Covering the Quarterback

by Amber Thielman

  “No problem.” He didn’t look up. I sighed and sat back in the booth, looking around. It had taken him a few good years and dozens of passive-aggressive come-ons, but the guy had finally asked me out on a date. My initial reaction had been not only no, but hell no. It had nothing to do with Shawn, but I wasn’t much of a dater. I probably would have said no to anybody. But before I could let my friend down, Alex had convinced me to go because apparently no matter how many times I forced myself to be social for her, it still wasn’t enough.

  So here I was. On possibly the worst date in history. Not only had Shawn barely said a word since our arrival, but he hadn’t looked up from his phone, either.

  “Did you know that the United States has killed more than twenty million people since World War II?” I asked Shawn, trying to spark his interest in some form of communication. I was drawing the statistics from an article I’d read earlier, one outlining the effects of war on the innocent citizens of other countries. I had yet to find a friend who was into the stuff as I was—a fact Shawn made that clear by glancing up briefly to roll his eyes at me. Score one for Grace. What was proper date conversation, anyway?

  The restaurant was dead for a Friday night, but I wasn’t surprised. The little hole-in-the-wall wasn’t exactly party central, and the food mediocre at best. I was mostly counting down the seconds until this “date” would be over, and I could go home and crawl into bed, which just so happened to be one of my favorite things in the world to do. Shawn was nearly as weird as I was, if not more so, so unless we were randomly caught in the middle of an apocalypse and forced to survive with each other, this date was going nowhere.

  The little bell hanging over the front door jingled, and both Shawn and I looked up just in time to see the one and only Jackson Tate come through the door, holding the hand of a girl I didn’t recognize. Probably a Freshmen at the University. They spotted us at once, most likely because we were the only other two people there. Jackson hesitated for a moment, before he raised his hand in a friendly wave. Our last encounter had been nothing short of humiliating, but since Gavin hadn’t let me off the hook on the football reports, I knew I needed to make amends with the guy. So, trying not to be rude, I raised a hand and waved back. Shawn, who had nothing to lose if he was an asshole, rolled his eyes and averted his attention back to his phone.

  The blonde bimbo on Jackson’s arm stared at me distastefully. I stared back, giving her the best stink eye I could conjure up on such short notice. The waitress, who saw Jackson wave at me, glanced over her shoulder.

  “Friends of yours?” she asked Jackson and his date. “Would you like to sit together?”

  “Oh, um . . .” Looking uncomfortable, Jackson looked back at me. Shawn was glowering into his plate, looking less than enthused at the prospect of having company. Jackson’s date seemed just as thrilled as Shawn did.

  “Join us,” I said, unprepared for the words to come out of my mouth. I think I did it mostly to spite Shawn and the shitty disaster date we were on. I needed some distraction from counting the pencil marks etched into the table top. At least I’d have someone to talk to if they came over, even if it was Jackson Tate. Maybe this could be the opportunity I needed to redeem myself after that humiliating interview.

  “Okay,” Jackson said. “If we’re not interrupting anything.”

  “No. You’re not,” I said, resisting the urge to scoff.

  “Grace was just telling me about how the U.S. has murdered over twenty-million people in other countries since the world war,” Shawn said.

  “World War II,” I corrected him, ignoring the sarcasm in his tone. I got up from where I was sitting to join Shawn on the other side so Jackson and his date could sit together. The waitress handed them menus and vanished.

  “Twenty million people in thirty-seven nations,” Jackson said unexpectedly, nodding at me.

  “That’s right.” I looked up at Jackson, our eyes meeting over the table. He smiled, just a little bit, and I couldn’t help but to smile back. Who knew a guy like Jackson could pull a statistic like that out of the blue?

  “That’s fascinating,” Jackson’s date said. She looked anything but fascinated. She looked downright miserable.

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “Those deaths aren’t American deaths; they’re the lives of innocent people killed because of war.”

  “It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Jackson asked me before his date could retort. “The media never touches on a subject that might offend Americans, so those statistics are left out.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “The media is biased. Maybe when reporting death statistics caused by war, the government should include civilian deaths in other countries. Women, men, and children.”

