The Trouble With Quarterbacks

“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.”