Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

  Colin snorts. “He’s doubtful; that much they’re sure about? Where do they find these people?”

  Dan and Charlie drone about X-rays and hand injuries like they’re automatic career-enders and it was nice knowing Jet, but where’s the new guy? It takes them a shockingly short period of time to start spewing Wilcox’s college stats and reversing their earlier concerns about putting the greenhorn into the game. To hear them now, it’s a wonder Wilcox wasn’t given the starting job a long time ago.

  The offensive play calling, however, remains conservative to the point of coma-inducing, so the rookie doesn’t have a chance to do anything noteworthy for the rest of the half.

  The announcers are underwhelmed. “Despite Wilcox’s relative success in preseason play, it appears Dick Bauer’s not going to try anything cute here with his rookie backup and is burning time off the clock to get us to halftime.”

  As soon as the clock hits zero in the half, I bolt from the couch.

  “Where are you going?” Greg asks. “There’s still half a game to go!”

  “I don’t care. I’m going to Jet’s house.”

  “Why? What’s the point in that?”

  “I can’t watch this game anymore, and I’m not going to make you guys turn it off.”

  “Good luck with that, anyway,” Deirdre says under her breath.

  “Exactly. So, I’m going to go to Jet’s and wait for someone to get in touch with me.”

  “They can get in touch with you here,” Greg says. “On your cell. We have the technology. Do you really want to be alone right now?”

  “Yes! Stop asking me stupid questions.”

  Colin rises. “Are you positive you’re okay? I can drive you, or…?”

  I take a deep breath and smile bravely. “No! Of course, I’m fine. But I want to be alone when he calls.”

  Greg waves his hands at me. “You’re weird. Give us the scoop when you know anything, so we can sell it to the Star.”

  It takes every bit of willpower I have not to run to my car. When I get in, it takes still more control not to dial Jet’s cell phone. I’ll only be forced to leave a frantic message, and that’s the last thing he needs to hear when he’s able to check his messages later. I do send one text through my tears, though:

  I’ll kiss it better when you get home.

  Twenty-Nine

  Insult and Injury

  “Look, Rae’s here!” Jet says after kissing me hello.

  “I see that,” I reply coldly, wishing they’d sent a different trainer with him.

  “I told her I could drive myself home, but she wouldn’t let me. It’s only a thumb!” He waves his bandaged hand in the air.

  Rae rolls her eyes and nudges Jet’s dropped duffel bag out of the way with her legs. “He’s high. Valium and Vicodin. Don’t let him operate machinery. Or go to the bathroom alone.”

  He thrusts his wrapped hand under my nose. “I have a boo-boo. Did you see the game?”

  “Uh, yes. Didn’t you get my text?”

  “Huh?” He pats his pockets. “Oh, no! My phone! Where’d it go?”

  “Never mind,” Rae says. “You don’t need it right now. Let’s get you settled.”

  Leading them into the living room, I ask, “What’s the damage?”

  Rae waits until we’re all seated and Jet’s greeted Torzi, who’s been keeping me company for the past several hours, before she answers, “Don’t know yet. X-rays were negative, so we know it’s not broken, but they’ll need to do an MRI tomorrow to get a better idea of ligament damage. The key is to keep it immobilized and the swelling down until then. It’s not the worst hand injury I’ve ever seen,” she finally finishes. “Probably a bad sprain.”

  I sigh at her less-than-precise diagnosis and prognosis.

  “I can’t make any guarantees or predictions. You’re going to have to wait and see what the specialists say. And maybe, eventually, a surgeon.”

  “Surgeon? You think he needs surgery?”

  Jet edges closer to me on the couch and pets my hair with his healthy hand. “Babe. Babe. Babe.”

  I turn my attention to him, so he’ll stop calling me that.

  “Babe. It’s gonna be okay,” he slurs with a dopey grin. “It doesn’t hurt at all. It’ll be fine in a day or two.”

  “Jet, honey, you’re stoned,” I coo. “That’s why it doesn’t hurt.”

