The Trouble With Quarterbacks Read online

  The Trouble With Quarterbacks

  R.S. Grey

  The Trouble With Quarterbacks

  Copyright © 2020 R.S. Grey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Published: R.S. Grey 2020

  [email protected]

  Editing: Editing by C. Marie

  Proofreading: Red Leaf Proofing, Julia Griffis

  Cover Design: R.S. Grey

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  The Trouble With Quarterbacks

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Excerpt

  The Foxe & the Hound

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Stay Connected

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Author’s Note:

  The Trouble With Quarterbacks is a full-length standalone novel. At the end, I’ve included an excerpt from my #1 bestselling romantic comedy The Foxe & the Hound.

  The Trouble With Quarterbacks concludes at around 90% on your device.

  Happy Reading!

  XO, RS Grey

  Chapter One

  Candace

  Oh, this feeling is decadent.

  Sinful.

  My hands dip back into the warm water.

  My eyelids flutter closed, and the soothing sound of island music serenades me from all sides. I’m wearing an exotic lei. Oh dear, is that a handsome bloke walking my way down the beach? Tall and strapping? He’s got a coconut drink in his hand, complete with a little paper umbrella. For me?

  How did I get so lucky?

  An ocean breeze rustles my hair as the handsome man steps closer—and then a screech pierces the air.

  Reality is a knife, slicing through the center of my blissful daydream.

  “Ms. Candace! Mika just BIT ME!”

  “Did not!”

  My private island is stripped away as I blink my eyes open again. Ah yes, my preschool classroom. I look down at the soggy pair of poo-stained trousers I’m trying fruitlessly to rinse in the sink. There is no tropical music or ocean breeze, but there are catchy toddler tunes playing incessantly over the speakers, as well as a portable fan propped up on the counter to assist in drying this morning’s finger paintings.

  I’m not on a beach; I’m on the Upper East Side.

  There is no man walking toward me in the buff, kicking up sand. There hasn’t been a man for many, many moons. I wouldn’t be surprised to find I’ve forgotten which hole the penis goes in. There? NO.

  Mika and Tinsley have come to join me by the sink to plead their sides of the argument.

  Tinsley was playing with my toy! And I wanted it back!

  He bit me!

  I’ve heard this story a thousand bloody times. I know how it ends.

  I leave the pooey trousers to soak in the warm water (though I know it’d be best to just incinerate them), dry my hands, and crouch between the two warring toddlers.

  I’m very good at my job. I have a special touch with children, like Tinkerbell or one of the Muppets. I check Tinsley’s arms for teeth marks, and fortunately, there’s nothing much to see. I still give her a little mermaid-shaped ice pack and a big hug then force out a meek apology from Mika. Once that’s done, I draft an incident report and tack it to the outside of my door for an assistant to take to the headmistress.

  The two tots hug and walk off holding hands, best pals once again.

  I place my hands on my hips and peruse my classroom. Right now, the children are having free play, or as this snazzy preschool insists on calling it, “interpretive creative time”, but a quick glance at the clock tells me we’re five minutes late for our science lesson. That’s right—the parents of The Day School expect their wee children to get a real education here, not just search for boogies and mutilate Play-Doh all day.

  As such, I spent ten hours of my own time over the last few days constructing a blown-up version of an atom out of papier-mâché. It’s so beautiful I could take it down to a trendy gallery in SoHo and they’d probably be able to sell it to some loaded art collector for more than my annual salary.

  I’m meant to teach the toddlers what protons, neutrons, and electrons are. It’s my planned lesson for the day. A few months ago, I would have laughed at this concept. Preschoolers learning about atoms?! What about colors and letters? Ha ha ha. No. These kids already know all of that. If put to the test, they probably know more than me. I shudder at the thought. Best to keep them thinking I’m the one in charge here.

  “One, two, three! Eyes on me!” I singsong. The toddlers listen quickly, loving the game. “Toys down! Hands up!” Several pairs of hands shoot up into the air, fingers wiggling with glee. “Time to pause our play and gather round the circle table. We’ve got an important science lesson to learn today.”

  The Day School is the premier learning center on the Upper East Side. Parents put their children on our waitlist when they’re little more than zygotes. There is nothing they won’t do to ensure their child earns a spot here. There is no behavior too extreme. They’ve camped out on the sidewalk the night before registration day. They’ve hired private investigators to tail our headmistress. They’ve sent lavish gifts to bribe their way in. (This particular tactic I happen to really love. Please send more cookie bouquets! You won’t hear complaints from me!)

