Unfortunately, he simply finishes his sentence with, “…it’s going to have to wait until the off-season. Our date wound up on a couple of stupid gossip blogs. Can you believe that? Like there aren’t important things happening in the world. Not that our date wasn’t important to me, but… You know what I mean. Like, why do people care?”
I open my eyes, wondering if he’s seen the awful things some of them have said about me. Or if I should admit I have. In the end, I pretend I don’t care enough to mention it. “Right? Rae called me about it this morning and lectured me like a teenager who’d broken curfew.”
“Aw, Maura. I’m sorry about that! It wasn’t your fault. She shouldn’t be mad at you!”
His genuine regret makes me smile. “I know! I totally blamed you.”
He laughs. “Yeah, she was pissed when I saw her after the team meeting. If she wasn’t so scary, it would be funny.”
I smile at the image of her bearing down on him and can’t resist teasing (okay, flirting), “Is Jet Knox afraid of a five-foot-six girl?”
“You better believe it. She has strong hands!”
For some reason, this strikes me as one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard from a guy.
He joins me in laughing at himself, then says, “You have a great laugh.”
Nobody’s ever mentioned it before, so his compliment surprises me. “Uh, thanks.” I squirm, glad he can’t see me.
“It always makes me smile. It makes me happy, I guess.”
“Oh. Well. Okay.” He doesn’t seem embarrassed or self-conscious at all by this declaration, so it’s up to me to be uncomfortable enough for both of us. “Anyway…”
Seamlessly, he picks up where he left off earlier. “I’d love to hear that laugh again in person. Soon. But— Well, I don’t want to risk the team’s chances of winning it all. Not that I’m thinking that far ahead. It’s crazy to think past the next game, which is big enough. But the Super Bowl… That would be awesome, to say the least. It’s wrong to get too far ahead of myself, though.”
His stream-of-consciousness babble makes me shake my head. “Jet, I’m not Coach Bauer. Or one of your teammates. You don’t have to temper your excitement with me. It would be weird if you didn’t think about winning the Super Bowl.”
Out of curiosity, would you cry if you won?
“I don’t want to jinx it, that’s all.”
“You think I’m a jinx?”
“No!”
“Calm down. I was kidding.”
“Oh. Right.” He sighs. “I don’t want to talk about going to the Super Bowl, because we still have some games to play before then.” He pauses, but when I don’t speak, he says, “I think you’re awesome.”
I soften. Marginally. He’s such a sweet guy. And hot. (Don’t forget hot.) Plus, despite his seemingly limited vocabulary, he’s said two things to me in a matter of minutes that made me feel fantastic.
So fantastic that I blab without thinking about the consequences, “I like you, too, Jet. I’d like to see you again, when things settle down.”
“Really?” He chuckles nervously. “Because I thought maybe you weren’t that into me when you didn’t return my calls.”
Busted!
“Huh-huh. Well, like I said, I’ve been busy today.”
“Yeah, I get it. I don’t mean to sound creepy and clingy. That’s not me.” Again, the nervous chuckle.
“Okay.”
“Seriously. I swear. I can tell you’re not sure. But it’s true. The pressure of the playoffs must be getting to me. I’m all, like, unsure and stuff.”
“I believe you,” I tell him, if for no other reason than to get him to stop trying to convince me.
“Good. Well, I’ll let you get back to… whatever. Are you going to be watching the game tomorrow? Wait! Don’t answer that. It’ll make me more nervous, knowing you’re watching.”
“Oh my gosh!” I laugh. “You’re a mess!”
Sheepishly, he says, “Sorry. It’s probably a huge turn-off.”
“Actually, I think it’s cute.”
I like it a whole lot more than the self-assured attitude he had at dinner last night.
“But it makes me feel like an idiot.”
“I know you’re not, though.”
“No thanks to this phone call. I’m definitely going to hang up now, before I embarrass myself anymore.”
I’m surprisingly disappointed, but I say, “Okay. I won’t watch you tomorrow, if that’ll help. But good luck.”
“Thanks, Maura. Goodnight.”
“’Night, Jet.”
Oh, eff me.
Ten
Multiple Penalties
Big, fat liar. That’s what I am. Like everyone else in the city who isn’t at Arrowhead, I’m glued to the TV the next day, of course. There’s no way I’m missing this game, no matter what I told a certain someone on the phone. It’s been too many years since my team has come close to the playoffs. But I’m not as certain about who I want to win as everyone else is.
On the one hand, I totally dig Playoffs Jet. He’s nervous and self-deprecating and humble and cute. In that respect, I’d like to keep the playoffs streak alive. That means he has to win games, though. Each game he wins will give him more confidence and bring him closer to the Super Bowl. If he wins the Super Bowl, he’ll be brimming with self-assurance and swagger. Plus, that will be one more thing he’s checked off his life plan, meaning he’ll be ready to move on to the next thing, perhaps something more personal, like—gulp—a committed relationship.
On the other hand, if the team loses today, he’ll be free to see me again, as he claims to want to do. While I said I wanted to see him again, too, I said that mostly in response to his insecure ramblings. I would like to see that Jet, the one who sounded like a nervous wreck. If he goes back to being the suffocating man with the plan, though, I may have to give him his own ringtone (“Every Breath You Take” might fit well) and start screening his calls in earnest.
If I had three