  “For realsies?” He whirls and looks at Rae. “Am I gonna get in trouble for this? I’m not allowed to do drugs, Rae.”

  “These are legal drugs, dumbass. Keep that hand still!”

  “Is it in there? I need that hand to throw footballs.” He doesn’t seem all that concerned, though, which I chalk up to the Valium doing its job. Instead, he switches back to petting me. “You’re soft, like Torzi.”

  Rae stands. “This should be a fun night for you.”

  “You’re leaving?” I don’t want her here, but I also don’t want to be alone with the patient. “I have no idea what to do with him!”

  “Put him to bed. It’s better if he sleeps, because then he won’t move his hand. He needs the sleep.”

  “I could sleep,” he says agreeably, standing.

  “What do I do if it starts to hurt again?” I ask Rae.

  “His ‘scripts are in his bag. The instructions are on them. He re-dosed his pain meds on the plane. Around six-thirty, I think.”

  “You think? I probably need to know exactly.”

  “I wrote it down. Duh. It’s all with the pills. He doesn’t necessarily need to keep up with the Valium dosage. We needed him to be relaxed for the trip home.” She turns toward the door. “You’ll be fine. This will be great training for your future. Football players get hurt. When he’s finished killing himself on the field, you’ll have little diapered Jet Juniors to nurse through illness and injury.”

  My temper spikes, but I have more important problems than her snide predictions into my future. After a three-count, I ask, “What about this diagnostic appointment tomorrow? What time is that?”

  “Have him ready early. They’ll send a car.”

  “What about his car?”

  She whirls on me on the top step leading from the living room to the foyer. “For fuck’s sake, Maura! You’re going to have to put on your big girl panties and figure this shit out for yourself. This is the life you’ve chosen. I was just the lucky person who was chosen to babysit one of the team’s biggest assets and deliver him safely home.”

  I lift my chin. “I wish they’d sent someone else, someone willing to give me some advice, instead of letting her personal feelings get in the way of her job.”

  “It’s not my job to hold your hand.” She nods behind me at Jet, who’s lying on his back on the couch, laughing while he lets Torzi lick the inside of his mouth. “As soon as Brain Trust is lucid, he’ll be more of a help. He knows the drill.” Reaching into her jacket pocket, she pulls out Jet’s phone. “Oh, and here. I didn’t want him texting his dong to random people or something else equally scandalous while drugged.” Before I can thank her (however grudgingly) for covering that detail, she says, “Sweet message, by the way.”

  “Hey! That was private!”

  “Whatever. There are several from his mom on there, too. If I were you, I’d respond as him and tell her ‘you’re’ fine; otherwise, you’re about to have Gloria on your doorstep, on top of everything else. But whatever. Your call.”

  “My mom’s name is Gloria!” Jet says around Torzi’s tongue, then pushes the dog away and sits up. “What are the chances?”

  When I turn to shoot him a long-suffering look, he waves coyly, fluttering his eyelashes at me. “Hey, baby. You know how horny it makes me when you wear my jersey. Why don’t you come down here and let me prove it?”

  Rae pulls open the front door. “And that’s definitely my cue to go.” She shows me her back and says as she steps onto the porch, “Get him to bed ASAP. That’ll make your job a whole lot easier.”

  I want to punch her in the bac
k of the head, but instead, I simply reply, “Thanks for bringing him home.”

  She says nothing to that, merely retreats down the landscaped, lighted path to her car and quickly circles it to get to the driver’s side.

  Seething, I stare after her taillights for a few seconds, then, eyes closed and arms wrapped around myself, strategize my next steps. I’ll keep an eye on Jet’s phone for updates about those tests in the morning, and afterward, we’ll have the hired car take us by the training facility to get his car.

  I open my eyes. Under the porch light, I give myself a silent pep talk.

  You’ve got this, Richards. He’s a grown man, after all. Get him upstairs and in bed. How hard can it be?

  A crash from inside the house behind me has me spinning and running faster than an All-Pro punt returner. It’ll be a miracle if both of us survive the night.

