The Trouble With Quarterbacks Read online

  “Oof! Sorry. Didn’t even see you there,” I say, sidestepping out of his way on the sidewalk as he blinks in surprise.

  He makes some sort of noncommittal response and then I’m off, walking down the street toward my subway stop. I’m only half a block away from my building when I glance across the street and see another photographer standing there, though this time he’s got his camera poised in front of his eye and he’s snapping away, aiming his lens right at me, or at least in my general direction. Odd. I turn over my shoulder, wondering what he’s taking a picture of. The building behind me is quite derelict and not something I’d usually stop to admire with its crumbly bricks and rusted iron bars covering the windows. It’s not exactly Kensington Palace, but then again, I’m no artist. Maybe he sees beauty there that I’m blind to.

  “Sorry for blocking your shot!” I shout, scurrying along to get out of his way.

  He probably stood there all morning trying to get just the right light for his photo and then I strolled along and mucked it all up.

  The subway is crowded as usual, so I huddle in a corner, standing and holding on to a leather strap hanging from the ceiling so I don’t go barreling forward into my neighbor when we take a harsh turn.

  An older man dressed in a business suit is standing near me, though instead of holding on to a strap for dear life, he’s just casually reading the newspaper. What a proper New Yorker. He’s quite good at surfing along the subway line while he turns the pages and continues reading. The front page of the paper catches my eye. He’s reading the sports section of the Times, and there’s a huge photo of Logan taking up the top half of the page. He’s sitting on a bench in his football gear while a man kneels at his feet, tending to an injury from the looks of it. The headline reads: LOGAN MATTHEWS’ CAREER-ENDING INJURY.

  I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand, drawing the attention of the businessman.

  He follows my gaze, folds down the top half of the newspaper to see the photo I’m looking at, and then laughs.

  “Don’t worry. They love to sensationalize everything. From the sound of it, he barely hurt his ankle yesterday during a practice.”

  “Oh thank god. Poor Logan.”

  The man looks at me like I’m quite queer, and I suppose he must think I’m some kind of superfan or something. What a laugh it would be to tell him that Logan and I are actually friends. More than friends, maybe, depending on this meeting I’m about to have.

  I tug out my mobile while I’m walking from my subway stop to the café, and I type out a text to Logan.

  CANDACE: Just saw you in the newspaper! Hope your ankle is all right! XO

  But I stop myself before I send it, not wanting to bother him. Judging from how his mobile looked on Sunday night, it probably gets blown up all day, and I don’t want to add on to that. Not to mention, if I saw him in the newspaper, that means loads of other people saw it too and are now probably reaching out as well.

  With a sigh, I pocket my mobile and push open the door, focusing on the task at hand.

  It’ll be a delicate matter, dealing with Mrs. Halliday. In the last few months since I took my post at The Day School, I haven’t broken any staff rules, so I haven’t had very many dealings with her. Just brief hellos and goodbyes in the hallway, quick chats whenever she pokes her head into my classroom—that sort of thing.

  When I show up at her office with the lattes and scones in hand, I’m embarrassed to find I’m quite nervous, hands shaking and everything.

  I ask Laura if she’s in, and this time I’ve lucked out. No dental appointments to contend with.

  “Come in, Candace! I’m free,” Mrs. Halliday bellows through the open door to her office before Laura can answer me.

  After passing one drink and scone off to Laura, I walk in with Mrs. Halliday’s treats outstretched in front of me. She beams when I offer them to her.

  “For me? You shouldn’t have!” She smiles before accepting her drink and scone gladly. Then she takes a sip of the latte. “Mmm, it’s extra sweet. Now this is a good bribe.”

  I nearly croak. BRIBE?! Is it that obvious?

  “I had them add some vanilla,” I respond in an awkward high-pitched voice, trying to throw her off my scent.

