Out of My League (The Underdog series Book 1)

by Brea Brown

  “Sounds amazing. I need to get my weight off my feet before they—”

  Without warning, he lifts me from the ground, presses his mouth to mine, and silences me with one of the most eyeball-spinning, head-lolling, panties-dampening kisses I’ve ever experienced. Despite its intensity, though, it’s short, and I groan with frustration when he withdraws.

  He waits for me to open my eyes. Then, with a half-smile, he asks, “How’s that?”

  “Good start,” I approve as he sets me down. Too bad that’s as far as it’s going to go. Instead of whining about it, though, I simply smile bravely at him, turn to retrieve my flowers, and say, “See you there.”

  Thirty-Four

  San Diego Surprise

  “And that’s the game, folks,” I say with gleeful authority, standing to collect our empty beer bottles.

  Colin lurches to his feet. “Wait!”

  I freeze in my stretch, my arms suspended over my head, my back arched.

  “Don’t you want to watch to the end?”

  Relaxing my posture, I yawn. “This is the end. That’s called ‘the victory formation,’ and watch…” We both keep our eyes on the television as Jet cozies up to the center, receives the snap, and immediately kneels on the turf.

  “Why’s he doing that?” Colin asks.

  “To run out the clock without the chance of turning over the ball.” I point to the screen with the beer bottle in my left hand. Jet stands with his teammates in a loose huddle, watching the play clock tick down to ten. Then they line up in the same configuration, wait until the clock hits “one,” and snap the ball again. Once more, Jet rests on one knee. “See? Every time they do that, it kills forty seconds from the clock. So you can eat up as much as two minutes of play time with three downs and not risk a turnover.”

  “Ah!” He grins. “Clever. Now that you mention it, I’ve seen teams do that before halftime, too.”

  “Same thing, only that’s generally called ‘taking a knee,’ since it’s not about winning at that point; it’s mostly about getting to halftime more quickly. Sometimes losing teams do it to end their first half misery.”

  “So it’s a throwaway play. That looks incredibly frustrating for the losing team.”

  “It is,” I reply with a smirk. “I hate when our defense has to sit back and watch it happen. But I love watching Jet do it.”

  Colin clears his throat. “You like to watch him kneel?”

  I laugh. “I didn’t mean it like that, but”—I think more about it—“yes.”

  When I move to leave the room again, he quickly and loudly asks, “But wait, wait, wait! How does that differ from spiking the ball?”

  I stop again and face him. “Spiking the ball is also a throwaway play, but it counts as an incomplete pass and stops the clock, which you definitely don’t want to do, in this instance.”

  “Makes sense.”

  He fidgets and glances from me to the television as Jet takes the final knee, underhand tosses the ball to the ref, and jogs off the field, toward the bench.

  “Game over,” I announce, turning once more toward the kitchen.

  “Maura!” Colin rushes over and removes the bottles from my hands.

  I’m so taken aback by his odd behavior, I don’t resist, but I do ask, “What the heck are you doing?”

  “Let me worry about clearing up.” However, he sets the collection of glass containers on the nearest surface and leads me by the arm back to the couch.

  “What? No! You’re a guest.”

  “We’re both guests, technically. In effect.”

  “Uh, I guess. But I invited you here.”

  “I invited myself. Which was terribly rude, come to think of it. So the least I can do is clear up. You simply have a seat and relax.” He pushes me down onto the sofa. “You must be knackered after watching that game.”

  Sitting on the edge of the cushion while he plumps a pillow behind me, I eye my strange little friend and say, “It wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

  Sure, it was hard at first to see what a gorgeous fall day they’re having out there in San Diego, especially considering we’re experiencing yet another soggy Sunday here in Kansas City, but I can’t begrudge them the nice weather. For the most part, I’m glad Mother Nature has conspired to provide my brother and dad a picture perfect day.

