The Trouble With Quarterbacks

by R.S. Grey

  “Guys, this is Candace. My friend.”

  Friend?! Are we? God, I hope so. Wouldn’t that be lovely to have a friend like him? I’d never have to bother hiring a moving company again! Never have to struggle with an unopened jar of olives!

  “Hey Candace,” the group choruses, along with offering nods and smiles.

  Logan turns to me and gives me another once-over. “Were they harassing you down there?”

  I scoff and cross my arms over my chest, rubbing the elbow that’s still smarting for a moment before dropping it. “What? No. C’mon, it’s part of the job.”

  He frowns. “I thought you were a preschool teacher.”

  “I am.” I grin. “But a few nights a week, I’m also Candace the cocktail waitress.”

  I wave a hand down my outfit, and he rubs the back of his neck like maybe he doesn’t quite like it.

  “That skirt’s pretty short,” he notes.

  “I’m short.”

  For show, I flatten my hand to the top of my head then draw it across the gap between us until the side of my pinkie hits his chest, right between his pecs. When I try to pull it back, he lifts his hand to wrap his fingers around my wrist.

  His bad mood finally lifts, and a soul-searing smile dimples his cheeks. “Yeah, I guess you are.”

  “Now are you going to stop harassing me so I can get on with my job?”

  He peers down at me with a cheeky little look in his eyes. “Oh, now I’m the one doing the harassing?”

  “Yes.” I puff up my shoulders and chest like I’m going to take a real stand. “Dragging me away like that, all brutish and cocky.”

  His grin turns positively edible—or maybe it’s his eyes doing that, making me think he’d like to eat me alive if given the chance.

  “I saved you from them,” he says, mighty proud of himself.

  “Saved me from the absolutely massive tip they’ll be giving me once they’ve knocked back a few rounds and become properly pissed?”

  “Pissed,” he repeats back, amused. “Your British words make no sense.”

  “Oh, right, let’s see. Sloshed? Sozzled? In-e-bri-ated? That good enough for you proper Americans?”

  “I like your words better,” he says, all smooth and quiet, like he wants me to take what he’s said and twist it into something a bit more sinister.

  It’s impossible to stop the flush from taking over. My fair skin means I color like an English rose any time someone pays me the slightest compliment, and well, when that compliment comes from Logan’s lips, there’s no sense in attempting to fend off the impending blush.

  “Logan, is your friend going to join us?”

  The question comes from a huge black guy with broad shoulders and a smooth bald head. Not many people have bald heads and still fall into the hunky category, but this guy certainly does. With his dark skin and big smile, it’s easy to see why the girl beside him is crushed so close, staking her claim.

  “There’s not really room.”

  This statement comes from the girl at the end of the booth, the one who looked so miffed to see Logan’s hand around mine. Owing to the numbers and the fact that with Logan, there’s a girl to every guy, I’d imagine she’s his date for the evening. Her snarky comment confirms it.

  I feel bad for her, actually. She’s clearly into him, and he hasn’t looked her way this whole time. Cruel, really.

  “Oh, no worries! I can’t stay. I’m working.” I offer up a big smile, and I sense, rather than see, the girl’s relief. She wants me gone—yesterday.

  “You could cover our table?” Logan suggests, and my eyes practically bug out of my skull.

  “And offend Simone? Not on your life. She’s been here for years, and I’m still a relative newbie.” I rock back on my heels. “Relegated to the plebs, I’m afraid, but if you guys need anything and you can’t find Simone, feel free to come grab me.”

  Let me tell you, it feels absolutely horrid walking away from Logan then. It’s like I can feel his attention on my back as I walk away, and there’s an invisible line I tug against with each step.

  Things I’d rather do instead of leaving him:

  1. Clean the rubbish bin down in the kitchens

  2. Wash the mound of dirty clothes I’ve been ignoring all week

  3. Go a week without having any sweets

  Well…maybe not #3.

