The Trouble With Quarterbacks(9)
When I told her I play professional football, she couldn’t have looked less impressed.
It threw me for a loop, especially because of the last few weeks. Ever since my team and I clinched the win in the Super Bowl, the attention from my fans has reached a whole new level. There’s not a person on the street who doesn’t know who I am. I can’t go to the grocery store or the bank, or hell, even out to my car without getting stopped and congratulated on my stellar performance.
Except for Candace. She didn’t congratulate me, and maybe that’s why she’s been stuck in my head.
Or maybe it’s because she’s British. Could be the accent paired with the sweet smile and the self-deprecating humor that forms a tantalizing combination of qualities I can’t help but notice.
I want to spend more time with her. I wanted to ask for her number when I picked Briggs up from school, but I didn’t because it seemed highly inappropriate. Instead, I’ve thought about her—so much so that for the first few seconds when I caught sight of her in District, I wasn’t 100% sure I hadn’t conjured her out of thin air.
Then I heard her speak and the accent thrust me into action. I pushed to my feet before I could stop myself. Melody shot out of the booth to let me pass, assuming I had to use the bathroom or something, and I didn’t correct her. I only had one thought: get to Candace and rip that asshole’s hand off hers.
It’s all a blur after that. Did I really drag her back to my table? Did I invite her to wait on me and my friends? What an ass. I just wanted to spend another few minutes with her and she needed to work, so I was at a loss for what to do.
Now, everyone’s ready to leave the bar, but I’m not. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her again. She’s been a tornado down below, rushing from table to table, smiling as she doles out drinks and passes out checks. She’s good at her job, flirting and playing along with that group of guys but careful not to get too close or lead any of them on. Still, I bet one or two of them wish they could convince her to go home with them. They’d be idiots not to.
Melody drops her hand to my forearm, drawing my attention back to the table and my current date. I glance down at her manicured fingers, which are painted a delicate shade of pink. I wonder what color Candace would use on her nails. Bright orange. Yellow. Rainbow stripes. The thought makes me smile.
Melody misinterprets the gesture and sidles closer to me.
“Sorry I’ve been such a bore tonight,” she says gently. “It was a long day on set.”
I feel bad for Melody. This is technically our second date since we went out as a group last week too. Darius made us a reservation at a steakhouse and sprung her on me when I arrived.
“She’s cool, man. She’s been friends with Liz for years. She’s not just some jersey chaser, and she’s used to being in the limelight.”
Liz and Melody both model. According to Darius, Melody is used to dating professional athletes and thus knows the drill. That should have been a plus considering that’s partly why I’ve avoided dating in recent years. I’ve been burned by women who were with me for the wrong reasons. I’ve had women call paparazzi to ensure they’re ready to snap photos at the exact moment we arrive somewhere, women who swore they were in it for the right reasons when in fact they were really only after fame and fortune. It’s done a number on my ego and my general faith in the dating process.
Besides, it’s not as if I have all the time in the world. Even now, in the off-season, I’m still expected to give my career my full attention.
That said, I can’t seem to get excited about Melody. Sure, she’s gorgeous and practically suction-cupped to my side, but there’s no desire burning below the surface, no anxious excitement at the prospect of kissing her good night.
I try though. I try because my mother raised me to be a better man than I have been for the last hour.
“What were you shooting for today?”
“A designer jeans company. They wanted a really sexy feel so they had me in the jeans and nothing else.” She wags her eyebrows teasingly. “It would have been fine except they had an Italian male model on set with me too.” She assesses me then, looking for something. “You won’t have an issue with that, will you? Me working with other guys?”
Why would I?
Oh right, because we’re supposed to be dating.
I shrug. “All part of the job, right?”
She apparently doesn’t like that answer, because she elaborates. “He was obsessed with me. Kept trying to get my number in between takes. And then it got so awkward because we were practically naked and pretending to be into each other. They had us take about a hundred photos where we were nearly kissing.”
I take a sip of my drink, slightly worried she’s going to continue if I don’t stop her. “I’m sure you can handle your own.”
She frowns, and I take a moment to glance back down and look for Candace, hoping she isn’t at the table with the guys again. A bit ago, I saw them force her into taking another shot. She’s tiny—there’s no way she can hold her alcohol that well.
“Are you guys about ready to call it?” Darius asks, stifling a yawn.
He and I both hit the weights early this morning, and I’m feeling as tired as he is. Even still, I’m hesitant to leave Candace here. Why does she work at a place like this when she has that job at The Day School? Why work two jobs? Then I remember her joke about her massive paycheck and it clicks into focus. She’s hustling like so many others, just like my parents did back in Florida before I hit it big. I excuse myself from the group and promise to meet them out back, through the VIP exit, in a few minutes. Then I yank a couple bills from my wallet along with an old receipt.