The Trouble With Quarterbacks

by R.S. Grey

  He frowns, obviously confused by my odd reaction.

  I’ve only been in the States a few years. Is foosball a big thing here? I wasn’t aware.

  Just to be sure I’ve got it right, I follow up with a question.

  “So you knock that little ball around trying to score?”

  He grins, looking down at me like I’m the oddest creature he’s ever encountered. “I guess you could put it that way.”

  Huh.

  “It’s a big sport here?”

  He tips back on his heels, and I swear I see a tiny tinge of color on his sharply tanned cheekbones. “Yeah, pretty big.”

  It’s like he’s embarrassed to admit it.

  “See?!” Briggs says. “Told you he’s famous!”

  I make a mental note to look into America’s professional foosball league when I get back to our flat. Even after living here for a while, I swear there’s still so much about this country I’ve yet to learn, but if all the players in that league look like Logan, well…I’ve just found my new favorite sport.

  “Uncle Logan, can we get a snack on the way to your apartment?!” Briggs asks, hopping from foot to foot impatiently.

  “Sure thing,” Logan says, glancing down at him with a smile before his warm brown gaze quickly snaps back to me. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

  Right. Our time has come to an end. We can’t stand here all day chatting away. How horribly unfair.

  “Sure. Yes. Cheers,” I say, twisting the knob so I can open the bottom half of the Dutch door and let Briggs sneak past me. Logan steps toward me to help open the door as I step toward him to take my usual position at the threshold of the classroom, and the synchronized movement brings me right up to him, like Hello, rock-solid chest in my face. Our size difference is hilarious. It’s like we’re in some children’s book about opposites.

  For a brief moment, my mind wanders. I wonder how good he is at foosball. He must have a hard time controlling his strength while twisting that teeny pole around. His arms look like he could break the table like a twig. Break me like a twig too.

  Oh yes, Candace, let your brain conjure up those images. That’ll do you good.

  Fortunately, Briggs steals my attention by demanding one last hug from me before he goes off with his uncle. I’m not surprised; he’s eternally starved for affection. He’d cuddle all day if I let him.

  “See you later, alligator,” I say with a wink.

  He beams, proud to show off our parting words for his uncle. “In a while, crocodile!”

  Logan nods his head in farewell before tucking Briggs against his side and steering him toward the entrance of the school. I stand watching them leave for so long that I’m oblivious to the caregivers standing at my door, trying to pick up their respective children.

  “Ms. Candace?” a shy au pair peeps.

  I wave her away. Give me a second, please. It’s been ages since I’ve seen anyone as handsome as Logan in real life. It’s a true privilege, and I want to soak it in. What a man. Strong and kind and tempting. He’s stepped right out of my daydream.

  Logan reaches the exit at the end of the hall then turns back for a brief moment. Our gazes lock again and he smiles, but I barely catch it before I duck swiftly back into the doorway, praying he didn’t notice how lovesick I looked watching him leave.

  “Did he see?”

  “The drool? I’m afraid so.” The au pair frowns.

  Just my luck.

  Chapter Two

  Candace

  I haven’t got Logan out of my mind in days. As soon as the last student left my classroom on Thursday, I fired off a long text to my flatmates.

  CANDACE: KAT & YASMINE! DO NOT DALLY! Come straight back to the flat after work. Kat, don’t take the long route from the subway station just so you can pass by Cute Hot Dog Guy. This is important!

  I’ve had THE BEST DAY. You won’t believe it. There I was in my preschool classroom, washing a bit of poo out of some trousers (you know how it goes…), when this absolute babe came to collect his nephew from my class.

  Truthfully, I thought I’d blacked out for a moment when I first saw him. He was a proper hunk with glorious brown hair that had a bit of wave to it, he was quite tall, and he had these arms. Are muscly arms supposed to make you damp all over? I’m panting just thinking about them.

  Anyway, he told me he’s a professional foosball player. At least, I think that’s what he said. The tots can get quite loud near pick-up time.