  Life is good. It’s trite, and it’s a cliché, but it fits. Life is amazing. I’m in love and loved back in equal—if not greater—measure. I’m young and healthy and gainfully employed at a job I don’t hate and sometimes even enjoy, on the best of days. It’s petty and ungrateful to sulk because one weekend of my life didn’t go as originally planned.

  Now that I’ve had a few days away from work, I don’t feel so run down. With the job fair behind me, I’m lighter, in general. I did it. I’ll do it again, only next time with less angst, because I’ll know I can.

  As for this game, I did approach it with some trepidation. I probably assigned more significance to the win than was necessary, division rival or not. While I eventually did decide I’d watch it, no matter what, I wasn’t keen on having to regulate my behavior or my responses to the unfolding action due to the presence of someone else.

  But it hit me the third time I tried to back out of hosting Colin, and he wouldn’t hear of it, that his insistence at coming here today was about more than a game he may or may not be all that interested in watching. He wanted to be here to support me, his friend. Sometimes being a good friend—or sibling or child or lover or person—is not only about giving; it’s also about accepting the care of the people who love you. For whatever reason, Colin needed to nurture me today. The least I could do was let him.

  His behavior throughout the afternoon has only confirmed that suspicion. He’s watched me more than the television. So I’ve made it a point to show him I’m fine.

  He kept me preoccupied at the beginning of the game, as we got settled in with our drinks and snacks and caught up on life. The Blue Rinse Brigade is as colorful as ever, and his storytelling skills only make them more hilarious. He seemed relieved that I took such delight in his stories and was in good spirits.

  The odd thing is, though, as the afternoon turned to evening, and I became more and more relaxed, with the help of a couple of beers and a game in which the Chiefs didn’t trail for a single minute, Colin became more, not less, fidgety. At one point, when I was dozing before halftime, as I have a habit of doing, he clapped his hands and whistled to wake me. Not only did that bring Torzi running, but it scared the crap out of me. When I insisted I needed to rest my eyes while the commentators droned on about Jet’s comeback and the other games happening around the league, Colin was equally dogged about keeping me awake, plying me with sugary snacks and demanding I show him how to make coffee with the fancy machine in Jet’s kitchen, then nearly forcing me to drink the strong brew.

  “You have to stay awake to explain things to me.”

  So I did. But while I allowed him to coddle me throughout the game, this latest behavior is too weird to let slide.

  “What is your deal today?” I finally ask.

  “My deal?” he repeats guilelessly, blinking, then rapidly and repeatedly shifting his attention from the TV to my face.

  I glance at the screen, but the coverage is lingering on a wide shot of the field, the helmetless players from both teams mingling and greeting each other, saying, “Good game,” and “Hey, how’s it going?” The usual. I don’t see Jet, but it’s a shot taken from so far away, on one of those cable cams, that I don’t expect to be able to see him. Plus, the sideline reporter has probably pulled him away for a post-game interview.

  Returning my focus to Colin’s face, I ask, “What’s going on? You’ve been shifty all day.”

  He widens his eyes and puffs out his cheeks, but before he can issue a denial, it dawns on me. “Wait a second. Did Jet put you up to this?”

  He pales. “Jet? No. What makes you— That is, why on earth would you think— Er, put me up to
what?” Again, his eyes flick to the television.

  I follow his attention, and just as I’m about to persist with my line of questioning, accusing him and my boyfriend of having me on mope prevention watch, the shot changes to a view of the visitors’ bench, where Jet and Rae are sitting, with seven guys from the team standing behind them.

  “What the fuh…?”

  “Oh, this is interesting,” Colin remarks innocently, grabbing the remote and cranking up the volume. “Is that Rae with Jet? How odd! I wonder what’s happening.”

  I shoot him a dirty look from the corner of my eye but keep my attention glued to the action, as the booth announcers pitch it to the sideline reporter, whom we only hear, not see.

  “Thanks, Dan and Charlie. We’ll have some post-game remarks from Chiefs quarterback Jet Knox in a moment, but first he’s asked us to help him relay a special message, so… here we go.”