  But a job is a job, and Logan isn’t going to pay my bills. I rush back to my tables, checking that everyone’s doing all right and refilling drinks for the next half hour before I finally get to take my break. I’m so, so tempted to run back up to VIP and squeeze into that booth beside Logan, but since that’s absolutely mad, I take my mobile out through the kitchen and to the back alley behind the bar. It sounds sketchy, but there are always people out here on break. Even now, there are two busboys smoking a fag a ways down. I wave and they nod back before I dial my mum’s number.

  It’s late back home, but she’s always been a night owl. She’s a sucker for those infomercials that drone on at all hours of the night: baking tins that magically clean themselves, head massagers. Every time I talk to her, she’s buying something new that will ABSOLUTELY CHANGE HER LIFE.

  The call connects, but for a few seconds, all I hear is the telly.

  “Mum, you there?”

  “Yes! Candace, hang on. Bloody remote’s gone down between the sofa cushions and I can’t get it.”

  The telly blares louder, she huffs in anger, and then finally, the noise cuts off and she sighs in relief.

  “There. Now, I can hear you. How are you, darling?”

  “Good. Yeah, on break at the bar at the moment.”

  “Busy night?”

  “Not crazy, actually. Thank god. I might actually make it out of here at a decent hour. It was a bit mad a few weeks ago because of some football game. American football, I mean.”

  “Oh, yes. I heard about it. A club from New York won, didn’t they? The Super Bowl?”

  “Team, Mum, not club. They don’t call them that over here. And yes, the team from New York won, which is why the bar was absolutely crammed full. I didn’t get out till near three in the morning.”

  “And you had to go into school the next day?”

  I rub my eyes just thinking about it.

  “Yeah, but I mean, I survived, didn’t I? And you got the money I sent back?”

  I made a killing that night. It was well worth the lack of sleep.

  “Yes, though I don’t know why you insist on doing that. I’ve told you we’re fine.”

  My parents are not fine. My mum is an eternal optimist. Their house could be up in flames, burned to bits, and she’d say, Oh, not to worry. Let me just grab a bucket and fill it with the hose. I’ll have this put out in a jiffy. The truth is, my parents haven’t been fine since my dad had a bad fall last year, broke his leg, and had to quit his work at the shipyard. Mum’s cleaning job can’t cover all the bills, and I feel so guilty staying over here instead of rushing home to help them more. Part of the reason I didn’t is because Mum insisted I stay. “We know how much you love it there. Don’t come home on account of us. I’m taking care of Dad just fine.”

  “I’ll try to send a bit more at the end of the month. It’ll depend on how well my shifts go this week. Speaking of, I’d better get back. I’ve got tons of tables and don’t want to keep any of them waiting.”

  “Oh, right. Do be good and don’t worry about sending anything back for us. Dad’s physio is going well, and he swears he’ll be able to apply for a job soon enough.”

  I don’t bother arguing. I’ll send the money home because it’s the only way I can stay in America without being eaten alive by guilt. Also, I know they really need it. They barely scraped by before with Dad employed. I know my mum’s insomnia doesn’t just stem from her love of cheap gadgets, but because sometimes it’s hard to sleep with all the stress she’s got to carry for the family. It’s why I have all the jobs, why I don’t have any glitzy dresses like the girls L
ogan was with. Can’t afford it. For now, I’ve got my District uniform, and that’s all right. It serves me well enough.

  Chapter Three

  Logan

  I’m a real asshole the rest of the night. Sure, I sit in that booth, sip on my drink, and nod along with conversation, but I’m not really paying attention to any of them. I’m looking for Candace. I’m scanning the bar down below, hoping to catch another peek of her. I keep my eyes on that group of assholes who were taunting her before. I could hear them all the way up here in VIP, and it’s what first drew my attention.

  Then I saw her there with them and I froze for a moment, wondering if I’d gone insane. Sure, I’ve thought about Candace some since we met at my nephew’s school. I thought of her in the weight room the next day and through a lunch with my agent that dragged on an hour too long.

