The Trouble With Quarterbacks(10)

I go down to the bar on the lower level, keeping my head down so as to draw the least amount of attention. It doesn’t matter. I’m still noticed, but a quick shake of my head deters a few guys from coming closer. I wave down the bartender and ask him if he’s seen Candace.

He frowns, thinking it over. “She’s like a bird, man, flying around this place. I swear she moves faster than all the other servers combined.”

He sounds fascinated with her and I narrow my eyes, wondering if he’s just impressed with her waitressing skills or if it’s something more. Then I shove aside the thought and ask him for a pen.

He hands me the one he has tucked behind his ear, and I jot down a quick note on the back of the receipt before passing it to him along with the cash.

“Make sure this gets to her, okay?”

His eyes widen at the sum of money in front of him. For a minute, I’m suspicious that he’s going to pocket it all and forget my request, but then his gaze locks with mine and he nods reverently.

“Sure thing.”





I’m expecting a call from Candace the next day, and when it doesn’t come, I start to second-guess myself. Chasing women isn’t something I’ve had to do since…ever. I was the star quarterback in high school, the star quarterback in college, and a first-round draft pick into the pros. Just because I haven’t found a relationship that works long-term doesn’t mean there’s been a shortage of women ready and raring to give it a try.

There have been a lot of women, and then there’s Candace. It’s been two days and she still hasn’t called.

“What if I wrote the number down wrong?” I ask Darius as I’m hunched over, gripping my knees and sucking in deep breaths. I feel like I’m about to fucking throw up.

We’re doing sprint drills with our training coach and he’s giving us hell because he’s a sadist. Also because Darius was five minutes late.

“Are you serious? Logan fucking Matthews wrote his number on a damn grocery store receipt—that shit’s worth a million dollars. I still can’t believe you did that. What if the bartender had passed it around? If I were you, I’d change my number.”

“I haven’t had any weird calls. I think he really did mean it when he said he’d give the note to her.”

“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 Four





Candace





Three 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.