access to a video of him talking all about it, and a spreadsheet with names and other details, what more is there to investigate?”

  “I dunno. I’m not a lawyer. But I don’t think the team can release him from his contract—”

  “Yes, they can!” Rae practically shouts. “Due to other recent indiscretions by similar jerks, the league purposely left the updated personal conduct policy vague to cover all manner of sins, including stuff like this, that they surely couldn’t have predicted. Because this is stupidity on a grand scale.”

  Jet’s lips tighten to a whiteness that almost matches his teeth, but he angles himself more toward me and addresses me directly. “I don’t know the details of Keaton’s contract. But I have a feeling we’re about to see some second-stringers all across the league getting their big breaks.”

  “How many guys were involved?”

  “Too many. A couple dozen.” He rattles off some of the bigger names listed in the preliminary report.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. I can’t believe it,” he says. “What the hell were they thinking?”

  “Uh…” Rae raises her hand, like a student with the answer. “The correct question is, ‘What were they thinking with?’”

  Again, he ignores her. “And Keaton! I knew he was a man-whore, but this? Why would he feel the need to do something so, so…” He collapses against the back of his chair. “I’m too mad to think of the right words. We’re less than a week away from our first game of the season. We don’t need this distraction.”

  Rae sneers across the table. “What’s wrong, Knox? Misogyny’s okay in the off-season, but when it starts to affect your win-loss record, you have a problem with it?”

  His face reddens. “What? No! That’s not—”

  “You watch.” She stabs her forefinger into the table. “We’ll find out this has been going on a lot longer than three years, that he took over organizing it from someone else. He’s not nearly smart enough to come up with the concept himself. I bet this is pervasive and has been widely known about and kept hush-hush.”

  Jet slaps his hand on the table. “By who? I know you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”

  “Maybe you didn’t know, but I guarantee a bunch of people did. People high up, even. They turned a blind eye to it, because ‘boys will be boys.’”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Is it? We all knew he was trouble. We all knew he was drilling every willing vagina he encountered, and nobody said anything.”

  “That was his business.”

  “Why? Because he still showed up every Sunday and caught your passes?”

  “Because being promiscuous isn’t against the law.” Jet plunks his elbows on the table and, resting his head in his hands, massages his scalp.

  Rae scoffs. “In other words, because he brought shame to the team and the league, that’s what makes him a bigger creep than you already thought he was? If he’d had a kid with a different woman in every city, like so many guys do, it would have been business as usual?”

  Jet drops his hands and looks incredulously at her. “What do you want from me, Rae? Step off my balls a little, huh?”

  I raise my voice to drown out the beginning of my friend’s heated response. “Guys! We’ve witnessed a billion of these scandals.”

  “Exactly,” Rae points out. “Stupidity is an epidemic with these pro athletes.”

  “But it’s not the responsibility of the entire team to defend or support the person at the center of the scandal,” I remind her. “The team has to keep doing what they’re paid to do: win games.”

  “Thank you,” Jet directs at me. “This is already a big enough headache and distraction; if we all chime in with our personal beliefs about what’s going on, not only will there be a ton of conflict in the locker room between teammates who don’t agree with each other, but nobody will be focused on winning.”
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  “There are more important things than winning games,” Rae says.

  “You think I don’t get that? They don’t pay me to preach, though. Let’s not forget, all of these acts were consensual.”

  Eyes locked on his, she replies, “That we know of. I bet there’ll be more than one person who steps forward and says some over-sexed asshole forced himself on her in a desperate attempt to get his weekly points.”

  “And if that’s the case, I hope they throw the book at that guy. And Keaton. But I’ll have to keep that to myself, won’t I?”

  “Why? You guys better not close ranks and refuse to say anything against these animals.”

  Seeing Jet’s fists clench and unclench, I laugh nervously. “You two! Stop it. We’re all on the same side here, okay?” I toss a warning look at Rae. “Chill out.”

  Jet breaks the face-off by taking his empty bowl into the kitchen. A few seconds later, he returns to the doorway, his expression stormy. “I’ve had a long day, and I’m tired. I don’t feel like defending myself in my own damn house to some feminazi who wants to paint everyone with a dick with the same nasty paint brush. Screw that. I’m going downstairs to work out, since I sat on my ass all day in meetings and debriefings.”

  After he leaves, I say, “Thanks a lot,” to Rae, who looks anything but contrite.

  “Are you kidding me? He’s being an asshole. He’s laying the groundwork for every time he says ‘No comment’ or ‘Keaton Busch is a good friend of mine and a great teammate.’”

  I sigh at her deep-voiced imitation. “He’s in a ridiculously difficult spot, though. Surely, you see that. The people who pay him tell him what he can and can’t say.”

  “The same people tell me what to do, too.”