  Before Jackson could respond, Shawn, who seemed to be having the same fabulous time as Jackson’s date, cleared his throat and held out his hand to her. She looked hesitant to take it as if something on him might rub off on her—which was an unfortunate possibility, if we're honest—but she did so anyway as they introduced themselves.

  “Amelia,” the girl said.

  “Shawn.”

  “I’m Grace,” I said, but Amelia didn’t offer her hand. She was still looking at me like I’d crawled out from under a sewer, or something, and I subtly turned my head to smell my jacket to make sure I didn’t stink. To offset the awkwardness, Jackson looked at Shawn and offered his hand.

  “I’m—”

  “Jackson Tate,” Shawn said. “I know.”

  “Well, then,” Jackson said. He met my gaze across the table. I wanted to kick Shawn for being so rude, but since that would be childish, I pinched his arm instead. He glowered at me but didn’t say anything.

  “What can I get you?” the waitress asked as she refilled my water. Fortunately for my sanity and Shawn’s, we’d already eaten our dinner which meant we wouldn’t have to hang around all night trying to make small talk. Or more specifically, I wouldn’t have to wait all night, because I was going to go home and sleep, without Shawn. The least we could do is be polite for a few minutes, though, since I’d been the inconsiderate idiot who’d invited them over.

  “Are you ready to go?” Shawn asked me fifteen seconds later, before Jackson and Amelia could even order. His tone was blunt and snotty, and it made me want to throttle him right in the middle of the restaurant. Before I could reprimand him for being a jerk, Jackson cut in.

  “Why not stay and have a drink with us?” he asked, and both Amelia and Shawn grimaced. I looked at the clock. It was still early, and I was too sober for this.

  “Are you paying?” I asked, and this time it was Amelia who looked like she was going to lose it. I made a mental note to stay on guard in case she tried to throw a fork at my eye during dinner.

  “I think I can manage that,” Jackson said. He turned to the waitress to put in the order. As we waited for our drinks, I wracked my brain to come up with a topic that the four of us might enjoy. As badly as I wanted to dig at Jackson for more information on his world history knowledge (I was still trying to absorb the fact that he knew anything outside of football and women), I knew Shawn and Amelia wouldn’t appreciate such a deep topic of conversation. This was not starting out well at all. So, noticing a slight accent on Jackson’s date, I used to it to break the ice.

  “Where are you from, Amelia?” I asked politely.

  “Texas,” she said.

  “Far from home,” I said smartly. Any form of actual intelligent conversation was refusing to grace me with its presence.

  “Yes, it is.” She finally allowed herself to meet my gaze, but it was clear that I was beneath her as a person. Not that it was such a surprise, I suppose. I wasn’t and never would be a perky, long-legged blonde from the South.

  “Warm in Texas,” Shawn mumbled. All three of us looked at him, wondering if he had, indeed, just offered to speak.

  “Warmer than here,” Amelia agreed. “I hate Seattle.”

  “Then why are you here?” Jackson asked. I don’t believe he
intended to be rude, but Amelia glowered at him as if he’d just insulted her ridiculously massive head of hair.

  “For the school, dumbass.”

  “Do they not have schools in Texas?” I didn’t know what compelled me to defend Jackson’s honor; maybe it was the mere fact that I disliked Amelia even more than I disliked Jackson, but now Amelia’s scowl was aimed at me, so it must have worked. Before anyone could respond, the waitress brought our drinks.

  “Thank God,” I mumbled. I reached for the margarita a bit too quickly, grateful we all had a bit of liquid courage to start. Without it, I could see this getting intensely uncomfortable and even a little bit bizarre; not that it wasn’t already.

  “What about you?” Amelia asked me. Next to her, Jackson took a sip of the beer he’d ordered and leaned back in the booth, as if he was getting ready to watch two girls wrestle in Jell-O. “Where are you from?” It was clear to the whole table that she didn’t give a crap where I was from, but at least we had something to talk about that didn’t involve the intense discomfort slowly making its way around the table. Before I could answer her, Jackson spoke up.

