“Hey.” Marie squeezes my shoulder and sympathy emanates from her sapphire eyes. “I know he would love this. But I also know he’d have a fit if he thought he was the reason you missed the Mustangs’ grand entrance you both obsessed over. So wipe those tears away before he comes back and haunts me for not straightening you out.”
That gets a laugh out of me. More like a chorkle—laughter mixed with crying does not make for pretty noises. My fingers linger over his watch, which he had resized for me right after the doctors told him the chemo wasn’t working anymore, before I swipe the tears off my face. “You’re right.” I stand up with the rest of the crowd, who are thankfully too busy watching the offensive starters get called out of the tunnel to notice the crazy girl hysterically crying in the plastic chair next to them. “I’m done. We’re going to have a fucking blast for the rest of the game.”
“Yeah we are.” She lifts her hand into the air for a high five that is purposefully too high for me to reach. “Plus, you pulled it together before they called that new hot quarterback out.”
I decide to keep my dignity intact and not jump for the high five. Instead I let her hand linger above me and focus on the field in front of me.
Because—even if I’m not sure I can say this anymore, since I work here—Quinton Howard Junior is very hot.
Like smokin’.
He’s a legacy player—his dad was a lineman in the eighties and early nineties—but it was his ability to lead his team to a championship win last year that brought him to Denver . . . and a contract worth a lot (and I mean a lot) of money. He was originally a sixth-round draft pick and didn’t have the opportunity to start until the quarterback he played under suffered a season-ending injury during Quinton’s fifth season. This is his seventh year and so far he’s had a killer preseason. Every time I turn on ESPN, there’s another commentator placing their bets on him leading the Mustangs to his second championship ring.
As if conjured by pure willpower—or really good timing—his picture appears on the JumboTron. The screams that held an undertone of bass from grown men transform to the screams you hear at a boy band concert. And Marie, who has made her disinterest of the sport clear to me throughout our entire friendship, is suddenly staring at the JumboTron like she’s preparing to write a paper on the juxtaposition of having a perfect face and getting tackled for a living.
Even though I want to give her shit and pretend like I’m above ogling the hot quarterback—I mean, can you say cliché?—I give in and stare right along with her and just about every other person in the stadium.
Quinton Howard Junior is the physical representation of tall, dark, and handsome. His dark brown skin has not a single imperfection; even amplified and broadcast on a giant HD screen, there isn’t one thing marring his prefect face. While other players are smiling huge, goofy, yet adorable grins in their pictures, Quinton is the epitome of determination. His almond-shaped eyes are so dark, they’re practically black, and are framed by the thickest, darkest lashes I’ve seen outside of Instagram ads. His thick eyebrows have perfect arches that I doubt have ever been touched by tweezers or wax and I will never get over the unfairness of it all. Granted, maybe if I hadn’t gone tweezer crazy in seventh grade, I wouldn’t be living the eyebrow struggle now. But what really kills me, more than the eyes and the skin, is his mouth.
Oh sweet heavens. His mouth. Last season, he was clean-shaven. His square jaw on full display. He was adorable. He had a little bit of a baby face and always sported this shy smile that made him look modest and surprised by his own abilities. But not this season. Now he’s sporting a full beard around his plump lips. Nothing about him looks modest or young. No, this version of Quinton Howard Junior is a man who knows exactly what he wants and how he’s going to get it. Which might be hotter than every single physical attribute he was blessed with.
God help any woman who ever comes in his sights.
“In his first official game in blue and orange, Mustangs fans, give it up for Quinton Howard Juuunnnior!” Jack’s voice reverberates through the stadium as fireworks shoot from the sides of the tunnels.
Whereas all the other players ran out of the tunnel with contagious energy and excitement, Quinton takes his time. His steps are slow and his expression is of pure intensity. Everyone around me is eating it up. Their shouts grow louder as if he’s putting on some kind of act for them to enjoy.
But it’s my job to see a media event before it happens.
And my spidey sense is telling me that whatever this is? It’s not going to be local news. No, this is going to be national coverage.
As he walks, he begins to lose the cocky tilt of his head. I don’t see the spark of hunger in his eyes that says this is for show.
No.
There’s hesitation in his movement. Fear and nerves written all across his face as he gets closer and closer to the cameraman blasting his image for everyone to see.
Then his feet stop moving and he stares straight into the camera. If my nerves weren’t eating me alive, I’d probably be enjoying the close-up of his full lips and dark brown eyes like everyone else. But instead, my eyes are locked on the screen and I watch as he pulls a piece of black tape out of his glove and very carefully places it over the League’s emblem embroidered on his jersey.
“Oh my god,” I whisper in the midst of similar sentiments floating around me.
“I don’t get
