The Trouble With Quarterbacks(3)

“But you aren’t going home today,” I say, chucking him gently on the chin. “Remember? Your uncle—”

My sentence is cut off when Briggs glances up and emits an ear-splitting squeal of delight.

“UNCLE LOGAN!”

He lets go of my leg to dash off toward the classroom’s half-open Dutch door right as I glance up. My brain does a little stutter step, forgetting how to operate as a normal human would. My jaw drops and my tongue sort of lolls uselessly. This man can’t be Briggs’ uncle, because he’s most definitely the hunk from my daydream, the one with the coconut drink on the beach. He has the same unruly brown hair. Same tall, broad frame. Same chiseled jaw and roguish grin. I hear the call of the ocean for a split second before I shake my head and realize I’ve gone mad.

This isn’t my fantasy man.

I’ve never met this man. I know I haven’t. My brain would have tattooed it to memory.

This is just a man who bears a dangerously close resemblance to my fantasy.

I force my brain back into my body and head toward the door.

Briggs’ uncle is one of the first to arrive for pick-up, so toddlers buzz around me as I reach to shake his hand and introduce myself.

“Hi there, I’m Candace.”

“Ms. Candace! This is my uncle! He’s famous!”

His uncle smiles good-naturedly and shakes his head like Briggs is only pulling my leg. Then he reaches over the bottom half of the Dutch door to accept my hand. “I’m Logan. It’s good to meet you.”

His hand is massive and quite warm compared to mine. I try not to crumble beneath the pressure of his tight hold.

Briggs groans in frustration. “He is famous! I can prove it!”

Logan seems intent on downplaying his nephew’s claims, circumventing his praise. With a quirk of a dark brow, he asks me, “So you’re Briggs’ teacher?”

I beam, and then I realize we’re still holding hands, so I force myself to steal mine back lest I get carried away.

“I am. Yes. I’m the 3s teacher here.”

“Tough job I bet,” he says, passing his gaze over the children dancing and wiggling and chatting around my legs.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, playfully rolling my eyes. “How does she manage it? Fancy clothes, posh office, absolutely massive paycheck.” He laughs and I grin as I continue, “It’s not something I like to brag about often. Guys get so intimidated.”

“I’m not surprised. Look at you,” he teases, waving his hand up and down my body.

Cheeky bastard. I can’t help but laugh and shake my head.

I get it. My hair is up in a bun, and if I remember correctly, I still have an unused paintbrush stuck up there from earlier. The kids and I made a whole game of it during art time. Has anyone seen my paintbrush? I’d asked the class, turning in an exaggerated circle. Now where has it gone?! My soft blue dress is just barely fancy enough to pass staff dress code, though I’ve paired it with tight bike shorts underneath so I don’t flash the kids my knickers throughout the day. My pale pink Keds complete the look, proclaiming the fact that I wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Then his eyes flash back to mine, and I swear a spark of interest passes between us. “I’m intimidated,” he says, all traces of humor gone from his tone.

A shiver passes down my spine and my cheeks heat to a very obvious shade of ruby red.

One of my coworkers passes behind Logan, and when she sees him, her eyes widen as she looks at me and mouths, “Holy shit!” before disappearing down the hall.

Oddly, it’s her confirmation of his drop-dead gorgeousness that shocks me back to the moment.

“Yes, so…now you know about my job. What is it that you do?”

“I’m a professional foosball player.”

I squint, wondering if I’ve heard him right. The level of chatter around us has reached an all-time high as students start to see their caregivers arriving. He’s an awfully big guy, quite fit by the cut of his arms beneath that gray t-shirt. Professional foosball? Really?

“That’s…wow. Good for you.” I sound less than impressed, but it’s not my fault I’m so caught off guard. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

He frowns, obviously confused by my odd reaction.

I’ve only been in the States a few years. Is foosball a big thing here? I wasn’t aware.

Just to be sure I’ve got it right, I follow up with a question.

“So you knock that little ball around trying to score?”

He grins, looking down at me like I’m the oddest creature he’s ever encountered. “I guess you could put it that way.”

Huh.

“It’s a big sport here?”

He tips back on his heels, and I swear I see a tiny tinge of color on his sharply tanned cheekbones. “Yeah, pretty big.”

It’s like he’s embarrassed to admit it.

“See?!” Briggs says. “Told you he’s famous!”

I make a mental note to look into America’s professional foosball league when I get back to our flat. Even after living here for a while, I swear there’s still so much about this country I’ve yet to learn, but if all the players in that league look like Logan, well…I’ve just found my new favorite sport.