The Trouble With Quarterbacks

Yasmine whacked me in the head with a pillow from across the room, which is quite impressive because she’s the least athletic out of all of us.

Unfortunately, her pillow didn’t do the trick.

I’m still thinking about Logan tonight, days later, while I work at District. I’m at the bar, waiting for the bartender to finish making drinks for one of my tables.

In the meantime, I’m picking a little red paint off my left thumb. It’s evidence of the volcano I started constructing for another science lesson back at the flat before I had to rush here for my shift.

“It’s not fair. You look adorable in this outfit. I swear to god, my breasts are one deep breath away from tumbling right out for everyone to see.”

I glance over at the new girl standing beside me, the one talking. She only started here a few days ago, and she’s really struggling with catching on to things. I swear she whinges on about something new every five seconds.

Why do they have to keep it so dark in here? I’m going to trip down these stairs!

What’s with these slow-ass bartenders?

Are you getting good tips? Mine have been total shit all night.

This job is not hard. Take drink orders. Deliver said orders. Smile. Collect the tips.

“Do I look okay?” she asks, turning to me so I can assess her. “I feel like I look horrible in this uniform. Does the shirt have to be so tight?”

“You look great,” I say with an encouraging nod and a thumbs-up, more than a little relieved when the bartender finishes loading drinks onto my tray.

“Thanks, Roger!” I say, sending him a quick friendly wink before quickly turning away from New Girl.

“Roger, does this shirt look like it fits me?” she asks, looking to him for input now.

Oh dear. Poor Roger. But better you than me, mate! I sprint as fast as I can away from the bar while keeping my drinks from spilling off my tray.

District is packed to the gills tonight. It’s Friday, and the city is out in full force. I’m waiting on a few tables near the VIP section. They’ve all arrived within the hour, very thirsty and very demanding, but I handle it like a champ. The ladies are here to celebrate a friend’s promotion at work and have very exact drink orders (shaken, not stirred—that sort of thing), but my memory doesn’t fail me, and when I load up their table with Roger’s cocktails, they squeal with glee.

“Candace, these drinks are perfect!” the leader tells me before turning to her friends so they can all clink their glasses together. “Before you go, would you mind taking our picture?”

I happily oblige. The shit lighting in here means all their flaws (of which there are barely any) will totally disappear in the photographs. They’ll look slightly out of focus and decadent in this posh setting.

“Smile, girls!” I prod, holding the mobile up to snap a photo. I go ahead and take ten more—because someone will whinge about their eyes being half-closed in the first, no doubt—and then I pass back the mobile. They all lean in to get a good look at the screen.

“It’s perfect!” one declares.

I smile and promise to be back to check on them soon before making my way to my next table. It’s a group of lads here to celebrate a bachelor party, and they’ve been quite rowdy since they arrived. Very macho, very reminiscent of a herd of male peacocks.

They’re the closest you can be to VIP without actually being in it, and when I wander over, they’re talking extremely loudly about a guest sitting up on level two behind the red rope.

“That’s definitely him! I think I know a Super-Bowl-winning quarterback when I see one.”

“All you could see was the back of his head when he walked by, dipshit. It could be anyone!”

“Lads! Oy!” I interrupt them. “Can I get drink orders?”

I’m small, but my accented voice carries, and they all turn at once to lock their eyes on me. I stand at the base of their round booth, waving around the little notepad I use to jot down lengthy orders.

“Are you on the menu?” one of them asks, a bit under his breath, but they all hear it and so do I. A few of them snicker.

I take no offense. My main goal tonight is to earn tips, and I’ll bet they’re mostly harmless. All-talk sort of guys.

“That depends,” I reply saucily, propping my hands on my hips.

They all lean in, interested.

“Shall I bring the bachelor boy a round of shots and we’ll all have one?”

“Yes!” one of them shouts before the others have a chance. “Top-shelf tequila. Whatever you have that’s best.” He reaches into the back pocket of his suit pants and tugs out his wallet.

I hold up my hand; I already have their cards at the bar for their tab. He’s forgotten, but I remind him.