Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

“But you’re never going to be tested. Because nobody gives a crap what your opinion of the situation is. No offense.”

  She scoffs. “No offense.”

  “I care,” I quickly amend. “But you and I are in agreement that this is symptomatic of a much bigger problem in our society. Guess what? Jet feels that way, too.”

  “Does he? Or is he upset that his colleagues were stupid enough to get caught, and this is a major distraction from Game One in Miami?”

  “You probably need to stop talking now. You’re mad because he lost his temper and said some heated things, but—”

  “This is so typical.” She stands and glares down at me. “You’re going to take his side and be all ‘stand by your man’ with your twenty karat vacuous smile?”

  I rise, too. “I’m not smiling.”

  “You will be soon enough, standing in the background, lookin’ so proud, like all you ever wanted out of life was to shop and have babies. Unbelievable.”

  I clamp my lips together and stare at her, then ask quietly, “Is that how you see me?”

  Arms crossed over her chest, she answers, “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but I’m beginning to think it has.” She gestures to the house around us. “You like all this. You like coming home to a fully cooked meal in a spotless mansion, swimming year-round in the heated pool, and screwing your boyfriend in a different room every night of the week, if you want. You love rubbing elbows with celebrities and not only knowing all the gossip but being the subject of it. ‘Wedding Bells for Jetaura?’” she asks, assuming an entertainment reporter’s perky tone.

  Before I can deny that ridiculous claim, she rushes on, “And you know what? If that’s what makes you happy, go for it. It would be nice, though, if you’d admit it and stop acting like you’re above it, like you’re still the same old Maura you used to be. Because you’re not. Not even close.”

  She steps through the archway that leads to the front of the house. “Thanks for dinner and such scintillating conversation. It’s been enlightening.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Game Day Jitters

  I thought it would be better to watch the first game of the season with other people, so I’ve stuck to my usual routine of hanging out with Greg at the new Richards-Snow residence (which is very nice, but nowhere near Jet’s house, geographically or otherwise). I invited Colin along for extra support. But now that we’re all here, and the game is well underway, I’m not so sure. I’m probably not much fun to be around.

  “THROW IT ALREADY, JET! SONOFABITCH! GET OPEN, NEW GUY, YOU DUMB ROOKIE AMATEUR!”

  A Cheez Doodle sailing from the direction of the other couch, where my brother is sprawled, hits me in the face. Without diverting any of my attention from the TV, I return fire a piece of caramel corn.

  “Would you two please stop throwing your food at each other like animals?” Deirdre snaps, picking up the snacks from the floor before one of us can stomp it into the rug. “Or is it a crime for our new house to stay nice for a while?”

  “Yeah, Greg,” I say, smiling against my beer bottle. “You’re such a pig. Is it too much to ask the offensive line to do their damn jobs and protect my boyfriend?” I’m normally a big fan of the passing game, but I’ve definitely developed a greater appreciation for the run game. I’d prefer Jet hand the ball off to someone else who can get clobbered by a burly defenseman.

  Around a belch, Greg says, “Jet’s hanging on to the ball too long. It’s like the clock in his head is running in slow motion.”

  “Everyone seems kind of out-of-sync out there,” I grudgingly admit.

  Colin pats my knee. “It’s first-game jitters. They’ll settle.”

  The huddle breaks, and Jet waves his arms at his guys to remind some of them where they need to be. The game clock ticks down to zero, and a flag comes out for a delay of game. I press my hand to my forehead. “What the hell is their problem? It’s like nobody knows what they’re supposed to be doing!”

  “Including Jet,” Greg mutters, shielding his face from the flying popcorn that never comes.

  I’m too worried to lob any more snacks. Plus, I wish I could protest and give examples to the contrary, but he’s right. Number Fourteen isn’t looking sharp.

  I refuse to analyze the reasons for that as one of the linesmen flinches before the next snap, and Jet stoically walks backward another five yards with his team.

  “It looks bloody hot there,” Colin offers as an excuse. “It’s not even the end of the first period—”

  “Quarter!” Greg and I automatically correct.

  “—but look at them! They’re all listless and dripping.” Colin wrinkles his nose disdainfully.

  “That’s Miami for you,” I say.

  He waves his hand in front of his face. “That changing room is going to smell ghastly at halftime.”

  “Don’t think about it.”

  “Maybe they got food poisoning at the hotel during second breakfast,” Greg supposes.

  The speculation is doing nothing to sooth my nerves. “The game’s just started. Shut up. Everyone’s getting into a rhythm. At least the pocket is holding up better now.”

  “If Jet can’t get a pass off, it doesn’t matter if he has all the protection in the world.”

  “It’s not his fault! Nobody’s getting open!”

  To prove my point, Jet’s next pass sails inches from his tripping intended receiver’s fingertips. Fortunately, there weren’t any defenders farther down the field, waiting to intercept. Unfortunately, that was third down, and we’re backed way up, so we have to punt it away.

  “He’s throwing it too hard,” Greg says. “The ball’s like a bullet.”

  “Which one is it?” I snap. “Is he not throwing it, or is he throwing it too hard?”

  “Both.”

  The camera follows Jet as he rips off his helmet and sets it on a drying post behind the bench. He slides on a sun visor and immediately grabs one of the sideline tablets to study the pictures from the last series. The quarterback coach sidles up to him, but when they start discussing things, the camera switches to a shot of the punter kicking a boomer down the field.

  “Hey, at least that guy showed up today,” Greg says. “Good thing, too, since I think he’s going to see plenty of action.”

  I stand and head toward the kitchen for another beer, but reply, “You know, if you’re going to be a dick, I’m going to go home and watch this alone.”

  “I’m not being a dick! I’m stating the facts,” he shouts after me.

  To be fair, I’m likely a bit testier than I would be if this was the opening game of the season that everyone was expecting two weeks ago. I guess we’ll never know, though. I’m nervous about Jet, but the past week with the Keaton Busch scandal (dubbed “The Bedroom Bowl” and all sorts of other crude plays on words with the tight end’s last name) has fried the nerves of everyone connected to the team. For the guys on the field today, it’s a major direct factor, considering the front office made Busch inactive (you should have seen and heard all the jokes about that this week) until an official decision is handed down by the league. The reporters want to keep the story alive, but they’re hitting brick walls with players, coaches, and owners, so they’re seeking out peripheral people like me, hoping one of us will slip up and give our opinions about the offenders’ behavior, since we’re not technically under the NFL gag order. I did blindly sign a confidentiality agreement over the summer, though, so I’m not saying a word.

  Unfortunately, the media’s not giving up. It’s easy for them to gain access to me. They call me at work, wait for me at my car in the parking lot, and park in the cul-de-sac in view of my house, waiting for me to emerge for the mail or come home at night. I’ve stayed at my parents’ house twice this week. I’d stay at Jet’s, but I’d have to sleep in one of his guest rooms, and that’s too depressing for words.

  Not helping matters is my continuing standoff with Rae. We might as well be under a gag order with each other. I’v
e heard nothing from her since she stormed from Jet’s house Monday night, and I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to reach out, after what she said to me. It probably says something not-so-flattering about me that I’ve tolerated her utter disregard for other people’s feelings all these years, but reached my limit as soon as she aimed her vitriol at me.

  I’m more upset, however, with the way she talked to and treated Jet that night at dinner. It wasn’t fair he had to bear the brunt of her ire for something he didn’t do and would never condone. Her disrespect was unacceptable.

  Now Deirdre follows me into the kitchen. “I don’t know how you do it,” she says, nudging her head toward the living room. “I couldn’t watch at all.”

  “It’s not that bad,” I lie, because I don’t feel like going into it with her. It’s disturbing how much I suddenly sympathize with Gloria.

  One night during Jet’s family’s visit, after dinner, we were sitting around and laughing about yet another one of Jet’s false memories regarding Knox family history. Stretching from the top of the arch leading into the living room, he blamed it on too many concussions.

  “Don’t kid about that!” Gloria scolded. “Every time you fall and your head hits the turf, I want to cry.”

  David snorted. “Why do you still watch, Mom?”

  She pressed her hand to her chest. “He’s my baby, and I’m proud of him!”

  Keith and David made good-natured gagging noises, while the ladies mock-scolded them.

  “Aw, Mom!” Jet drawled, abandoning his stretches and bending down to give her shoulders a squeeze. “You worry too much!”

  Jet’s physical safety isn’t my only concern. I also feel obligated to defend everything he does—or doesn’t do. I’m worried about what he’s thinking and feeling. And already anticipating what I should say, if anything, if they lose this game.

  This caring shit is for the birds.

  Anyway, there’s still plenty of game to play. Unfortunately.

  Suddenly, from the other room, Greg bellows, “FUMBLE! GET IT, FAT BOY! RUN! RUN! RUN!”

  I make it to a spot where I can see the TV in time to watch Demarcus Jackson, one of the biggest defensive guys on the team, cross into the end zone and collapse on his back, huffing and puffing while clutching the ball to his chest.

  “YES!” I yell, hopping and sloshing beer on my Knox jersey.

  From his standing position next to the couch, Greg performs his ridiculous touchdown dance, writhing like a chubby, balding belly dancer, kicking his feet like a drunk, uncoordinated Cossack, then performing the Tomahawk Chop (so many cultures offended) before jerking his pelvis back and forth. “Touchdown! Kansas! City! Who needs offense? We’ll let the defense do all the work today.”

  “Hey!” I protest for the sake of propriety. Really, though, I’d be okay with that.

  The camera follows Jackson to the sideline, where the first hug he receives is from his quarterback, who grins and slaps his teammate on the butt.

  “Aww! Look how much they love each other!” I say, giddiness and relief closing my throat.

  Colin giggles. “‘Kiss me, you beast!’” he says, providing a silly dialogue for the exchange between the teammates. “Oh, my! He did nearly kiss that bloke on the cheek. Jealous, Lady Maura?”

  “Nope. They’re buddies. They get emotional out there.” I retake my seat. “I’m so glad we have points on the board now. Much less pressure.”

  “Jet still needs to step it up. That score’s not gonna hold forever. The defense can only do so much.” Greg says, resuming his spread-out lounging position and digging his hand back into his bowl of Cheez Doodles on the floor next to the couch.

  “Yeah, but special teams can get in on the fun, too. It doesn’t all have to be on Jet’s shoulders.”

  “That’s why he gets paid the big bucks, Mo.”

  We’re still arguing the meaning of “team sports” several minutes later, after a quick three-and-out from Miami and a commercial break, when the Chiefs’ offense takes the field again.

  “Oh, man. Your boy looks determined now, doesn’t he?” Greg catcalls.

  Yes, he does. He’s definitely wearing the face that says he’s ready to increase his team’s lead. Or he’s constipated. Or he’s listening intently to the speaker in his helmet. Or all three. That face means business. I love that face.

  Satisfied with the play call, he takes his position behind the center for what appears to be a run play, so my shoulders relax further. But after taking the short snap, he fakes a hand-off to the running back, obscures the other team’s view of the ball with a sweet spin move, then when all attention is focused on the “runner,” turns back around to scout his options down-field.

  Except one of the defensive linemen wasn’t fooled. He got past his man and is barreling toward Jet.

  “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeek!” I squeal, covering my eyes.

  Colin grips my forearm, his fingers digging into the skin near my wrist. “Oh, blimey!”

  “Knox gets it off just in time to Tiffenauer before getting a faceful of Javier Wahl. Oh, my! Tiffenauer is still on his feet at the twenty… the ten… finally brought down at the seven yard line. It’s Chiefs first and goal. But Knox is slow to get up.”

  Greg thumps his chest. “Thatta boy, scab! First down!”

  “Uh-oh.” Colin intones.

  “What happened?” I ask, turning my head to look at my friend while resolutely refusing to peek at the television.

  He winces, sucking air through his teeth. “They’re showing the replay now, but it appears before he was knocked down, Jet hit his hand on that scary bloke’s helmet.”

  Unable to resist looking for another second, I lower my hands and watch the scene unfold. Jet’s up, and he’s in the huddle, but he shakes his throwing hand intermittently, then grabs it with his other hand and presses it against his thigh.

  “Rub some dirt on it, tough guy!” Greg yells.

  “Shut up, Greg!”

  He looks sharply over at me. “What?”

  “If he’s shaking his hand and holding it, it hurts. He’s not a wuss.”

  “Okay! Fine. Shit. Are you going to be like this all season? You’re no fun anymore.”

  I shush him and focus on the screen. After a couple more failed attempts at the end zone with run plays, the kicking team comes out, and Schoengert knocks in the chip shot for three points. One camera sticks on Jet, creeping as close as it’s allowed to get and zooming in for a shot of Rae palpating the heel of Jet’s hand and instructing him to wiggle his thumb.

  “Rae!” Colin shouts, then mutters, “Sorry,” in my concerned direction.

  I nibble my thumbnail while watching Jet follow Rae’s directions with gritted teeth and a bounce of his knee. “Oh, gosh. It’s his thumb,” I say with a groan.

  “Not good,” Greg concurs.

  “What’s that mean?” Colin asks. “They’ll ice it, right? Wrap it, maybe? Inject it with something? But he’ll still be able to play, surely.”

  I collapse against the sofa cushions behind me. “If he can’t grip the ball, he can’t play.”

  Greg tosses the official NFL football he always keeps close during games (don’t ask) across the room to Colin. “Try holding it like they do without using your thumb.”

  Colin complies and immediately sees the problem. “Bloody hell. That’s not on.”

  I stare at the ceiling as the game goes to commercial. “This is bad.”

  “I’ve seen guys miss a game and come back okay,” Greg tries to reassure me.

  “And I’ve watched as much football as you have. It’s not always that simple.”

  “There’s no need to get hysterical,” Deirdre pipes up, “until you know for certain what you’re dealing with. Even then, panicking is hardly going to help things.”

  “The doctor has spoken,” Greg intones. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “She’s a cardiologist, not a— a hand doctor,” I petulantly point out.

  Meanwhile, the
game returns, the announcers speaking in excited tones as they discuss Michael Wilcox warming up on the sidelines. They cut away to video of Jet walking toward the locker room during the break, his helmet dangling from his left hand, his right hand cradled protectively against his body, his head hanging.

  “So, Knox is getting checked out in the locker room, and Michael Wilcox, the rookie backup, is warming up. What do you think about Dick Bauer’s decision to go with the rookie, Charlie?”

  “I think it’s surprising, Dan. We’ve all been given the impression that veteran QB Rick Hess was the official second-stringer, and Wilcox was still learning the system, but apparently Coach Bauer thinks the young Heisman finalist deserves a chance.”

  “I’m not sure I agree with this decision. Maybe if the score was more lopsided and it was later in the game, but there’s still a lot of game left, and the score’s close.”

  “Well, I suppose Bauer could be bringing him in for a series or two to see how he handles the situation.”

  “Still risky. Especially considering Tiffenauer’s subbing for Keaton Busch on short notice, which come to think of it, may have been a contributing factor in Knox’s injury. It looked like Tiffenauer wasn’t where Knox expected him to be.”

  “You have a good point there. And speaking of Jet Knox, we’ll check in with Jessica on the sideline in a minute, as soon as she has word on his condition.”

  The attention returns to the action on the field, but I don’t hear or see anything for the next several minutes. All I can do is worry, helpless, not knowing any more than what everyone else does. Obviously, it could be worse. In no situation is this hand injury life-threatening. But depending on the severity, it could be season-threatening. At the very least, it’s a nightmare. As is waiting for an injury update on someone you care about.

  Several plays go by. Then, during a time-out, the guys in the booth pitch it to an inordinately perky sideline reporter.

  “Charlie and Dan, there’s not much coming from the Chiefs’ locker room right now, but they did confirm that Knox has an injury to his throwing hand and is undergoing X-rays. His return in this game is listed as doubtful. That much they’re sure about! Back to you guys!”