  “She’s a Seattle native,” he said. “Born and raised. Right, Grace?”

  “I’m surprised you remembered,” I said, and took a large drink of my margarita, slurping it loudly, just to annoy Amelia.

  “Yeah, well, it took me a few days to match you to the third-grade girl who stole my candy cane during class,” Jackson said.

  “I didn’t steal your candy cane,” I said, flushing. “Dylan O’Connor hid it in my cubby after he took it from you. I was set up.”

  “Yeah,” Jackson said. “That’s what you said then, too.”

  At this point, Shawn was looking from Jackson to me like he was trying to figure out what in the hell had just happened, and Amelia was practically chugging her fishbowl drink. Not that I could blame her. I cleared my throat and looked away from Jackson, who was smirking that annoyingly endearing smirk as he swished his beer around in the mug.

  “Well, this has been sufficiently awkward,” Amelia said. “I’m so glad we could all do this.” She turned to Jackson. “I’d like to go now.”

  “Me, too,” Shawn said. He was sliding out of the booth quicker than I’d ever seen him move in all the time I’d known him.

  “Okay then,” I said, and followed suit. “Jackson, thanks for the drink. Amelia, it was utterly atrocious to meet you.”

  “Ditto,” she said. Jackson grinned like he thought this whole thing was absolutely hysterical, and waved as Shawn and I walked out the door.

  “Thank God that’s over,” Shawn said, once we were safely out the door.

  “Yeah,” I said, wondering if I should tell him that there was nothing in the world as crappy as that “date” had been . . . not even dinner with Jackson Tate and his latest fling. “Thank God.”

  Chapter 10

  Jackson

  “So much for that date, huh?” Amelia intertwined her hand with mine as we walked back to my apartment under the full moon. Since leaving the restaurant she’d been in a pretty shitty mood, and I wasn’t sure why. While drinks with Grace and Shawn had been a bit awkward, I couldn’t stop remembering the way Grace’s face had lit up when I’d responded to her history of war comment. She’d seemed surprised a guy like me could engage in a conversation like that, and it pleased me. Had I tried to bring up the same conversation with Amelia, she would have shut that shit down in a second. If I was honest, I wished Grace and I could have continued talking without the interruption.

  “Yeah, I met that Shawn kid once and he seems a bit out there,” I agreed.

  “It wasn’t even him, it was the girl who bugged me,” Amelia said. “Grace, right? What a bitch, getting all flirty with you right in front of me.”

  “Flirting? We were just talking.”

  “As if she could ever get someone like you,” Amelia proceeded to say, ignoring the words that had come out of my mouth. That was typical. It was rare that people, especially women, cared what I had to say. “You can tell she so desperately wants to be cool, but she’ll always be a loser.”

  Part of me wanted to agree so she’d shut up, yet, surprisingly another part of me wanted to defend Grace. Granted, Grace wasn’t the definition of beauty like Amelia was. She didn’t have the golden blond hair or the killer bod, but, hey, she seemed capable of some form of communication that didn’t entail insulting people she didn’t like. I could only imagine she also enjoyed other hobbies which consisted of more than hair appointments and yo-yo dieting.

  “Hey,” Amelia said. She pulled me to a stop in the middle of the empty lawn to plant a kiss on my lips. “Do you know how sexy you are?” Like a light switch, every thought of Grace and Shawn and the whole dinner ordeal was pushed from my mind as Amelia slipped her tongue between my lips. She smelled sweet, like some expensive perfume that I would never, ever know the name of. As we kissed, her hands ran through my hair, down my arms, my stomach, and then below my belt. Her fingers caressed the zipper on my jeans.

  “That’s more like it,” she murmured, massaging my growing hard-on. “I want you inside of me.”

  “As you wish,” I said, and we barely made it back to my place before clothes were flying off in every direction.

  Chapter 11

  Grace

  “So, you and Shawn Pinkman, huh?” Jackson plopped down next to me on the bleacher seat, wiping the sweat from his face. It was a warm day for fall in Washington, and I wasn’t enjoying my time sweating outside during football practice, but I knew I had to be there so I could report on it. The players were taking a quick break, and lo and behold Jackson figured this was a perfect opportunity to harass me about last night. I should have expected it.

