The Trouble With Quarterbacks(11)

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.

“It’s an omen,” I suggest as I dunk my head under the running tap in the kitchenette and decide whether or not I should phone a doctor. Can I get rabies from bird poop? Is some of it in my eye now or is that just my tears? I’m having a proper freak-out.

“Just calm down and come round over here so we can give the bloke a call. I can’t believe you’ve sat on this number the last three days and done nothing with it. Look at him!”

I shut off the water and grab a vibrant pink tea towel to wrap around my sopping wet hair, leaving me looking like a turbaned palm reader when I walk back toward the sofa.

“You look lovely,” Yasmine says with a dead-honest tone. “Pink is a good color on you.”

“Oh shut it, will you? And pass me your mobile.”

“Mine? Why mine?!” She immediately holds it up on the other side of her, out of my reach.

“Because I’m not going to call him from mine. That’s embarrassing!”

Kat volunteers. “Whatever, use mine. But if he calls back and insists on chatting with me, well I’ll probably have to give it a go because honestly he’s the hunkiest man I’ve ever seen and I don’t think you’re adequately appreciating all he has to off—”

I yank away her mobile before she can finish her rant and phone him using the number I’ve now memorized by heart.

It rings for ages. I think I grow fifteen chin hairs by the time his voicemail finally kicks in. There’s no deep voice there to greet me with an invitation to leave a message, just a stale robot insisting I wait until after the beep.

I don’t, of course. I chicken out and hang up immediately.

“Well then, there you have it.”

I pass Kat her mobile back, prepared to let the dilemma rest. I’ve tried now, haven’t I? But then her mobile starts vibrating and the three of us shriek bloody murder so loudly our upstairs neighbor bangs on his floor, politely telling us to shut the fuck up.

“IT’S HIM!” Kat shouts, frantically waving her arms. She tries to pass me her mobile, but I don’t want it. What am I supposed to do? Answer it?!

Yasmine groans and stands up to retrieve it, answering the call with a cool, clipped “Hello?”

I motion for her to put it on speakerphone, but she doesn’t.

“Yes, hi. No, this isn’t Candace. This is her friend, Yasmine.”

I’m melting into a puddle of embarrassment. I can’t believe I’ve let it drag on this far. He’ll think I’m mad, and I am, actually, but I was hoping he wouldn’t find out about that until well into our friendship, after he’d grown fond enough of me to appreciate my quirks.

“What’s she doing?” Yasmine repeats. She eyes me up and down, clearly uninspired by my lackluster attire. Then her eyes land on the tea towel. “Oh, she’s just…stepped out of the shower. Yes. That’s why I’m the one answering.”

Oh good thinking. Now he’ll imagine me all wet and in my knickers. In real life, I’ve got on yellow cotton panties and a pale blue tank top I’ve had for so long it used to be navy.

“You want to speak with her? Sure, let me just make sure she’s not still nude.”

“YAZ!” I mouth, waving at her to cut it out.

“Oh good, she’s got on this silky little robe. Barely decent, really—”

I yank the mobile out of her hand so hard I scratch her cheek. She winces in pain and I am sorry, but well, what choice did I have?!

“H-hello?” I say, immediately running toward my bedroom so I can barricade myself inside for some privacy. I get the door halfway closed before my two flatmates weasel their way in. Privacy is obviously not happening.