And fucking fuck me. How is he even more endearing like this? He just always has this air of confidence following him around like cologne. Even on the field while people are booing or in the conference room when reporters are grilling him, he never seems off balance. So seeing him stumble over his words, it makes me feel like I might be getting a glance at the real Quinton, not the practiced facade he puts on so well.
“First of all, I love sushi, this is perfect. Second, what kind of person doesn’t like Mexican food?” The thought of people not liking the culinary gift of the gods honestly offends me. “You’re in Colorado now, Howard. This is the home of Qdoba and Chipotle, where we have strived to get as much burrito in our mouths in the shortest amount of time. It’s an institution!”
I don’t mean for my voice to rise, but if there is one thing I’m undeniably passionate about, it’s tacos.
“Damn, killer! I’m on your side, no need to attack.” He drops the menu on the tiled tabletop and holds his hands in front of him, surrendering to my salsa-infused indignation.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the smile that’s trying to overtake my face, but it’s useless. I’m defenseless when it comes to playful Quinton. Lucky for me, though, before I can giggle or do something equally as mortifying, the waiter approaches the table.
“Mr. Howard, you’re back!” the middle-aged man with a fantastic handlebar mustache says. “Do you want your usual?”
“Bobby, my man.” Quinton shakes his hand. “I do, but I’m not sure what my friend wants.”
There’s that word again. “Friend.” Blah.
Bobby turns his attention to me. His eyes are wide, but his smile is wider. “Oh yes, you brought a friend today! Can I get you something to drink?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to order something with sake. But I’m still scarred from the other night and will not be indulging in alcohol of any kind around Quinton.
“Can I have a Diet Coke?” I scan the menu, making sure they have my go-to order. “And I’ll have a rainbow roll, please.”
Bobby nods without writing down the order and takes our menus. Now, this would normally make me pretty nervous, but something about his mustache reassures me. I don’t think you can be anything but dependable with a handlebar mustache that thick. He walks away, calling out his hellos to an older couple sitting in the opposite corner of the restaurant.
“And you thought you were special.” I point to the couple who are now on the receiving end of Bobby’s attention. “You’re not his only favorite.”
“I know I’m not.” He rests his elbows on the table. “I don’t think he has any clue who I am, it’s why I always come. Well, that and their sushi is the shit.”
“Sushi and anonymity, that’s your kink?” As soon as I say the word, I want to fall under the table and roll myself out of the restaurant. I’m pretty sure if I touch my face, it will burn my hand. I could just die. There’s no way he’s not going to report me for harassment. Not a fucking chance. “Oh my god. No.”
I hide my face behind my hands—not even caring a little bit about how smeared my makeup is getting—and keep them there until Quinton’s unmistakable laughter fills the restaurant.
“I’ve never heard it that way before, but yeah, that’s my kink,” he says once I’ve peeled my hands off my face.
I fan my cheeks for a second before massaging my fingertips into my temples. I don’t know what’s worse. Saying shit like this sober or making a drunken fool out of myself. I’m thinking they’re equal.
I should’ve ordered the damn sake.
Bobby returns to the table with a tray carrying our drinks and edamame. I aim a grateful smile at him not only for the food, but the interruption as well.
“Moving on . . .” I take a deep gulp of my Diet Coke and my body rejoices. “So how have things been for you since the launch?”
Work is the only topic I think I might be safe discussing with him. It is, after all, the only reason we are speaking in the first place.
“Pretty good.” He avoids eye contact when he talks. “A lot of questions.”
I keep my response measured because even though he’s trying to play it cool, I can tell something is bothering him. I’ve learned a lot about him over the last month or so, and one of the big things is that he shuts down when he gets uncomfortable.
“Oh yeah? What kind of questions?” I grab an edamame and shoot a few beans into my mouth.
“Mainly, they’re trying to understand my issues with the League. Lots of personal questions. But I still have to clear up why I’m kneeling, remind them of systemic racism and police brutality.” He shrugs before grabbing the soy sauce and spinning it around on the table. “It doesn’t help that Glenn Chandler is still using me as one of his talking points. I don’t understand why he’s so intent on twisting what I’m doing.”
“I don’t know either. What I do know is that you can’t make everyone happy. We expected this. There are still people who don’t like Oprah. Oprah, Quinton! If the world can’t agree on Oprah being the best, then there is no hope for any of us.”
This is the pep talk I tell myself on almost a daily basis, but it doesn’t seem to give him the same reassurance it gives me.
He sits up straight and meets my gaze again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, it’s literally my job.” I drop the empty bean pod in the empty bowl next to the edamame. Shoving food in my mouth is one thing, talking with it in my mouth is another. I’m not a monster.
“I’d be blind not to see that a lot of people are pissed with my kneeling and