  YASMINE: Foosball? What are you on about, Candace? Have you gone mad?

  KAT: Oh sod off. So what if I like to have a good look at Hot Dog Guy’s arse on my trek home after a hard day’s work in the city? It’s called self-care.

  CANDACE: Kat, I’m ignoring that. Yes, Yasmine—foosball! Y’know, the sport with the tiny ball you toss around the table? I suppose it’s a big thing over here in the States. We must investigate and learn everything we can.

  By the way, he’s called Logan.

  Logan + Candace. I think that sounds quite nice! I can hear the wedding bells now. Dum, dum, dah-dum.

  YASMINE: Oh good grief. I suppose we can do some snooping when I get home. I’ll grab wine on my way.

  KAT: I’ll grab hot dogs.

  As soon as we all arrived back at home, I droned on about him for hours.

  “Did I already tell you about his arms?”

  “Loads of times,” Kat said, quickly holding her hands up to her ears in case I decided to start in on it again.

  I yanked them away so she could hear me properly. “And the hair? That dark brown color…like velvet. And just the right amount of curl! More like a wave. Do you know what I mean? Should I pull up an example on Google again?”

  Yasmine swiped my computer off my lap before I could pull up my previous search.

  “Please spare us. I’m sure he was hot, but who cares? It sounds like he’s way out of your league.”

  I pulled a face like she was absolutely insane. “Out of my league?!”

  I stood up to show her all of what I have to offer, confident she was selling me short. Though…as stray popcorn bits fell from my lap onto the floor, I realized maybe she did have a point. The TV remote fell out of my lap too—right on my toe. I winced and did a good bit of yelping and hopping around until I felt I had my pain better under control.

  “Yasmine, look at me,” I finally said, walking to the end of our tiny living room then posing like I was at the end of a catwalk. “There isn’t a man on earth who’s out of my league.”

  “You’ve got a bit of wine on your pajamas there,” Kat noted, deadpan.

  I looked down at my oversized t-shirt, which matched the ones they were wearing. We grabbed them in a gift shop on Coney Island as a total joke. It stretches all the way to my knees and features a caricature of a woman’s body in a bikini top and bottom. The way it’s cut, it makes it look like it’s my body.

  “I don’t see it.”

  “There. Right near your left boob.”

  Ah yes.

  I dabbed at the stain with my thumb, but it didn’t budge. Old, probably.

  “Chocolate too, just there,” Yasmine joined in. “Does anything actually make it into your mouth?”

  I smiled wolfishly at them. “Oh yes.”

  This is when—and I’m not proud of it, per se—I mimed a sort of blow job bit. They both rolled laughing, knowing I was totally full of it. Just like my nether regions, my mouth hasn’t seen any action in quite a while.

  “Anyway, ladies, I feel bad—I do. I’ll have to break my lease when he whisks me off to some fairytale island to have his wicked way with me, but do send on my mail, won’t you?”

  Yasmine whacked me in the head with a pillow from across the room, which is quite impressive because she’s the least athletic out of all of us.

  Unfortunately, her pillow didn’t do the trick.

  I’m still thinking about Logan tonight, days later, while I work at District. I’m at the bar, waiting for the bartender
to finish making drinks for one of my tables.

  In the meantime, I’m picking a little red paint off my left thumb. It’s evidence of the volcano I started constructing for another science lesson back at the flat before I had to rush here for my shift.

  “It’s not fair. You look adorable in this outfit. I swear to god, my breasts are one deep breath away from tumbling right out for everyone to see.”

  I glance over at the new girl standing beside me, the one talking. She only started here a few days ago, and she’s really struggling with catching on to things. I swear she whinges on about something new every five seconds.

  Why do they have to keep it so dark in here? I’m going to trip down these stairs!

  What’s with these slow-ass bartenders?

  Are you getting good tips? Mine have been total shit all night.

  This job is not hard. Take drink orders. Deliver said orders. Smile. Collect the tips.