  “Just the way I like it,” she says, taking another sip before setting it down. She’s a nice woman, really. Her appearance is rather round and matronly and she chooses clothes with the most horrid fabrics, but her smile is genuine when she glances across her table at me as I take a seat in a chair facing her. “So now tell me what you need.”

  I fidget nervously, surprised by her direct question.

  “Can’t I just bring my favorite boss a coffee every now and then?” I tease, embarrassed to find that I’ve broken out in a cold sweat.

  She leans back in her chair and narrows her cool gray eyes on me. “Sure you can, but I’ve been around the block quite a few times and I know the drill. So what is it? Toddlers driving you insane? Want some help in the afternoons?”

  I hurry to correct her. “No! No, that’s not it at all. I think I’m faring quite nicely in the 3s room, actually. It’s…umm…” I twiddle my fingers, trying to get my words in the proper order. “It’s a question to do with the rules in our employee handbook, actually.”

  She groans like it’s the last thing she wanted to hear. “Don’t expect me to know that thing backward and forward—it was written before my tenure here. Just come out with it and tell me what you’re so worried about then I’ll see if I can ease your mind.”

  I didn’t expect to cut to the chase this quickly. I thought we’d do a bit of back and forth about the weather and school lunches and whatever was on the telly last night. I was going to feign a love for The Bachelor in case she’s a big fan.

  She’s still waiting for me to speak, her gaze gently goading me to get on with it.

  “Okay, so it has to do with the part about no fraternizing with the parents.”

  “Oh god, who did you sleep with?”

  My eyes bug out of my head and my hands shoot out to stop her thoughts. “No one! I swear it!”

  We just did a bit of humping in a pool. Oh dear.

  “Okay…”

  “It’s…um…okay…one of my students has this uncle.”

  “Logan Matthews, yes. The NFL player. That’s something you’ll just have to get used to. At a prestigious school like this, we have quite a few parents and relatives who are famous in one way or another. Hell, some of our students are probably famous in their own right as well.”

  “Sure, but it’s not his fame I’m worried about. It’s about whether or not it’d be okay if he and I dated?”

  Without missing a beat, she replies, “Oh, I’m afraid you’d be fired. Yes, gone immediately.”

  OH MY GOD.

  I immediately panic. My heart starts to gallop like it wants to race right out of my chest. Fired. Axed. Gone. NO!

  “Surely there’s some way to—”

  Then she bursts out laughing, really having a go, slapping her hand on her desk and everything. When I don’t immediately realize what’s happening, she only starts laughing harder, having to wipe tears from her eyes. “Oh god, I’m kidding! Can you imagine?! A student’s uncle being off limits? And what about a friend of a friend? And that man down the block there? No, I choose to assume you teachers know what’s best, and I trust your judgment.”

  “So it isn’t against the rules? But wait—isn’t that why the teacher who was in the 3s class before me was fired? She was sleeping with the father of one of our students, I thought.”

  Mrs. Halliday finally stops laughing, and her face screws up like I’ve really confused her. “Tara? Is that what you think happened?” She snorts. “God no. Tara was fired because she was stealing school supplies from the multipurpose closet and reselling them online for a profit. She had a whole system going, probably made a small fortune before we caught on to the fact that all of our paper clips had gone missing.”

  “You’re kidding.”<
br />
  “No, you’d be surprised. Paper clips sell for a pretty penny if you can get your hands on enough of them.”

  What?

  “No. That’s…” I shake my head adamantly. “I mean, I really thought she’d had an affair and been axed for it.”

  Mrs. Halliday shrugs and reaches out for her latte once again. “Well that’s school gossip for you. Can never be too sure about anything people say around here. Everyone loves a good story.”

  Right. Well then.

  I lean back in my seat, breathing in this new information. It seems too good to be true, so just to be sure, I decide to ask once more.

  “So then it’s okay if I pursue something with Logan?”

  I say it real slow like I want to be sure she hears every syllable.

  Her face turns serious then, her eyes narrowing. “It’s not against school rules, though as your advisor, I’d caution you to tread lightly when it comes to dating someone in the public eye.”

