The Trouble With Quarterbacks

“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 FourCandaceThree 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.”

I didn’t get the chance to ask who he was referring to before he smirked and nudged my shoulder as he walked past.

I glanced down at the small fortune now resting in my palm. Then, at the grocery receipt.

Wait. What?

“Did you mean to give me all this money?” I shouted over my shoulder at Roger. “And is this your receipt from the store?”

He stopped and turned back, annoyed at my slow uptake. “Check the back—there’s a note. I can’t believe you got Logan Matthews’ number.” He shook his head like he was utterly dumbfounded.

I couldn’t help it; my interest was piqued. I ignored the money and instead decided to shake down Roger for some valuable information.

“So you know him too then?”

He scoffed. “Who doesn’t know him? He’s the best quarterback in the NFL. Just won the Super Bowl a few weeks ago. Pretty sure he’s on every cereal box in the whole damn grocery store.”

My brows scrunched together. “Did you just say NFL?”

“Yeah, NFL. Football. You know, the most popular sport in America?”

“I thought he was a foosball player.”

He barked out a laugh. “Foosball? Are you kidding? No. The guy plays football. You could hawk that phone number for a cool thousand dollars at the very least. Bet you could get even more if you found the right buyer.”

I looked down at the receipt and slowly flipped it over. Sure enough, Logan had written me a note, and below it, there were ten aggressive black numbers. His mobile number.

“So then he’s pretty famous?” I asked, unable to look away from the slip of paper.

“Extremely.”

“How odd.”

It certainly made much more sense—the physique, the VIP status, the models at his table. What a bloke! This is too funny. I wanted to phone him straight away and tell him all about my blunder. You’ll never believe it. Wait until you hear the full story. It’s a riot!

But I didn’t call Logan because my attention slipped back to the wad of cash and I froze, absolutely stunned. He left me cash? Why in the world did he leave me cash?

Of course, I ask Kat and Yasmine about it, but not immediately. I give it a few days, trying to piece it all together myself. I scan back through my past conversations with Logan, searching for clues like a regular Sherlock Holmes, but I’ve got nothing and I’m growing antsy, so I enlist backup.

I should have known better.

“Does he think you’re a sex worker or something? You didn’t lead on or anything about maybe giving him a blowie?” Kat asks as she makes herself a cup of tea in our kitchenette.

“No! I absolutely, in no way made it seem like I was some kind of lady of the night.”

“That uniform is pretty sleazy,” Yasmine adds. “It wouldn’t be out of the question that he got confused. Oh! Look! I found an even better angle.”

She’s on her mobile, scrolling down a Google image search of Logan Matthews. I’ve already seen more pictures than I care to: him on the field about to throw the football, all suited up in his blue and silver jersey; him dressed to the nines for some fundraiser; him on a beach, gripping his girlfriend’s ass in a tight fist. It was after that one that I shot to my feet and said, No more!

My rear is practically on fire just thinking of him manhandling me like that. The obscene thoughts that flit through my mind are absolutely R-rated and perverse. It’s not fair, really. His sheer size makes me go all swoony; he’d really know how to toss me around in bed.

I feel hot.

I push open the tiny window we’ve got beside the sofa and duck my head outside. The sounds of the city practically spear into me, the street noise and music and laughter. I close my eyes and breathe deep, and then a bird caws overhead and I scream as I feel a bit of poo drop onto my forehead and run down between my brows.

“It shat on me!”

Neither of my flatmates react properly. Yasmine is all, “That’s why I never go in nature. It can be so unforgiving.” Kat, at least, yanks off a wad of paper towels and attempts to toss them to me. They barely make it three feet, and she sighs as if to say, Well, I tried.