The Trouble With Quarterbacks Read online R.S. Grey

Categories Genre: Funny, New Adult, Romance, Sports Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
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“Sure, yeah, before bed.”

There’s that heavy pause again! The one we keep doing at the end of our calls! It happened when I left his flat the other day too. He kissed me then I pulled back, and we looked each other in the eyes. It was like we were right back in primary school, all blushy and awkward.

“Right, well, ta-ta!” I say quickly.

Then I end the call and look up at my flatmates.

They’re wearing odd expressions, looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“Why haven’t you said you love him?”

“LOVE?!” I bark out a hearty laugh, and then one more for posterity. “Who said anything about love?”

Yasmine tilts her head, studying me with a you-poor-sod expression. I hate it.

“Right, well, now that everything is settled…Kat, grab that pile of panties and help me shove all these clothes back into our room. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thank god,” she says, walking over to start kicking my garments back to where they belong.

“You know, a real mate wouldn’t have done this in the first place,” I point out as my blouse flies up into the air and lands on the corner of the telly.

She screws up her face like I’ve just said the dumbest thing she’s ever heard. “What kind of mates have you had before? This is very standard.”

“So you’ve excommunicated people before?”

“Oh loads. I’m quite stubborn when I put my mind to it.”

Saturday can’t come soon enough.

It’s like the second half of the week is in cahoots to go really slow, like the days know how eager I am to get to the weekend (the good bit) and they want to draw it out for a bit of fun. I’ve got another shift at District Friday night, and it doesn’t go very well. I’m waiting on a group of lads, asking for their drink orders, when I notice the girls one table over start to snap photos of me. They’re doing it real sly, so at first, I’m not totally sure what they’re doing. They have their mobiles positioned partially behind their water glasses, but when I look over, they all laugh and scramble to shove them away, back down into their purses.

I tell myself I’m just being paranoid, but it only gets worse from there. I’m asked by two different groups to give them my autograph. What in the world do they want with my chicken-scratch letters on a stained cocktail napkin? I laugh and try to play it off as if they’re kidding, but they insist, and well…I don’t want them to think I’m some snotty brat, so I do it, but I feel crummy afterward, like they think I’m someone more special than I am. I’m a total fraud—or at least that’s the way it feels. Neither of the groups leave decent tips, which just goes to show you how annoying people can be sometimes. I’ve worked my arse off the whole night and I have barely anything to show for it. Still, I count out the bills and set most of them aside in my head to send to Mum in the morning.

I had a long chat with her last night, same ol’ same ol’: her trying to insist they don’t need money, me not budging on the subject. She asked about Logan, and I told her we’re proper dating, girlfriend/boyfriend and everything. Even with the press and such, she still didn’t quite believe it and made me swear I wasn’t pulling her leg.

After I grab my purse and mobile from the employee break room in the back of District, I head for the exit, more than ready to be done with my shift. I’ve gotten used to seeing Pat waiting out on the curb for me, so when I spot an unfamiliar sleek black SUV in his spot, I frown, assuming he’s forgotten to pick me up.

I turn toward my subway stop, a bit mopey that I have to trek home like a normal person, when the front door of the car opens and out walks Logan, rounding the front so he can get to me.

I stand there on the sidewalk like a total knob, just soaking him in.

He’s a sight for sore eyes, that’s for sure, all hunky and done up in a black button-down and slacks. He’s dressed up, and I remember that he had a fancy dinner tonight with Nike. He must not have changed out of his clothes yet. Yummy.

“What are you doing here?” I ask with a smile I can’t quite keep from spreading across my lips.

“Picking up my girlfriend,” he says, with a slight tug of his brows like he’s almost offended by the question.

“You didn’t have to do this. You’re probably dead on your feet. I can make it home on my own.”

There’s not even an argument from him. He just moves behind me and starts prodding me toward the passenger side of the vehicle.


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