The Trouble With Quarterbacks(56)
This way of life isn’t for the faint of heart and I don’t want to force Candace into it, but after our call—after she hung up on me and I sat on my couch laughing about it—I know she’s worth fighting for. Her brand of crazy feels too unique to pass up.
My week starts the way they always do. Weights. Training. Interviews. Meeting with my financial planners. Meeting with my apartment manager. Meeting with my agent. Meeting with my marketing team. Meeting with my coaches. Sleep. Food. Repeat. Candace. Candace. Candace.
She’s the silver lining in all the bullshit I trek through on a daily basis, and she doesn’t even know it.
We live in the same city, but we might as well be in two different worlds.
With how busy we both are, we don’t manage to see each other on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. We do talk on the phone, though. After Sunday night, I can’t resist calling her. Even if her roommates usually interrupt us, I still like hearing from her. It’s easier to get her alone in the middle of the day when I call and catch her during her lunch breaks at school. She eats in her classroom while she puts me on speakerphone, and today, she’s telling me about an art project she has planned for the kids in the afternoon.
“We’re making slime!”
I frown, not quite understanding. “Slime?”
“Oh, it’s this gross toy kids absolutely love. Like a sort of Play-Doh goo? But somehow worse? It drives me absolutely insane trying to clean it up, but they go wild for it. Plus, I can usually get them to act sweet for at least twenty minutes after we’ve done it. Er…okay, that’s a stretch. At least five minutes. Five minutes of peace is worth the trouble, believe me.”
“Take a picture of it so I can see what you’re talking about.”
“Will do!”
She has to rush off the phone before I do and I’m left missing her, which doesn’t sit well with me. I distract myself by looking at Rosie’s itinerary for my afternoon. She has my life broken down into fifteen-minute intervals all the way from now until 8:30 PM. Tomorrow, my day starts at 5:00 AM.
I know Candace doesn’t have it any easier. She has a shift at District tonight, and I send a quick text to Pat to make sure he’ll be there to drive her home when she’s finished. He shoots back “10-4” and then Rosie arrives with a box full of empty Gatorade bottles.
As promised, my face is plastered all over them, and I don’t even realize there are a few different versions until she tells me we have to give the team at Gatorade our final approval by the end of the day.
“Uh, right. Let’s just go with that one then,” I say, pointing to the one closest to me.
Rosie laughs as if I’m a complete idiot then walks to the door as if she knew there was about to be a knock. She tugs it open, and in they come: half a dozen people with huge presentation boards that list out the pros and cons for each image. You see, in this one he’s holding the football a little higher, more toward his face. His stance is more dominant, and his smile looks sincere. I sit near the window, stare out at the New York skyline, and think about Candace.
The next day is Thursday, and I’m scheduled to pick up Briggs from school. I’m fucking giddy as the afternoon flies by. I’m at The Day School earlier than planned—too early—so instead of going in, I pace out on the sidewalk, trying to come up with a way to tell Candace I’ve missed her so damn much over the last few days that won’t scare her off.
I tug my hand through my hair and look up to see a woman approaching the school. She’s either a mom or a nanny; it’s impossible to tell. Her brown hair is tugged up tight in a bun, and she’s wearing slim-fitting athletic clothes.
“Are you here for pick-up?” she asks me with a huge smile.
“Yeah.”
“Great! We can go in together.”
Awesome. I didn’t want to be the first person to arrive, but if she goes in front of me, I’ll technically be the second.
“You’re Logan Matthews, right?” she asks as we head inside. “I know it’s probably so annoying to be recognized everywhere, but well”—she shrugs—“the moms here love to talk.”
“Oh.” I force out a laugh. “Yeah.”
I never have a good response for when people ask me who I am. It feels too blunt and rude to just say yes, so I reach my hand out. “And you are?”
She blushes and accepts my hand. “Erin Carson. Margaux’s mom!”
Margaux, right. Briggs has told me the names of the kids in his class, but there are a lot of them and I can’t seem to keep up.
“Margaux and Briggs absolutely adore each other. We need to get them together for a playdate soon!”
I shrug and offer a lopsided smile. “That’s not really my jurisdiction. I’m just the uncle. I bet you could coordinate something with Stella or Bobby though.”
She scrunches her brows. “Who?”
“Right.” I forget my sister rarely makes it up to this school. I doubt any of the parents know her. “Never mind, just coordinate it with Briggs’ nanny. She’s usually the one to pick him up.”
We reach Candace’s classroom, and the top half of the Dutch door is open so we can see in over the bottom half. Candace is sitting on a colorful rug, reading to the kids. They sit in a semicircle, fanned around her, listening intently while she finishes a page. It’s a cute scene and I wouldn’t think anything of it, except for the fact that she’s completely wrapped herself up in toilet paper.