  “No,” I said.

  “I would have never guessed you’d date a dude like him,” Jackson continued. Damp hair stuck to his forehead from the hard workout and his face was slightly flushed. I tried not to gawk too long at him because the way his arm muscles flexed under his bare skin made goosebumps rise on my arms. I hated that Jackson Tate had that effect on me.

  “And why do you say that?” I looked down at my textbook, pretending to be more interested in that than the conversation at hand. The truth is, I could barely look him in the eye without heating up in inappropriate places.

  “I don’t know. He seems like a douche.”

  “Coming from King Douchebag, yeah?” I shut my book to look at him. “He’s not a douche. He’s just different.”

  “So, you’re dating him?”

  “I never said that.”

  “I only assumed.”

  “You shouldn’t assume.”

  “No, probably not.” Jackson was grinning, pleased with giving me the runaround, I’m sure. He had a beautiful set of pearly whites, and I found myself wondering how many scorned women had ever tried to knock them out of his head. I hated that seeing Jackson’s face made my day, because it was impossible to look past the fact that there was no way in hell he’d ever go after a girl like me, and I had to be okay with that.

  “It’s none of your business, anyway,” I said. I gathered my things and stood up, slipping sunglasses over my eyes.

  “Well that doesn’t seem fair,” Jackson said. He was still smiling, but he didn’t bother getting up. “You know lots of things about me, but I know nothing about you.”

  “This thing, whatever you want to call it, is strictly professional,” I told him. “I have no desire to hear about anything but football, and it’s painful to even hear about that. There’s nothing about me that you need to know.”

  “You had drinks with me last night, Harrison, so I guess I thought we were turning a new leaf. You know, after you stormed out on me in that interview, anyway.”

  “Correction: you had drinks with Amelia last night, and Shawn and I happened to be there. Also, I did not “storm out.” I only suggested you might be better suited with someone else reporting on you.”

  “Someone’s testy today,” Jac
kson said, following up his comment with a soft tsk-tsk.

  “Blow me,” I retorted, and Jackson laughed.

  “I like you more and more every day, Harrison,” he said.

  “I’m leaving now.” I started to walk away, but Jackson called out to me.

  “Don’t you need another interview?” he asked. I lifted the shades from my eyes so I could get a good look at him. Was he messing with me? Damn right I needed another interview, but I didn’t want to seem desperate to pick up where we’d left off. I wasn’t sure if this one would go any smoother than the last one.

  “If you’re too busy I can come back,” I said.

  “We’re just getting done. I need to change, though. Want to just come up to my apartment?”

  I almost said no just so I could avoid that awkward situation, but I knew it wasn’t a come-on, and I needed more material to write the next article. It was due in three days.

  “Fine,” I said. “But all clothes stay on.”

  “No problem, Grace.” Jackson said. He jogged over to ask the coach if he could wrap it up. Once he gathered his things from the bench, we walked together towards his apartment. I didn’t have the energy to put in too much effort for small talk, so I kept quiet and followed him. I hoped I could keep composed long enough this time to get enough material for an interview. Preferably without looking like a bumbling idiot.

  Jackson’s apartment was impressively cliché when we walked in, the home of a single guy’s bachelor pad. A few pieces of dirty clothes dotted the furniture here and there, and an empty pizza box sat taking up room on the counter. I stopped and looked around, wondering if all the other girls he ever brought in here felt as intimidated by it as much as I did. Doubtful. Those girls were too busy ripping their clothes off to notice anything about the apartment, I was sure.

  “Go ahead and have a seat,” Jackson said. He pulled off his sweat-stained tee-shirt and tossed it aside. I looked back just in time to catch a glimpse of his abs—disgustingly smooth, touchable, and still shimmering with sweat. Somehow this made them even more appealing than normal. My first reaction was to reach out and touch them, to run my fingers up and down his stomach, but I resisted the urge, biting my lip to keep my jaw from falling completely to the floor, annoyed for even noticing his stupid abs in the first place.