  “Do I look okay?” she asks, turning to me so I can assess her. “I feel like I look horrible in this uniform. Does the shirt have to be so tight?”

  “You look great,” I say with an encouraging nod and a thumbs-up, more than a little relieved when the bartender finishes loading drinks onto my tray.

  “Thanks, Roger!” I say, sending him a quick friendly wink before quickly turning away from New Girl.

  “Roger, does this shirt look like it fits me?” she asks, looking to him for input now.

  Oh dear. Poor Roger. But better you than me, mate! I sprint as fast as I can away from the bar while keeping my drinks from spilling off my tray.

  District is packed to the gills tonight. It’s Friday, and the city is out in full force. I’m waiting on a few tables near the VIP section. They’ve all arrived within the hour, very thirsty and very demanding, but I handle it like a champ. The ladies are here to celebrate a friend’s promotion at work and have very exact drink orders (shaken, not stirred—that sort of thing), but my memory doesn’t fail me, and when I load up their table with Roger’s cocktails, they squeal with glee.

  “Candace, these drinks are perfect!” the leader tells me before turning to her friends so they can all clink their glasses together. “Before you go, would you mind taking our picture?”

  I happily oblige. The shit lighting in here means all their flaws (of which there are barely any) will totally disappear in the photographs. They’ll look slightly out of focus and decadent in this posh setting.

  “Smile, girls!” I prod, holding the mobile up to snap a photo. I go ahead and take ten more—because someone will whinge about their eyes being half-closed in the first, no doubt—and then I pass back the mobile. They all lean in to get a good look at the screen.

  “It’s perfect!” one declares.

  I smile and promise to be back to check on them soon before making my way to my next table. It’s a group of lads here to celebrate a bachelor party, and they’ve been quite rowdy since they arrived. Very macho, very reminiscent of a herd of male peacocks.

  They’re the closest you can be to VIP without actually being in it, and when I wander over, they’re talking extremely loudly about a guest sitting up on level two behind the red rope.

  “That’s definitely him! I think I know a Super-Bowl-winning quarterback when I see one.”

  “All you could see was the back of his head when he walked by, dipshit. It could be anyone!”

  “Lads! Oy!” I interrupt them. “Can I get drink orders?”

  I’m small, but my accented voice carries, and they all turn at once to lock their eyes on me. I stand at the base of their round booth, waving around the little notepad I use to jot down lengthy orders.

  “Are you on the menu?” one of them asks, a bit under his breath, but they all hear it and so do I. A few of them snicker.

  I take no offense. My main goal tonight is to earn tips, and I’ll bet they’re mostly harmless. All-talk sort of guys.

  “That depends,” I reply saucily, propping my hands on my hips.

  They all lean in, interested.

  “Shall I bring the bachelor boy a round of shots and we’ll all have one?”

  “Yes!” one of them shouts before the others have a chance. “Top-shelf tequila. Whatever you have that’s best.” He reaches into the back pocket of his suit pants and tugs out his wallet.

  I hold up my hand; I already have their cards at the bar for their tab. He’s forgotten, but I remind him.

  “Right,” he says, continuing to tug a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “This is just for you then—if you take that shot with us.”

  For some, his offer might creep a bit too close to selling your soul. Putting up with these guys, joking and laughing with them…yes, they’re leering at me like I’m a glossy rack of prime rib, but that hundred-dollar bill is too good to pass up. Besides, Roger knows the drill.

  A few minutes later, we all take a tequila shot like pros, sucking it down and chasing it with a tart lime wedge. I use the back of my hand to wipe a bit of the juice from my chin and then unfurl a proud smile. They all watched me take mine, unsure of my abilities to hold my liquor. Of course, they don’t know that Roger watered mine down enough that it barely had any bite to it at all. It’s the only way to make it through a shift, especially with guys like these.

  “She’s my dream woman,” one of them says, leaning in to take my hand. “Marry me?”