  “What the fuh…?” I repeat, only at a higher, Torzi-deafening range as my heart threatens to turn inside out on itself.

  Jet flips up a piece of poster board from his lap that says in bold, Chiefs-red letters, Maura, will you marry me?

  My hands fly up to cover my nose and mouth.

  Rae turns up the white sign in her lap, which reads, Say yes! You know you want to!

  I laugh into my hands and muffle, “Oh, my gosh! I’m going to kill all of you.”

  Colin wraps his arm around my shoulders as the players in the line behind the bench raise posters that each contain a letter and the punctuation of the question, PLEASE?

  Dropping my hands, I nod like an idiot, then mouth into the room, “Yes!”, not clear how the heck this is working or how Jet will get my answer. If there’s a camera in here, I’ll puke. What else has the TV crew seen and heard today from this room?

  Before I can panic too much, though, Rae holds up her phone for Jet to see the screen.

  “She said yes!” He springs from the bench and pumps his fist next to his body in his touchdown celebration move, which is the signal for the guys behind him to go crazy, rubbing his head, slapping his back and butt, and shouting, “Congrats, man!”

  It all took less than fifteen seconds, probably, but it feels like the world is moving in slow motion. I turn to Colin, who holds up his phone, the word Yes in a text bubble on the screen. At the top of the screen is Rae’s name and number.

  He hugs me while I wipe my eyes and sniffle. “You guys!” I screech over his shoulder, smacking him, hard, on the back.

  He laughs and admits, “I’ve had that typed into my phone all day. I didn’t trust myself to be able to enter it fast enough with shaking fingers.” Holding up his hands, he confirms they’re still trembling. “I didn’t want to be the weak link in the plan.”

  Jet’s voice rings out in the room, thanking the sideline reporter for her help, so I turn toward the television again, still squeegeeing tears from my face. He stands in the typical post-game interview stance, bent down slightly to hear the questions and speak into the microphone of the much shorter reporter.

  “Jet Knox, that was the gutsiest play call of the day. What was going through your mind when you held up that sign?”

  He laughs. “Uh, actually, I was thinking, ‘She’s going to kill me.’ But it was too late to back out, and I love her and really wanted to ask the question, and if she said no, I’d just keep finding other ways to ask.” He flashes his mega-watt grin at the camera. “I’m glad it worked out, though.”

  “This was a big game, in general, for you, with your return to the field after your injury in Game One. Were you worried about your post-game plan being a distraction from what you wanted to do here today, get a win against your division foe, the Chargers?”

  His hand on his hip, he smiles down at the reporter and shakes his head. “Not at all, Gina. Maura’s not a distraction; she’s an inspiration. I go out there and play my heart out every game, because that’s what I love to do. Nobody loves this team more than she does. Her support only makes me better.” He kisses his fingers and holds them up to the camera.

  Gina chuckles. “Well, this is like something out of a movie, something she’ll remember forever. Thanks for talking to us. Congrats on the win… and the engagement.”

  “Thanks, Gina.” To the camera, he says, “Love you, Beautiful. GO CHIEFS!” and then jogs out of frame. The shot follows him as he hugs Rae, who’s waiting for him, and disappears with her into the tunnel that leads to the locker room.

  Stunned, I stare at the screen for several more minutes, through more sideline interviews and the pitch back to the desk in the studio, where the guys there marvel that “Jet Knox has some serious courage” and say they’d never have the guts to try that. I remain catatonic through most of the following commercial break.

  Finally, after giving me my moment to recover, Colin pats my knee and says quietly, “And you said romance only happens in movies.”

  Thirty-Five

  “So Blassed!”

  I still haven’t recovered by the time Jet returns home, slinging his overnight bag onto the entryway floor with a thump and a rustle of nylon against tile.

  “Maura? You still here?” he calls, striding into the living room, where I’m sitting in virtually the same spot Colin left me, staring vacantly at the wrap-up analysis after the night game.