  She’s a puzzle to me, and I’ve tried to figure out what it is about her that keeps bringing her back to the forefront of my thoughts. She’s pretty, sure, but I’ve been around some drop-dead gorgeous women before, and it’s not as if she’s my type. I usually go for women who are more polished, women who know the game and how to play it.

  Candace doesn’t just seem like a novice in regards to my world; she seems wholly oblivious to it.

  When I told her I play professional football, she couldn’t have looked less impressed.

  It threw me for a loop, especially because of the last few weeks. Ever since my team and I clinched the win in the Super Bowl, the attention from my fans has reached a whole new level. There’s not a person on the street who doesn’t know who I am. I can’t go to the grocery store or the bank, or hell, even out to my car without getting stopped and congratulated on my stellar performance.

  Except for Candace. She didn’t congratulate me, and maybe that’s why she’s been stuck in my head.

  Or maybe it’s because she’s British. Could be the accent paired with the sweet smile and the self-deprecating humor that forms a tantalizing combination of qualities I can’t help but notice.

  I want to spend more time with her. I wanted to ask for her number when I picked Briggs up from school, but I didn’t because it seemed highly inappropriate. Instead, I’ve thought about her—so much so that for the first few seconds when I caught sight of her in District, I wasn’t 100% sure I hadn’t conjured her out of thin air.

  Then I heard her speak and the accent thrust me into action. I pushed to my feet before I could stop myself. Melody shot out of the booth to let me pass, assuming I had to use the bathroom or something, and I didn’t correct her. I only had one thought: get to Candace and rip that asshole’s hand off hers.

  It’s all a blur after that. Did I really drag her back to my table? Did I invite her to wait on me and my friends? What an ass. I just wanted to spend another few minutes with her and she needed to work, so I was at a loss for what to do.

  Now, everyone’s ready to leave the bar, but I’m not. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her again. She’s been a tornado down below, rushing from table to table, smiling as she doles out drinks and passes out checks. She’s good at her job, flirting and playing along with that group of guys but careful not to get too close or lead any of them on. Still, I bet one or two of them wish they could convince her to go home with them. They’d be idiots not to.

  Melody drops her hand to my forearm, drawing my attention back to the table and my current date. I glance down at her manicured fingers, which are painted a delicate shade of pink. I wonder what color Candace would use on her nails. Bright orange. Yellow. Rainbow stripes. The thought makes me smile.

  Melody misinterprets the gesture and sidles closer to me.

  “Sorry I’ve been such a bore tonight,” she says gently. “It was a long day on set.”

  I feel bad for Melody. This is technically our second date since we went out as a group last week too. Darius made us a reservation at a steakhouse and sprung her on me when I arrived.

  “She’s cool, man. She’s been friends with Liz for years. She’s not just some jersey chaser, and she’s used to being in the limelight.”

  Liz and Melody both model. According to Darius, Melody is used to dating professional athletes and thus knows the drill. That should have been a plus considering that’s partly why I’ve avoided dating in recent years. I’ve been burned by women who were with me for the wrong reasons. I’ve had women call paparazzi to ensure they’re ready to snap photos at the exact moment we arrive somewhere, women who swore they were in it for the right reasons when in fact they were really only after fame and fortune. It’s done a number on my ego and my general faith in the dating process.

  Besides, it’s not as if I have all the time in the world. Even now, in the off-season, I’m still expected to give my career my full attention.

  That said, I can’t seem to get excited about Melody. Sure, she’s gorgeous and practically suction-cupped to my side, but there’s no desire burning below the surface, no anxious excitement at the prospect of kissing her good night.

  I try though. I try because my mother raised me to be a better man than I have been for the last hour.

  “What were you shooting for today?”

  “A designer jeans company. They wanted a really sexy feel so they had me in the jeans and nothing else.” She wags her eyebrows teasingly. “It would have been fine except they had an Italian male model on set with me too.” She assesses me then, looking for something. “You won’t have an issue with that, will you? Me working with other guys?”

