Whoa.
That was . . . descriptive . . . and unexpected. Yeah, def owe Quinton an apology. After I yell at him for telling me to get into a confined space with this lunatic, that is.
“My only job is to help Quinton make his point. If, by making these off-the-field accomplishments, he feels like he can stand on the field again? Well, that’s up to him. I’ve never insinuated otherwise and quite frankly, Donny, fuck you for implying I would and that I’m just here to do Mr. Mahler’s bidding.” Alright, so maybe I am just here to do Mr. Mahler’s bidding, but I can’t tell Donny that. I really do want to help Quinton; I can’t have them thinking I’m the bad guy here.
Silence fills the midsized sedan before Donny’s—unsurprisingly loud—laugh takes over.
“Well, hell!” He finally takes off his sunglasses and looks at me. “I might like you after all.”
“Lucky me.” I deadpan before moving my attention to the moving cars outside my window.
“Yeah, lucky you.” He focuses back on the road. “I don’t know what Q told you about me. It’s my job to make sure my clients are covered. And unlike some of the fuckin’ hacks out here doing this job, I actually really do care about all of my clients. All the guys I represent are stand-up guys, but Q? I’ve known him since he was a kid. He’s on another fuckin’ level and he’s got enough shit goin’ on in his life. I’m not going to let the fuckin’ Mustangs ruin his career.”
“So what you’re saying is that you think I’m out to ruin his career?” What has Quinton told this man about what we are working on to give him these outlandish ideas about me?
“Never said that, babe.”
Babe? Is this guy serious?
“Call me babe one more time and I will jump straight out of this car, Donny. Swear to god, don’t test me.”
He raises a hand in surrender. “Right, sorry.”
“Thank you.” I’m honestly shocked he knows how to apologize, so I focus back on the topic at hand before he revokes it. “Why do you seem to think I’m intent on bringing Quinton down? Has he told you he’s unhappy with the direction his foundation is going or the community outreach I’ve been working on? Or that any of the press I’ve set up for him has been counterproductive?” There was a local host who was a bit of a jerk, but Quinton handled it perfectly.
I want to be annoyed that I’m asking these questions, but then I think back to my outburst in the restaurant and fight it back. We haven’t exactly earned each other’s trust yet.
“No,” Donny says. “He said you’re good at your job and that he’s really happy with the direction everything is going behind the scenes. What I think you’re missing here is that nobody is accusing you of being a shit fuckin’ human. What I am saying, though, is you work for one.”
“I mean, sure, Mr. Mahler probably doesn’t deserve the Nobel Prize”—and he is threatening to fire me over someone else’s actions—“but that seems a little extreme.”
“You know football?” he asks out of nowhere.
“No, I just chose to work for a professional team for shits and giggles. Do you know football?”
“She’s a smart-ass too. What’s with Colorado?” he says to himself . . . or the people in his head. Who knows with this guy? “Anyways. What do you know Quinton for?”
“For stepping up when the quarterback got hurt, clinching the starting position for himself, and then leading Atlanta to their first ever championship.” You don’t even have to know football to know that.
“Exactly. ’Cause Q is a quarterback. Everything about that man is leadership, quick thinking, and the best fuckin’ throwing arm I’ve ever seen, and Gavin Pope is one of my clients, so that’s saying something.”
Considering Gavin Pope was my fantasy pick every year until last year when I swapped him for Quinton, I cannot disagree.
“Okay.” He’s piqued my interest. “What’s your point?”
He glances over his shoulder before changing lanes. “My point, dear naive one, is that after the general manager reached out about possibly getting Quinton in orange and blue, we had to table the negotiations because Mahler said he’d only want him if he’d make the switch to wide receiver or running back.”
“What?” My head jerks back and bounces off the headrest. “Why would he want to put him at wide receiver? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Mahler said that players like him are better at speed than quick-thinking, high-pressure situations.”
My eyebrows knit together and I couldn’t hide my confusion even if I tried. “Players like him? What does that even mean?”
Donny’s mouth falls open and he takes his eyes off the road for about two seconds too long before he snaps out of it and focuses on driving. “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?”
“No.” I shake my head, genuinely confused. “I really don’t understand why Mr. Mahler would’ve wanted him at wide receiver. Especially after all of his success at quarterback.”
His knuckles go white around the steering wheel. “Because he’s a fucking racist, that’s why.”
“Oookay.” I shake my head and roll my eyes. “I could see how it makes Mahler look incompetent at his job, but racist? I feel like that’s pushing it.”
“Fucking hell. Q told me you were a little wet behind the ears but this is fucking unbelievable.” He takes a hand off the steering wheel and undoes the top button of his shirt. “It’s some old-school, racist bullshit that Black athletes can’t be quarterbacks because they aren’t smart enough. That all they’re good for is hitting people and running fast.”
I purse my lips, trying to come up with another explanation, but I can’t think of anything. “Not everything is racist.”
“Yeah, not everything is racist, but this is.” A vein on Donny’s head I didn’t notice before is all of a sudden very pronounced. “I don’t get it,