  Not sure what to do with myself, I rise to my feet and wipe my damp palms on my yoga pants, suddenly wishing I’d thought to change into something nicer than yoga pants and this football jersey. Especially when I see Jet’s still wearing his post-game press conference dress shirt and trousers. Feeling inexplicably shy, I train my eyes on his huge, shiny shoes.

  “Hey,” I say, but it comes out in a choked whisper, my voice rusty from disuse.

  “Hey, Beautiful.” His strides shorten, and he pulls up, approaching me more slowly, cautiously, like he’s waiting for my permission to proceed.

  I clear my throat and attempt a smile, but to my horror, the dam breaks on all of the emotions—both good and bad—that have been plaguing me for the past month. Heck, probably the past nine months.

  No longer hesitant, he steps up to me and pulls my face to his chest. “Hey, hey. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing!” I say, not certain if that’s the truth, since I’m not sure why I’m crying, to begin with. I just know it feels good. And humiliating. I wish I’d been able to get this out of my system before he got home. But I was still in such shock. It took seeing him, his smile, his unsure eyes… Those effing eyes! How am I going to manage a lifetime with this guy and those eyes?

  Weaving his fingers through the back of my hair, he gently massages my neck at the base of my skull. “Oh, man. Your answer’s no, isn’t it?”

  “No!” I try to pull my head up to look him in the face, but he’s stronger than I am, stronger than he must realize.

  “Okay, but it’s not ‘yes,’ right? It’s still ‘not yet.’ But Colin didn’t want me to look like an idiot on national television, so he texted ‘yes.’”

  “Jet, no. That’s not—”

  “Gosh. What a nice guy.”

  Finally, I manage to use my entire body to push away from my fiancé and say, “My answer is really yes.”

  The color I didn’t realize had left his cheeks returns, and he exhales so hard I worry about his lungs. “Oh, whew! When you started crying, I thought you didn’t—”

  I swipe at my tears. “I don’t know why I started crying. I mean, I did when it all first happened, but since then, I’ve been numb.”

  “Numb? That’s not good.”

  “I guess I still can’t believe you did that. And that Rae and Colin and all those guys were in on it with you. And that not a single one of you realized what a horrible idea that was.” I laugh, so he does, too, looking relieved.

  Pulling me against him once more, his hands against my lower back, he asks down at me, “Are you mad at me?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a little bit?”

  I shake
my head.

  “Okay. Then it was my idea.”

  “And if I had hated it?”

  “Then it was Rae’s idea.”

  I brush a lock of hair from his forehead. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Marry me?”

  “After that.”

  “Live happily ever after with me?”

  I close one eye and look toward my forehead. “Before that.”

  He cups my butt in his hands and bends at the knees. “I have a few ideas,” he murmurs, his breath feathering against my lips.

  I laugh. “Yeah. Well, you’ll get back to me on that in about three months, right?”

  “How about three minutes?”

  “Don’t tease me, Number Fourteen.”

  “Does it feel like I’m joking?”

  No, it does not. Not at all. That’s a serious appendage.

  Still, I check. “So, like that, the rule you follow so religiously—unless you’re on the DL—is a thing of the past? Or is this a one-time-only reprieve? Because I don’t want your pity or your charity. If you’re tough enough to go without, I am, too. I’d prefer not to fall off the wagon and have to start all over again.”

  His head drops back, and he laughs at the ceiling. When he lowers his eyes to mine again, they’re dancing. “Wow. This is quite the one-eighty you’ve made on this rule. I figured you had a bet running with Rae about how soon I’d crack.”

  “I know you better than that. You’re stubborn, like… like a horse!”

  “A horse, huh? Like Warpaint?”

  Assuming a strong Southern accent, I answer, “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, you big stud.”

  He nuzzles my neck. “Mmmm. Someone mega-smart once showed me the results of a study that said my rule might be complete and utter horse hockey.”

  “Well, I declare! And what did you make of that?”

  “I think we need to do our own study and test that hypothesis. Extensively.”

  “My stars! It gives me the vapors when you talk scientific.”