The Trouble With Quarterbacks - R.S. Grey Page 0,53
on all the bottles of the Cool Blue flavor.”
I screw up my face just thinking about how cheesy it’ll look. “Sounds horrible. Who would want to buy a drink with my face on it?”
She levels me with a bored glare. “According to their market research, every male in America, aged 5 to 65.”
“Right.”
“Then you have a Tom Ford fitting for the gala.”
“Can’t they just use my past measurements and go from there?”
“Don’t test me. Their offices have been hounding me for weeks. I’ve had to swear to get you there in person because they want a custom fit.”
I sigh. “Fuck me.”
“Yes, well, this is your life. Get used to it.”
No kidding.
When I was a kid, I dreamed about becoming a professional athlete. I had visions of playing in packed stadiums, throwing touchdowns to the roar of surging crowds, winning Super Bowls, having a cool house and as many golden retrievers as I wanted. I never thought about everything else that’s involved with the job. I’m essentially a one-man small business, and the better I play on the field, the busier I am off of it.
“You’re scheduled on the carpet at the gala at 8:32, by the way.”
“Can’t promise I’ll be exactly on time. You know how it is, traffic and all.”
“Are you arriving with Darius and Liz?”
“Yeah, and I’ve been thinking about having Candace come with me.”
She frowns; her internal hard drive must be short-circuiting. “Have you told me about Candace?”
“Yes. The girl I just started seeing? The teacher?”
She nods then whips out her tablet, fingers firing away. “That’s right. You gave me her info earlier. I have her ticket for the gala and I can email it to her along with the other information: when to arrive, dress code, all that. She’ll have to get there early, around 7:00 probably.”
“Why can’t she just come with me?”
Rosie sighs as if she doesn’t have the energy to go over this with me. “You know why.”
“She could walk ahead of me on the carpet.”
“Right. Okay. And then you and I will have a media storm on our hands trying to contain the resulting attention if you show up to an event with a woman. No. I’m sorry. She needs to arrive early and be far away from you when those cameras start flashing.”
I don’t reply, and she’s forced to continue, “Unless you’re ready to bring her into the spotlight, go public, and expose her like that. It’s up to you.”
I think of the paparazzi at my apartment yesterday morning and shake my head. “No, this is fine. For now.”
“Good. I think that’s for the best. Now, sit tight. I’ll have hair and makeup come in. You have about forty minutes until you’re on air. Review those questions I gave you and try to come up with answers that will make good sound bites.”
“Or I could just speak from the heart?”
She doesn’t even bother replying to that, already flying out the door.
I’m sitting in my dressing room at The Tonight Show. It’s an honor to be here for the fourth time and I should be happy that I’m relevant enough to get invitations to shows like this, but I just can’t seem to muster up the energy I need. I know it’s because Candace couldn’t come tonight. I was hoping she’d be here, in the crowd. It’s not like I could really acknowledge her even if she were here, but maybe I could have found a way to shoot her a little wave or a smile.
I think of her working at District, probably flying around like a pixie.
I think of the men there, no doubt hitting on her.
It makes my stomach tighten in annoyance.
Jealousy doesn’t sit well with me, probably because it’s been a while since I’ve felt it. I try to imagine the last few women I’ve dated going out with someone new, and I dig deep for some feeling, just to try to prove to myself that Candace isn’t as special as I’m making her out to be. I picture Melody with another guy and feel the opposite of jealous. I’m apathetic—bored, even. Then I picture Candace smiling, just fucking smiling at another guy, and my fists clench. Real healthy, Logan. Jesus. I force myself to relax then drag a hand through my hair.
My phone vibrates with a new text, and I tug it out of my pocket.
CANDACE: Hey Lo! (Isn’t that hilarious? I’ve just cracked myself up with that nickname. If you say it out loud in my accent, it