  There are no limits to what these loving (read: crazy) parents will do for their children. They assume this school is the best of the best, and well…they aren’t wrong. Tuition is upwards of $40,000 a year (!), and every teacher here, including myself, has at least a master’s degree in some fancy subject related to rearing today’s youth: child development, adolescent psychology, astrophysics. The music teacher had a twenty-year run on Broadway! The chef in the cafeteria has won a James Beard award!

  I don’t quite belong here. I’m not all that fancy or brilliant, just a transplant from England with a Mary Poppins accent and a mound of grad school loans (thank you, Columbia) who happened to be in the right place at the right time. A few months back, I was working as an assistant to the assistant in the 4s classroom, and then the teacher in charge of the 3s room got fired for having a scandalous affair with one of the student’s parents, which left me in a unique position.

  Candace, we need you! Are you prepared to mold young minds into the leaders of tomorrow?

  You mean pass out juice boxes and deal with incessant whinging? Er…I mean, sure thing!

  At twenty-four, I’m the youngest teacher here. As if that’s not bad enough, my short stature and general wide-eyed fairylike demeanor don’t necessarily help my case. I look mor
e like one of the students than one of the staff members. I’ve thought of ways to help this unfortunate circumstance: potentially dying my pale blonde hair a dark brown, wearing false glasses, trading in my Keds for no-nonsense Mary Janes. Last month, on a whim, I tried on a polyester pantsuit at Macy’s and had to hold back a scream when I saw my reflection. I thought for a moment my gran had come back from the grave to haunt me.

  Lack of respect and crazed parents aside, the arrangement I’ve got going here is quite nice. The toddlers are cute and too young to realize they’ll grow up to become entitled buggers. Their parents have really set them up for it: Yates and Niles and Bronwyn and Margaux and Briggs. Their names might as well scream, We’re going to own all of New York one day! They’re signed up for ballet lessons and Mandarin lessons and piano lessons. Their eating habits are more cultured and refined than mine. They have drivers and nannies and masseuses. I’m slightly intimated by the lot of them—until one of them lets loose a fart or a burp and reminds me that they are, in fact, only three years old.

  It’d be a nice life, really, working here on the weekdays, exploring the city with free time on the weekends, if I were able to swing it. Even though the school itself takes in more money than an illegal drug operation, somehow it doesn’t quite get funneled down properly to us teachers. The pay here is absolute crap, so to afford my life in New York City, I’ve had to get creative. I split a flat with two other girls I met through a Brits abroad social club. The club itself was incredibly lame—full of old geezers moaning about World War II—so the three of us bailed after the first meeting (taking some stale biscuits with us).

  To make ends meet, I also work a few other odd jobs. Two nights a week, I waitress at a trendy bar called District that draws in Wall Street types—guys with big egos and big wallets. I have to wear a sort of skimpy outfit, but I usually get loads of tips, and it’s fun to take on a persona so different than the one I affect at The Day School.

  I’ve also done maid jobs from time to time. My roommate, Kat, is an aspiring actress and needs money as badly as I do, so she has a nice gig with a luxury cleaning company. If one of her coworkers calls in sick, I usually volunteer to fill in if I can swing it with my schedule.

  All in all, I’m a busy gal. I like it that way. I feel like I belong in this fast-paced city, hustling alongside everyone else.

  I’m happy.

  I think.

  Oh hell, my love life. Right…

  I haven’t been on a date in quite a while. So long, in fact, that I can’t remember if it’s because I’m busy or because there’s something wrong with me. Just in case, I give my armpits a quick once-over and am relieved to find a pleasant floral scent instead of cloying B.O.

  My other roommate, Yasmine, goes on a date nearly every weekend. She has the time for it. She’s loaded thanks to a trust fund and only crams into the small flat with me and Kat because she thinks it’s fun to bunk together.

  “It’s just like my boarding school days!” she said when we strolled into the flat on the first day, alarmed to find it only had two bedrooms with dimensions more fit for a dollhouse. Yasmine claimed one bedroom for her own and volunteered to cover half the rent. Kat and I share the other room, sleeping on teeny twin beds and constantly waking each other up. She has to get up early for her cleaning jobs, and I sometimes get back late from District. We try our best to be quiet, but more often than not, stubbed toes or chiming mobiles negate our efforts.

  My work at The Day School is almost over for the day, and I don’t have to be anywhere after work tonight. It’s a rare free evening, and nothing can dampen my spirits, not even the weather. The tail end of February is being a particularly cruel witch this year. Outside, it’s bleak and horrid, and I can practically hear the wind howling even from inside the warm confines of my classroom.

  It’s nearly 3:30, and I try not to prance around with glee. I’ll be out of here in no time. One good thing about the parents at this school is that they rarely pick up their own children. They leave that to the nannies and au pairs who are never, never late. They can’t be! They don’t want to jeopardize their cushy jobs by leaving little Winston III out on the curb shivering. So, at 3:30 on the dot, I wrangle the children into their jumpers, make sure they each have their respective lunch sacks, and pass out their dried finger paintings for them to take home, right as the sound of chatter fills the halls.