  Why would I?

  Oh right, because we’re supposed to be dating.

  I shrug. “All part of the job, right?”

  She apparently doesn’t like that answer, because she elaborates. “He was obsessed with me. Kept trying to get my number in between takes. And then it got so awkward because we were practically naked and pretending to be into each other. They had us take about a hundred photos where we were nearly kissing.”

  I take a sip of my drink, slightly worried she’s going to continue if I don’t stop her. “I’m sure you can handle your own.”

  She frowns, and I take a moment to glance back down and look for Candace, hoping she isn’t at the table with the guys again. A bit ago, I saw them force her into taking another shot. She’s tiny—there’s no way she can hold her alcohol that well.

  “Are you guys about ready to call it?” Darius asks, stifling a yawn.

  He and I both hit the weights early this morning, and I’m feeling as tired as he is. Even still, I’m hesitant to leave Candace here. Why does she work at a place like this when she has that job at The Day School? Why work two jobs? Then I remember her joke about her massive paycheck and it clicks into focus. She’s hustling like so many others, just like my parents did back in Florida before I hit it big. I excuse myself from the group and promise to meet them out back, through the VIP exit, in a few minutes. Then I yank a couple bills from my wallet along with an old receipt.

  I go down to the bar on the lower level, keeping my head down so as to draw the least amount of attention. It doesn’t matter. I’m still noticed, but a quick shake of my head deters a few guys from coming closer. I wave down the bartender and ask him if he’s seen Candace.

  He frowns, thinking it over. “She’s like a bird, man, flying around this place. I swear she moves faster than all the other servers combined.”

  He sounds fascinated with her and I narrow my eyes, wondering if he’s just impressed with her waitressing skills or if it’s something more. Then I shove aside the thought and ask him for a pen.

  He hands me the one he has tucked behind his ear, and I jot down a quick note on the back of the receipt before passing it to him along with the cash.

  “Make sure this gets to her, okay?”

  His eyes widen at the sum of money in front of him. For a minute, I’m suspicious that he’s going to pocket it all and forget my request, but then his gaze locks with mine and he nods reverently.

  “Sure thing.”

  I’m expe
cting a call from Candace the next day, and when it doesn’t come, I start to second-guess myself. Chasing women isn’t something I’ve had to do since…ever. I was the star quarterback in high school, the star quarterback in college, and a first-round draft pick into the pros. Just because I haven’t found a relationship that works long-term doesn’t mean there’s been a shortage of women ready and raring to give it a try.

  There have been a lot of women, and then there’s Candace. It’s been two days and she still hasn’t called.

  “What if I wrote the number down wrong?” I ask Darius as I’m hunched over, gripping my knees and sucking in deep breaths. I feel like I’m about to fucking throw up.

  We’re doing sprint drills with our training coach and he’s giving us hell because he’s a sadist. Also because Darius was five minutes late.

  “Are you serious? Logan fucking Matthews wrote his number on a damn grocery store receipt—that shit’s worth a million dollars. I still can’t believe you did that. What if the bartender had passed it around? If I were you, I’d change my number.”

  “I haven’t had any weird calls. I think he really did mean it when he said he’d give the note to her.”

  “Uh-huh. Just wait. Tomorrow, your number will be splashed on the front page of Reddit.”

  He has a point. Maybe the bartender pocketed the cash and the note instead of passing it on to Candace. That would explain why she hasn’t called.

  Unfortunately, it doesn’t explain why the hell I care so damn much.

  “You two about recovered? We’re going again in ten seconds!” Coach yells.

  I resist the urge to punch Darius for being late. This day is going to suck.

  Chapter Four

  Candace

  Three nights ago, at the end of my shift at District, Roger caught me on my way out of the bar and slipped something into my hand.

  “I don’t know what you did for him, but he’s pretty grateful.”