  I think she keeps on going after that—warning me about what I’m getting myself into—

  but I don’t hear a bloody word. My brain has turned into a musical complete with dancing people twirling around light posts. She might be bestowing some real words of wisdom upon me, but all I hear is, Yes, go! Screw his brains out! You won’t be fired!

  When we’re done, I see myself out of her office and get to work in my classroom straight away.

  I’m extra patient with all the little kiddos, not even minding one bit when one of the boys wees on my shoe. See if I care! You can wee wherever you want! This day is so glorious nothing even matters!

  I want to tell Logan about the news, of course, but then it doesn’t seem like something I should spout out over text. Besides, it’s a bit keen to just go right up to a guy and say he’s basically got free rein. Do with me what you will! I’m yours for the taking, big boy!

  And not to mention, since he’s totally and completely out of my league as it is, I probably should feign some kind of cool-girl persona. Make him think I’ve got other lads lined up to fill his spot, that sort of thing. God, especially after he saw me all pukey on Sunday night. Blech. Not my best look.

  Since I decide not to tell Logan straight away, I settle for shooting off a text to Yasmine and Kat.

  They respond as I assumed they would.

  Kat: ACE! Now you can bonk his brains out.

  She caps it off with a row of eggplant and peach emojis. Real classy.

  Yasmine responds a little later and has lots of advice for me.

  YASMINE: Don’t just throw yourself at him now that you’re allowed to date him. Make him work for it. Maybe go for a blow job first? Or just do a hand job? We can discuss later.

  YASMINE: Oh, and thank GOD you waxed last week.

  CANDACE: HA! Get over it! It’s just hair! And mine happens to be lovely, even down there.

  YASMINE: Please stop. I’m already planning to call round to find a shrink who can hypnotize me and help wipe my memory. Only way I’ll manage to get to sleep at night…

  After I get home from school, I sit down on the sofa, place my mobile on the coffee table, and stare at it. It was one thing to avoid calling Logan all day—when I was busy chasing after tots—but it’s another to stave off the urge now that I’m here…lonely…thinking of him and wishing he were here.

  I reach out to pick it up but then stop myself, forcing my body back against the sofa cushions. I turn on the telly, flip through a few channels, decide every show is boring, and turn it back off. I look around the flat, wondering if I should clean it up a bit. Eh, not worth it. Kat will only wreck it again.

  Then, my mobile rings.

  It’s Logan.

  How did he know?! Did I slip into a hypnotic state for a bit and accidentally call him? Did I text him?!

  Or maybe he’s as anxious to hear from me as I am to hear from him?!

  It rings twice. Then a third time, and I feel all kinds of nervous, fidgeting on the sofa like I’m a toddler in need of a bathroom break.

  Finally, my hand shoots out and I answer it on a whim. The call connects and my breath gets caught in my chest as Logan speaks.

  “Hey Candace.”

  His voice sends goosebumps down my arms.

  I smile. “Hi.”

  “Did you talk to your boss?”

  My smile widens. So he’s been anxious about the meeting too. He wants to know if I’m off limits. Why does that make me feel so special?

  “Is that all you care about? I thought we could do some chitchat first. You can ask me how my day was,” I tease.

  “How was your day?” he asks, tone perfunctory.

  “Oh, not bad. Started out with some finger painting. Then outdoor play, and I got a bit of color on my cheeks because I forgot my sun hat. In the afternoon, I had to wash some wee off my shoes—”

  “Candace.”

  His voice sounds threatening, and I like it. I’ve never gone for the soft boys, the ones who let you walk all over them.

  “Now I want to hear about your day,” I say, prolonging his agony. I like this. Taunting him is fun, and maybe I’ve got a little evil streak because I don’t plan on stopping any time soon.

  “I can’t recall much of it. I’ve been distracted.”

  Interesting.

  Then he says, all commandingly, “Come over. We can talk about everything here.”

  “That sounds awfully bossy of you,” I chide.