  It’s quitting time.

  Two little arms suddenly hug my left leg and squeeze tightly. I look down to see Briggs with his mop of brown curls and doe eyes staring up at me.

  “Do I have to go?”

  I ruffle his hair and mimic the same pout he’s wearing on his face. “Oh, c’mon. Cheer up, will you? I can’t stand when you frown. You’re much too handsome for it.”

  Then I pull a silly face and he erupts in laughter, but only for a moment before quickly remembering his earlier desolation.

  “It’s just so boring at home,” he complains, and my heart breaks for him. I know how it can be sometimes. Palatial brownstones. Lots of staff. Not a lot of quality time with Mum and Dad. Then I remember something that will cheer him up. Something exciting is happening today.

  “But you aren’t going home today,” I say, chucking him gently on the chin. “Remember? Your uncle—”

  My sentence is cut off when Briggs glances up and emits an ear-splitting squeal of delight.

  “UNCLE LOGAN!”

  He lets go of my leg to dash off toward the classroom’s half-open Dutch door right as I glance up. My brain does a little stutter step, forgetting how to operate as a normal human would. My jaw drops and my tongue sort of lolls uselessly. This man can’t be Briggs’ uncle, because he’s most definitely the hunk from my daydream, the one with the coconut drink on the beach. He has the same unruly brown hair. Same tall, broad frame. Same chiseled jaw and roguish grin. I hear the call of the ocean for a split second before I shake my head and realize I’ve gone mad.

  This isn’t my fantasy man.

  I’ve never met this man. I know I haven’t. My brain would have tattooed it to memory.

  This is just a man who bears a dangerously close resemblance to my fantasy.

  I force my brain back into my body and head toward the door.

  Briggs’ uncle is one of the first to arrive for pick-up, so toddlers buzz around me as I reach to shake his hand and introduce myself.

  “Hi there, I’m Candace.”

  “Ms. Candace! This is my uncle! He’s famous!”

  His uncle smiles good-naturedly and shakes his head like Briggs is only pulling my leg. Then he reaches over the bottom half of the Dutch door to accept my hand. “I’m Logan. It’s good to meet you.”

  His hand is massive and quite warm compared to mine. I try not to crumble beneath the pressure of his tight hold.

  Briggs groans in frustration. “He is famous! I can prove it!”

  Logan seems intent on downplaying his nephew’s claims, circumventing his praise. With a quirk of a dark brow, he asks me, “So you’re Briggs’ teacher?”

  I beam, and then I realize we’re still holding hands, so I force myself to steal mine back lest I get carried away.

  “I am. Yes. I’m the 3s teacher here.”

  “Tough job I bet,” he says, passing his gaze over the children dancing and wiggling and chatting around my legs.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I say, playfully rolling my eyes. “How does she manage it? Fancy clothes, posh office, absolutely massive paycheck.” He laughs and I grin as I continue, “It’s not something I like to brag about often. Guys get so intimidated.”

  “I’m not surprised. Look at you,” he teases, waving his hand up and down my body.

  Cheeky bastard. I can’t help but laugh and shake my head.

  I get it. My hair is up in a bun, and if I remember correctly, I still have an unused paintbrush stuck up there from earlier. The kids and I made a whole game of it during art time. Has anyone seen my paintbrush? I’d asked the class,
turning in an exaggerated circle. Now where has it gone?! My soft blue dress is just barely fancy enough to pass staff dress code, though I’ve paired it with tight bike shorts underneath so I don’t flash the kids my knickers throughout the day. My pale pink Keds complete the look, proclaiming the fact that I wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  Then his eyes flash back to mine, and I swear a spark of interest passes between us. “I’m intimidated,” he says, all traces of humor gone from his tone.

  A shiver passes down my spine and my cheeks heat to a very obvious shade of ruby red.

  One of my coworkers passes behind Logan, and when she sees him, her eyes widen as she looks at me and mouths, “Holy shit!” before disappearing down the hall.

  Oddly, it’s her confirmation of his drop-dead gorgeousness that shocks me back to the moment.

  “Yes, so…now you know about my job. What is it that you do?”

  “I’m a professional foosball player.”

  I squint, wondering if I’ve heard him right. The level of chatter around us has reached an all-time high as students start to see their caregivers arriving. He’s an awfully big guy, quite fit by the cut of his arms beneath that gray t-shirt. Professional foosball? Really?

  “That’s…wow. Good for you.” I sound less than impressed, but it’s not my fault I’m so caught off guard. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”