The Trouble With Quarterbacks

by R.S. Grey

  Logan.

  It’s time for action!

  I set down my ice cream and reach for my mobile, scrolling through contacts until I get to the Ls. His name is quite nice there, all masculine and strong. Logan Matthews. I would be Mrs. Candace Matthews. Oh get a grip, will you?!

  I dial him before I wimp out, and it rings and rings like the universe wants me to suffer.

  I eye the roses again. Then the ice cream. Then my stomach clenches in a real painful way, and then finally, the call connects.

  “Hey.”

  That’s all he says, and he doesn’t sound too keen to hear from me either, at least I don’t think he does.

  “Hi.”

  The line goes dead silent for a minute, so much so that I pull the mobile away from my ear to check that the call hasn’t dropped.

  “Logan?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Oh right. That’s…good.”

  No response.

  Oh dear.

  “Are you okay? Are you knackered or something? Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  He sighs, and I can practically see him sag in defeat. I wonder where he is. What he’s doing. What he’s wearing. Then I roll my eyes and force myself to stay on task.

  “No, it’s fine. I’m just going over my schedule for the week. Nothing important.”

  “Sounds lovely. I’m doing the same, actually.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes. We’re both quite busy, I’ll have you know. The queen’s asked me round for dinner tomorrow, so I’ll have to pop over to England for that. And then I’ve got squash with the Obamas on Tuesday, though I might have to cancel because Beyoncé wants to see me as well, and no one turns her down.”

  He laughs like he can’t quite help it, and then he says my name.

  It’s so bloody lovely to hear him say it that I go limp on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, wishing we were together.

  “Truthfully, I’ve been wondering why you haven’t called or texted me all day,” he admits. “Especially when you didn’t answer my call last night. I didn’t like how we left things at the gala.”

  “Right. That’s my fault. It had all gotten to be a bit much, you know? The whole conniving woman cornering me in the loo bit…I’m not quite used to all that.”

  “Yeah. Sadly, I think it comes with the territory.”

  He sounds hopeless, and I hum, feeling sorry for him all of a sudden. I haven’t stopped long enough to look at the situation from his perspective, but it’s been a bloody awful turn of events for him. He was probably excited to have me attend the gala with him and I was excited too…until Melody ruined it. Instead of piecing myself together and staying there at his side, I ran off and have been MIA for the better part of twenty-four hours.

  “I’ve behaved like a total idiot, I think,” I blurt. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’m not. I’m frustrated. This isn’t anything new. The things you’re feeling are the same things I’ve dealt with for almost a decade, and I feel bad dragging you into it.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” I rush out. “I can’t stand it. You’re too handsome to be moping about.”

  “I’m not moping.”

  His voice doesn’t convince me. I know we still have a lot to discuss, logistics and all that boring nonsense, but I want to lift his spirits and have a pretty good idea of how to do it.

  “Tell me, are you really over there scheduling your week? La-de-da. You can do that any time. Why don’t we have a bit of fun? Something to put you in a better mood.”

  “Fun?”

  I suppose I’ll have to spell it out for him then. P-H-O-N-E S-E-X.

  “Yes, well seeing as it’s already late and we’ve both got early mornings…” My voice is heavy with suggestion. No subtlety here. “I can’t come round to you, but maybe we could do a bit of…y’know…”

  “Aren’t your roommates there?”

  “They’ve gone, finally. I’m all alone, and I’m wearing…” I look down. “Right. Well, not exactly lingerie, unfortunately. I do like to be comfy when I’m home.”

  He laughs. “Tell me. I want to know anyway.”

  “It’s a huge ‘I heart NYC’ t-shirt with a chocolate stain near the middle, and underneath I’ve got my shorts on. They’ve got little sheep jumping about. Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Could you forget it and I’ll start again with something a little more sexy?”

  “No. You’re always sexy.”

  His voice has gone all raspy, and I have to bite my bottom lip to keep myself from losing it.

  “Well, thank you…now tell me, what have you got on?”

  “Black sweatpants.”

  “And?”

  “And boxer briefs.”

  “Hmm…is this how people do it? They describe what they’re wearing and then they sort of just lead into it? I’m not so good at this.” He laughs, and I toss my head on the back of the sofa like I’m utterly hopeless. “Right, how ’bout this? Let’s start over, and I’ll make it really good.” I drop my voice an octave to sound all phone-sex-operator-y. “Oh, Logan, hello. You’ve just caught me at a bad time. I’m totally nude, you see.”

  “Candace—”

  His voice sounds amused, and that is not what I’m going for. He can laugh at me any time. This is serious sex business.

  “Oh, no. I’m so cold. I haven’t got anything to put on. What will I do?”

  I can barely make out his laughter, as if he’s trying to stifle it with his hand. I double down on my efforts.

  “Oh myyyy. My legs are so smooth and silky!”

  “I can’t take you seriously when you’re like this.”

  “Like what? Naked and oh so sexy? I know, it’s hard to handle. Now stop messing about and put your hand down your trousers. I’ll do the same.”

  I lie back on the sofa and hoist my t-shirt up so it’s just covering my breasts.

  “Are you touching yourself?” he asks, more than a little curious.

  “Well not yet. I’m trying to loosen the waistband on my shorts. It’s like I’ve done a sailor’s knot on them or something,” I groan, wrestling with it. “It’s hopeless.”

  Just then, the door to the flat flings open wide and Kat and Yasmine stroll in, their arms laden with grocery sacks. They spot me in my compromising position right away.

  “Oh, come on, perv!” Yasmine groans, shielding her eyes. “Not on the sofa! We all sit there!”

  “I wasn’t doing anything!”

  “Yes, you were!” she argues. “Why’s your shirt all scrunched up like that? Were you going to have sex on the phone in our living room?”

  “NO!”

  Logan’s really laughing now. He’s never been so amused in all his life, I’ll bet.

  Kat, meanwhile, strolls right toward me and takes one look at the coffee table, her face crumbling in anguish.

  “Candace! You cow! You’ve let a perfectly good pint of ice cream go to waste!”

  I immediately hang up on Logan.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Logan

  Though Candace and I didn’t work everything out on Sunday night, at least there’s some hope for us. I was worried after the gala that she’d been pushed to her breaking point. I know how hard this life can be, and I don’t begrudge anyone for wanting to escape it. Even though I talked to Melody at Gotham Hall and she broke down and apologized for causing a rift between Candace and me, it doesn’t mean it’ll be smooth sailing ahead.

  This way of life isn’t for the faint of heart and I don’t want to force Candace into it, but after our call—after she hung up on me and I sat on my couch laughing about it—I know she’s worth fighting for. Her brand of crazy feels too unique to pass up.

  My week starts the way they always do. Weights. Training. Interviews. Meeting with my financial planners. Meeting with my apartment manager. Meeting with my agent. Meeting with my marketing team. Meeting with my coaches. Sleep. Food. Repeat. Candace. Candace. Candace.

>   She’s the silver lining in all the bullshit I trek through on a daily basis, and she doesn’t even know it.

  We live in the same city, but we might as well be in two different worlds.

  With how busy we both are, we don’t manage to see each other on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. We do talk on the phone, though. After Sunday night, I can’t resist calling her. Even if her roommates usually interrupt us, I still like hearing from her. It’s easier to get her alone in the middle of the day when I call and catch her during her lunch breaks at school. She eats in her classroom while she puts me on speakerphone, and today, she’s telling me about an art project she has planned for the kids in the afternoon.

  “We’re making slime!”

  I frown, not quite understanding. “Slime?”

  “Oh, it’s this gross toy kids absolutely love. Like a sort of Play-Doh goo? But somehow worse? It drives me absolutely insane trying to clean it up, but they go wild for it. Plus, I can usually get them to act sweet for at least twenty minutes after we’ve done it. Er…okay, that’s a stretch. At least five minutes. Five minutes of peace is worth the trouble, believe me.”

  “Take a picture of it so I can see what you’re talking about.”

  “Will do!”

  She has to rush off the phone before I do and I’m left missing her, which doesn’t sit well with me. I distract myself by looking at Rosie’s itinerary for my afternoon. She has my life broken down into fifteen-minute intervals all the way from now until 8:30 PM. Tomorrow, my day starts at 5:00 AM.

  I know Candace doesn’t have it any easier. She has a shift at District tonight, and I send a quick text to Pat to make sure he’ll be there to drive her home when she’s finished. He shoots back “10-4” and then Rosie arrives with a box full of empty Gatorade bottles.

  As promised, my face is plastered all over them, and I don’t even realize there are a few different versions until she tells me we have to give the team at Gatorade our final approval by the end of the day.

  “Uh, right. Let’s just go with that one then,” I say, pointing to the one closest to me.

  Rosie laughs as if I’m a complete idiot then walks to the door as if she knew there was about to be a knock. She tugs it open, and in they come: half a dozen people with huge presentation boards that list out the pros and cons for each image. You see, in this one he’s holding the football a little higher, more toward his face. His stance is more dominant, and his smile looks sincere. I sit near the window, stare out at the New York skyline, and think about Candace.

  The next day is Thursday, and I’m scheduled to pick up Briggs from school. I’m fucking giddy as the afternoon flies by. I’m at The Day School earlier than planned—too early—so instead of going in, I pace out on the sidewalk, trying to come up with a way to tell Candace I’ve missed her so damn much over the last few days that won’t scare her off.

  I tug my hand through my hair and look up to see a woman approaching the school. She’s either a mom or a nanny; it’s impossible to tell. Her brown hair is tugged up tight in a bun, and she’s wearing slim-fitting athletic clothes.

  “Are you here for pick-up?” she asks me with a huge smile.

  “Yeah.”

  “Great! We can go in together.”

  Awesome. I didn’t want to be the first person to arrive, but if she goes in front of me, I’ll technically be the second.

  “You’re Logan Matthews, right?” she asks as we head inside. “I know it’s probably so annoying to be recognized everywhere, but well”—she shrugs—“the moms here love to talk.”

  “Oh.” I force out a laugh. “Yeah.”

  I never have a good response for when people ask me who I am. It feels too blunt and rude to just say yes, so I reach my hand out. “And you are?”

  She blushes and accepts my hand. “Erin Carson. Margaux’s mom!”

  Margaux, right. Briggs has told me the names of the kids in his class, but there are a lot of them and I can’t seem to keep up.

  “Margaux and Briggs absolutely adore each other. We need to get them together for a playdate soon!”

  I shrug and offer a lopsided smile. “That’s not really my jurisdiction. I’m just the uncle. I bet you could coordinate something with Stella or Bobby though.”

  She scrunches her brows. “Who?”

  “Right.” I forget my sister rarely makes it up to this school. I doubt any of the parents know her. “Never mind, just coordinate it with Briggs’ nanny. She’s usually the one to pick him up.”

  We reach Candace’s classroom, and the top half of the Dutch door is open so we can see in over the bottom half. Candace is sitting on a colorful rug, reading to the kids. They sit in a semicircle, fanned around her, listening intently while she finishes a page. It’s a cute scene and I wouldn’t think anything of it, except for the fact that she’s completely wrapped herself up in toilet paper.

  “When an Egyptian king died, his body was made into a mummy in a complicated process that took 70 days!”

  “70 days?!” one of the kids shouts, as if it’s the longest amount of time he’s ever heard.

  “Doesn’t that seem like forever? It is quite a long process. But listen,” she returns to reading, “mummies have lasted thousands of years and continue to fascinate us today.”

  “I want to be a mummy!” Briggs declares, jumping to his feet.

  “Me too!” A girl jumps up to stand beside him.

  “I don’t blame you. I do look quite cool, don’t I?” Candace says, standing to spin in a circle.

  Some of her toilet paper ensemble falls to the floor, but there’s still a ton left behind. The kids must have spent half the day spinning her into it. She even has it tucked up around her face and covering her hair.

  I smile when she looks over and spots Erin and me standing at the door.

  “Oh! Drat. It’s pick-up time! All right everyone, let’s pick up our reading pillows and toss them in a pile over here near the wall. And then Margaux and Briggs, come on, let’s get your lunch sacks.”

  She has a hard time walking across the room with the toilet paper wrapped around her legs.

  Briggs comes running over to the door, peering up at me. “Uncle Logan, I’m going to be a mummy like Ms. Candace!”

  “Cool, bud.”

  “Can you wrap me up in toilet paper when we get to your house?”

  “Sure thing,” I say, reaching down to ruffle his hair.

  “Here you go,” Candace says, coming over with lunchboxes for Margaux and Briggs. “Everything should be in there. I’ve washed out the containers already. Erin, Margaux ate all of her couscous and veggies for lunch, but she didn’t go down for a nap today. She insisted she didn’t need one so I let her read quietly with a few books—”

  “What?” Erin groans and cuts her off. “You know how much that throws off our entire day. Now she’s going to be cranky for the whole afternoon.” She reaches out to snatch the lunchbox from Candace and then looks to me as if I’m going to back her up on this. What the fuck?

  Candace’s smile falls. “I know. I did try to have her lie down, but she must have been too energized. She did rest for a bit when I rubbed her back.”

  “You see—that’s just it! You coddle her, so it’s no surprise she doesn’t want to go to sleep. At home, we turn out the lights and shut the door. She goes to sleep just fine.”

  “Hey, I think you should maybe ease up a bit.”

  Erin’s eyes slice to me like I’m Public Enemy No. 1 now. “Are you kidding me? Now I’m getting advice from you?”

  “Mommy, Ms. Candace did tell me to lie down—”

  Erin yanks the door open and grabs Margaux’s hand tightly. “I don’t want to hear it. You have Mandarin lessons this afternoon and piano. How are you going to concentrate now? Hmm?”

  They wander off down the hall as Erin continues berating her young daughter, and I feel sorry for the kid.

  I shake my head in disbelief as I look back to Candace. “That was…”

&
nbsp; I’m at a loss for words.

  Candace only shrugs and tries to play it off. “Unfortunately, quite common. Welcome to parenting on the Upper East Side.”

  “Jesus. Mandarin? She’s what, three?”

  “Oh, that’s how it goes. Every child here is learning at least one other language, some of them two. Mika can speak nearly perfect French. It’s lovely.”

  She smiles then, forcing it, but I can tell Erin really rattled her. It’s not a surprise. No one should speak to another human like that.

  “Margaux’s mommy is so mean. Ms. Candace is nice! She rubs my back when I can’t fall asleep too!” Briggs says, going over to wrap his arm around Candace’s leg. It’s difficult with all the toilet paper, but Candace leans down to embrace him.

  “And don’t you worry, I’ll keep doing it.”

  “Good. Don’t listen to that mean lady,” he tells her emphatically.

  “I agree,” I say, aiming an apologetic smile her way. “Briggs, how about you and I ask Ms. Candace if she wants to come to dinner with us?”

  “Like a date?!” he exclaims, his eyes going wide. “I’ve always wanted to go on a date!”

  I laugh. “What do you know about dates?”

  “A lot!” he claims. “I know all about them! First you have to ask out the person you like.” He turns to Candace. “That’s you. Then if the person says yes, you have to get a babysitter, and you can’t just go in your regular clothes. You have to be very fancy and nice if you want to go on a date.”

  “Wow. You do know a lot about it,” I add, and he grins proudly.

  “And then after the babysitter comes, you can leave and eat oysters and drink campaign.”

  “Drink what?” I ask, wondering if I heard him right.

  “Campaign! Like the stuff grown-ups put in those cups that Mom says I can’t touch or I’ll get in trouble.”

  “I think you mean champagne,” Candace says gently.