  I laugh and play along, though his hand is a little clammy with sweat and he reeks of alcohol. It’s barely masked by his expensive cologne, and though he’s got a handsome enough face and a fat enough wallet, he’s absolutely not my type.

  “I appreciate it, really, but—”

  “Candace?”

  The sharp voice carries over the noise of the bar, drawing my attention toward the VIP section. Up on the second-floor landing, I spot Logan right away. It’s not as if he’s hard to find, standing up and facing me, as impossible to ignore as the sun. God, what a bloke. All tall and tanned in his black shirt and jeans. He’s dressed way more casually than most of our patrons here, but he looks more like he belongs than anyone. His hair is just as perfect as I remember—short enough that it barely gets to do any of its marvelous curl, but long enough that my fingers could get tangled in it. Easily.

  He curves around the tables to get to the entrance of the VIP section, and I watch him move, amazed by how fluid his steps are, how he commands his body and the people around him. They move and shift for him before he even has to ask. Noah parting the Red Sea, this one. Sheesh, quite convenient little trick that is. I’d never have to fight my way through packed subways again.

  It’s only been a week since I met him at The Day School, but I’d forgotten tiny details about him already. They coalesce back into perfect clarity as he comes to stand right in front of me.

  I haven’t had the good sense to wrest my hand away from Mr. Clammy Smells-a-Lot, and he hasn’t finished the task either. Logan glances down at where our hands are linked, and a disgruntled frown takes over his handsome features.

  “Are these guys bothering you?”

  “I FUCKING TOLD YOU! IT’S HIM!” the original guy declares, and his friends all go crazy, crushing toward the end of the booth to get to Logan.

  “Mr. Matthews. Truly, it’s a pleasure. Oh my god. Dude, can we get a picture?”

  My hand is released and I’m long forgotten, pushed to the side as they all try to get closer to him. I rub my shoulder where one of them not-so-politely elbowed me out of the way, and Logan is there, taking in every moment, completely unbothered by the swarm of lads surrounding him.

  I looked into the foosball league like I meant to, but I didn’t find much, and truthfully, it looked a bit…silly? Nothing like these guys are making it out to be. It’s like Logan is really their hero. They want autographs and photos and “Can you call my girlfriend and leave a message? She’s in love with you, man. You’d really be helping me out.”

  Logan doesn’t take photos, but he signs a few cocktail napkins qui
ckly and they get distributed among the group with a few grunts and threats and one solid punch to an arm.

  “Dude, he gave it to me!”

  “Candace?” Logan says, pinning the full weight of his attention back on me. My knees go weak a bit like maybe I’m not quite strong enough to handle him like this, looking at me from head to toe, brows pinched together, concern filling his brown eyes. “Come back to my table with me,” he says, waving away the group’s further requests and reaching out to take my hand.

  With the contact, an electric current zings up my arm like I’ve just shoved the tines of a fork straight into a wall socket. I’d be shocked if my hair wasn’t standing on end.

  His hand is so big it engulfs mine completely. There’d be no chance of escaping him even if I tried, though I really, really don’t want to try.

  He tugs me along without confirming if I’d like to go with him, and I get half-dragged, half-carried up the flight of stairs into VIP. I’ve only been up here a few times and only before the bar opens to help shine glasses and lay out the bar. The veteran staff get to work this section every night, racking up tips and bragging about who they waited on. Even now, I briefly lock eyes with Simone—the waitress who trained me—at the VIP bar and shrug to let her know I have no idea what’s going on. She sees Logan’s hand on mine, and I think she realizes I’m not just waltzing up here to steal her tips. Thank god.

  Logan’s table is near the back, real secluded and tucked away. I expected a group of guys, but it’s a mixture: two huge blokes and three absolutely stunning women, sitting between their dates in showy dresses I’d die to get my hands on. The one on the end perks up when she sees Logan approach again. Then her smile noticeably fades when she sees him and me holding hands. I try—immediately—to yank mine free, but he doesn’t let go, not until we’re right at his table.