  “Come over or I’ll come there, though I saw your room, and that bed…it’s not big enough.”

  For what?! Jesus. Warn a girl.

  I walk into the kitchen, open our fridge, and bend down to stick my head inside for some relief. It smells a bit like moldy socks, but the cool air is nice on my heated face.

  “I guess I could come round for a bit?”

  There’s no hesitation before he responds, “I’ll send my driver.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh no need. I’ve got a retinue of my own. Loads of them just waiting down by the curb eager to do my bidding. Oh, please, Candace! Let me drive you! No, me!”

  “He’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  I eek out a high-pitched “Oh Lordy!” and hang up on him so I can dash into my room and get ready.

  What does one wear to seduce and ensnare a professional footballer? A dress? A nightie? Sexy knickers? No knickers?

  Kat and Yasmine aren’t home, which is probably for the best. They’d only war with me about what outfit to wear, and I think I’ve settled on something quite nice: a short black dress with sheer black stockings underneath. My checkered coat will have to do because it’s all I own.

  When I’m finishing up in the bathroom, refreshing my hair and makeup, I get a text on my mobile from the driver alerting me that he’s downstairs.

  Right then. Off to Oz, I suppose. I lock up the flat and hop-skip down the stairs, waving eagerly to neighbors, who only give me brief grunts in response.

  The driver is this well-dressed lad about my dad’s age, all done up in a black suit. His hat is very shiny, and he gives me a huge grin when I introduce myself then he tells me he’s called Pat. I don’t think he was expecting I’d shake his hand, but what was I supposed to do? Just ignore him?

  We ride toward Logan’s, me in the front seat beside Pat. He said I could get in the back, but that felt a bit odd, and this way I can fiddle with his radio.

  “Do you like pop, or would you rather I find something a bit more mellow?”

  He shoots me a sideways glance, chuckles, and then shakes his head. “Whatever you like is fine.”

  He’s got a great New York accent, one of those you can tell he’s cultivated since birth.

  I pick his brain as we drive, asking where he’d go if he wanted a proper sandwich, pizza, a burger…basically I only care about food.

  He’s telling me all these great places and I’m loading them into a note on my mobile when a motorist comes out of nowhere, turns into our lane from another street, and nearly sideswipes us. Pat lays
on the horn, real angry, and I do him a favor and roll down my window so I can add my own two cents.

  “Oy! Watch it, buddy!” I say, sounding real menacing, and Pat gives me an approving nod as I roll my window back up.

  “You’re good people,” he says as we slow down in front of Logan’s building.

  “Ditto. I feel like I’ve got a new friend.” I beam then tuck away my mobile. “I’ll try out a few of these restaurants soon and report back.”

  He tips his head, I give him a proper salute in farewell, and then I turn to head inside.

  I’m not sure how all this works. For the party, there was a man prepared with a long list of approved guests. Now, there’s a doorman who sees me coming from a few yards away, immediately straightens his posture, and moves to hold the door open for me with a sweeping gesture.

  “Ms. Williams, right this way.”

  Whoa. Hello, royal treatment.

  I’m so gobsmacked that he knows who I am, I don’t even think to thank him for holding the door for me. It feels so unbelievably rude. I make a note to be double nice to him the next go-round as another attendant points me in the direction of the central bank of lifts.

  Inside one of them, there’s yet another man in the building’s crisp navy uniform, and when he sees me, he nods and swipes his keycard over an invisible panel. On command, the lift rises and takes us up toward the penthouse floor.

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “Having a good day?”

  “Can’t complain, miss,” he replies shyly, offering me a small smile before we arrive at Logan’s flat.

  Like the last time I was here, the lift sweeps open to the small antechamber that leads to Logan’s front door. As I head toward it, my mobile vibrates again, and I realize I missed a text from Logan a few minutes ago.

  LOGAN: I’ll be back soon. Got held up.

  LOGAN: Go in and get settled. There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry.