The Trouble With Quarterbacks

I glance down at my ring and smile. Even it’s totally ridiculous, but that’s Logan’s fault. After five months together, he surprised me one evening back at our flat.

I’d just arrived home from work. I quit my job at District and I don’t help Kat clean very often either, but I love my work at The Day School, even if I am knackered at the end of every day.

Anyway, I strolled in, set my purse down, and noticed a trail of rose petals leading me into the kitchen. Then, CANDLES—so many I think Logan might have bought out the entire city’s stock. I’m surprised the fire sprinklers weren’t going off.

He was standing in the middle of them with the ring in his hand, as handsome as ever.

“Marry me?” he asked.

“Oh my” is all I managed before I started crying, real big sobby tears so that I had to grab for a dish towel and wipe away the snot. Fortunately, he got the gist of my reply. He came toward me, gathered me up in his arms, and then slipped the ring on my finger. I haven’t taken it off since.

It’s obscenely sparkly and could knock out someone’s eye if I’m not careful…but well…I love it, of course.

“Would you fetch me another little shrimp cocktail?” Kat asks me.

“Get it yourself!” I groan, turning back to the game. There’re only a few minutes left in the fourth quarter. New York is up by six, which is a horrible spot to be in because if Green Bay manages a touchdown, we’re screwed!

“I can’t get up. You’ll have to help me.”

“You’re not that pregnant.”

“I’ll have you know that back in the day, women were basically put on bedrest for their entire pregnancy.”

“Yes, well, nowadays, they compete in the Olympics. I don’t see your point.”

“Fine! I’ll get it myself, but I’m not naming the baby after you anymore.”

“You were never planning to name her after me,” I point out, knowing full well they’ve decided to call her Cassie, after Jay’s mum.

“Well…you don’t get the middle name now either!”

I’m too busy watching the game to care about her threats. Green Bay is on their fourth down. They’re going for a field goal. OR maybe they’re tricking us into thinking they’re going for a field goal and they’re really going to try to run the ball in for a touchdown. Oh my god, they’re putting in their special teams.

“BLOCK THEM,” I scream.

Apparently, they hear me, because they don’t let Green Bay score, and then the game is over. WE WON! It’s just a regular season game, nothing to go crazy about, but I’m still hopping around with glee. Not only do I like winning, Logan likes winning too. I can’t stand when he comes home all down and upset after a hard-lost game.

Now, we’ll have a lovely weekend together! We’ll be celebrating. Oh yes! That reminds me.

“Right, well, I’m off, you two,” I say, grabbing my purse and jumper. “Yasmine, roll Kat out of here if she can’t manage to walk anymore.”

“Where are you rushing off to?” Kat asks, mouth full of shrimp.

“Home! Duh. We won!”

That means one thing: sweet, sweet victory sex.

At the start of the season, I assumed Logan would be utterly knackered after a game. I expected he’d arrive home and face-plant down onto our bed, not stirring until morning, but boy was I wrong.

When he wins, when he plays a good game or throws a great pass, it’s like he’s got more energy than he knows what to do with. He’s positively brimming with endorphins and pheromones and whatever else it is that makes a woman want a man. I’ve learned now: after a win, be prepared.

I rush out of the private suite. Out there, in the hall, I meet up with Ryan. He’s always here for home games—watching in another suite with a group of bodyguards—just in case the fans get a little rowdy, not that I see many of them. Sure, there are a few with private suites up on this level too, but they mostly mind their own business.

“Good game,” Ryan says.

I beam. “Great game.”

“Logan will be happy.”

You bet your arse he will be. I’m positively overflowing with giddy excitement as the lift sweeps us down to the ground level of the car park underneath the stadium. From there, Ryan leads me to where he has the SUV parked, and we move along in the queue of cars toward the exit. There’s no point in waiting for Logan to join me before I leave the stadium. He’ll have to do postgame press on the field then have a shower in the locker room. Sometimes he has to do more interviews after that as well. Still, it’ll only be about an hour or so before he gets back to the flat.

An hour! Hardly any time, really.