  We do survive the night. And the next morning, and the whole next day, most of which we spend at the hospital. It doesn’t take long for doctors to confirm Rae’s suspicions that Jet sustained a deep sprain to the ligament connecting his thumb to the rest of his hand, but after his diagnosis, the celebrity patient doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave the hospital.

  When he first suggests we stop by the pediatric ward, I’m not particularly thrilled. After a long, restless night, part of which I spent helping two-hundred pounds of dead weight get to the bathroom when his meds upset his stomach, I want to get him home and take a nap. But I don’t object to visiting the kids, because it seems important to him, and I figure if it takes his mind off things for a while, then it’s worth it.

  As soon as the elevator doors open on that pediatric floor, he’s a different person than he’s been all morning. The patients think it’s cool that Jet Knox has a boo-boo, too. He explains to them what the doctors have told him about his hand and how it means he can’t play like he wants to, either, for a while.

  Then he spends one-on-one time with each child. In most cases, he makes the kids laugh by cutting loose and acting silly. Other times, for the less outgoing patients, he tones it down, talking quietly and gently next to their beds, or listening intently to what they have to say. In one instance, he holds a ten-year-old girl’s hand while she cries. At another bed, he reads a story to a boy too young and too sick to know or care who Jet Knox is.

  We spend hours on that floor. Jet the hospital visitor is amazing.

  Jet the patient is a pain in the ass.

  I know, that’s a horrible thing to say. He’s hurt; he’s worried about his throwing hand and his job; he’s dealing with a lot. I should be more understanding. But I thought he’d be a better trouper than he’s been. I figured he’d be his usual go-getter self, the guy who doesn’t take “no” for an answer, the guy who’s all about solutions. It’s not that I thought he’d be like he was when he first came home, high and manic and silly, but I didn’t think he’d be so down and short-tempered, either.

  The doctors say if he follows their recovery instructions and does the exercises they’ve prescribed, he could be back in the game in as little as three weeks, missing only two games, thanks to the team’s early bye this year. But one of the games he’ll miss is that Monday night home rematch against the Patriots he’s been looking forward to since losing to them in the playoffs. I can only imagine how disappointed he is.

  Since he’s not talking to me, I’ve had to resort to just that, my imagination.

  Maybe he’s simply tired and hungover from the drugs. Maybe the pain is getting to him more than he wants to let on.

  Or maybe, like so many people online, he thinks this is my fault.

  Anyone else notice that Knox sucks now that he has a girlfriend?

  Someone doesn’t have his head in the game.

  It’s like Tomossi and Samantha Wallace all over again. Remember that mess?

  Less time with the chick and more time with the playbook and on the practice field, please.

  If Jet’s demeanor is any indication, he does agree with them. He hardly talks to me at all. He says “Please” and “Thanks” when I help him with things that require two hands with opposable, working thumbs, but the monosyllables are killing me. I might as well be one of his handlers, an employee, someone he barely knows, paid to get him from place to place and make sure he’s comfortable.

  Going back to work has been somewhat of a relief. I took Monday off, but you can only call in so many times because your boyfriend sprained his thumb, even if he is the beloved Jet Knox.

  Fortunately, he’s back to a semi-normal schedule, too, despite not participating in full workouts or practices. Mentoring Michael Wilcox, his temporary replacement, is his main job duty now. I bet he’s thrilled about that.

  Again, I wouldn’t know. That information is apparently classified, and I’m not one of the people on a need-to-know.

  My idea of a perfect Friday night at the end of such a craptastic week includes pizza, a good movie from my collection, and my solitary, sweats-clad ass on my couch. Unfortunately, Jet and I are expected to attend tonight’s Red Friday, the team’s official pep rally for the home opener.

  That means I make myself presentable to play Happy Couple around thousands of strangers, many of whom hate me right now and blame me for their hero’s fall, which they’re treating like the end of the world, rather than the temporary setback it is.

  At the rally, Jet turns on the charm for his teammates and the fans, signing autographs (unrecognizable, considering he can’t hold a football, much less grip a pen), while I’m expected to socialize with the other wives and girlfriends, or WAGs. And the cheerleaders.

  One such conversationalist is Dixie, the Southern-accented woman who rides the white horse, Warpaint, at home games. I have to listen to Horse Lady gush about her myriad “blassin’s,” which include dressing up in a crop top and chaps to bounce around in front of drunk spectators. Nursing my red plastic cup of hard cider, I play my own private drinking game, taking a gulp every time she utters any variation of, “Ah’m so blassed!” In order to prevent being completely blasted by the end of the evening, I take small sips, so I’m only moderately tipsy by the time we leave.

  Fortunately, the players aren’t expected to stay late, so Jet and I are home by nine. Well, at Jet’s home. He seemed to be driving home on auto-pilot, and in my pique, I didn’t realize it until we were almost here. Instead of asking him to take me home, I figure I’ll sleep in a guest room and borrow one of his cars in the morning. No need for discussion, since that’s, apparently, something we no longer do.

  When we enter the house, and I walk straight to the stairs with a listless, “Good night,” he says, “Hey,” drawing me up short.

  I pause halfway up the flight, looking down on him while Torzi catches up to me.

  “You’re going to bed already?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Okay. I have to do my physical therapy real quick.”

  “No rush,” I reassure him, clomping the rest of the way to the second floor.

  My sole requirement is a bed, so I choose the first room at the top of the stairs. There, I listlessly kick off my cute new cowboy boots and shed the casual red dress I bought weeks ago in such joyful anticipation of this night. The balled-up dress gets tossed in the general direction of the wing-backed chair in the corner. My denim jacket stays on the floor where I dropped it.

  Stripped down to my underwear, I find a new toothbrush in the bathroom and unwrap it. While brushing my teeth, I study myself in the mirror over the sink. I look miserable. Which makes sense. Because that’s exactly how I feel.

  Maybe this is my reality check. Maybe I’m not cut out for this life, being another actor in a show that runs four months—sometimes longer, if the players are lucky—then spending the rest of the year preparing for the show’s next run, all the while ignoring the audience’s heckles and making sure they never glimpse what’s going on backstage.

  When I return to the bedroom, Torzi is patiently waiting for me at the foot of the bed. As
soon as I slide under the covers and settle on my side with my back facing the closed door, he burrows beneath the sheet and curls up in the space between my legs and torso.

  I absently stroke his head. “You keepin’ me company tonight, Bud? Maybe you have some tips. You’ve been keeping the home fires bright and warm for a while now. Is this how it always is?”

  He licks my hand, so I move it to discourage the behavior that always grosses me out, but I continue talking, because, no matter how ridiculous I feel talking to a dog, it still feels better than holding it all inside for another minute.

  “You might not have realized this about me yet, Torzi, but I’m not a big fan of responsibility. This NFL support person gig is a big responsibility, you know? It’s hard to keep everything in perspective. But that’s our job. To make sure Jet’s not letting everything that goes along with this life mess with his head. Right? But how do you keep it from messing with your head?”

  After a few more attempts at licking and my consistent rebuffs, the dog gives up with a resigned exhale. Surprisingly quickly, I doze, then fall deeply asleep.

  I wake up slowly when something damp presses against my neck.

  I swat at it. “Torzi, no. Cut it out.” But instead of my hand making contact with the springy fuzz I’m expecting, it meets skin, and eyelashes.

  “Ow. Hey, it’s me.”

  My eyes fly open, but I remain motionless on my side.

  Above and behind me, Jet asks with a smile in his voice, “What have you and Torzi been doing in here?”

  “Sleeping,” I grunt, pulling the covers further over my bare shoulder.

  He slips into the bed and cozies up to my back, placing a peck between my shoulder blades. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Why are you in here?”

  “I’m tired and want to sleep.”

  “There’s a bed in my room for that, too.”

  “I know.”