"So Marley took a liking to you, huh?"
"Of course. I'm very likable."
"It's not good for you to have all of these unfulfilled crushes on grown men you'll never have. First Jacob–"
"Jason," I correct.
"Whoever and now this Marley dude. Do I have to drive a five year old Mercedes or wear clothes made out of hemp to get a little attention from you?"
I scoff at that. "You're just jealous that Marley makes more money than you."
"Think about that for a second. And you're supposed to be so great with numbers. Spin has to pay a full band. Tour organizers. Assistants. Not to mention all of their family members probably have their hands out. Me on the other hand? I don't have any one to pay except a lawyer and you guys, and my family is self-sufficient. They don't need my money. So if you think about it, I'm the way better catch. I can always take care of you in the lifestyle that you're accustomed to." He picks up the menu. "Such as it is."
"Good thing I don't care about things like that."
"Obviously. You seem to only care about your five-year-plan and your job, speaking of which, have you been watching my games?"
"Do you really want me to answer that?"
"What are you talking about?" He takes offense. "We won the game in New England. I was phenomenal."
"Brady wasn't playing. You didn't have much competition."
"So now you know all the quarterbacks in the league by name? Just yesterday you didn't know what a quarterback was."
"I'm a quick learner."
"I've got something you can learn all about right here."
He looks between his legs.
I change the subject pronto, because I refuse to let on that I've done nothing but fantasize about what's between his legs for fourteen days straight.
"And why do you always sit on the bench by yourself when the defense takes the field?"
He looks impressed by my high level observation.
"I'm going over plays with the coaches. You got a problem with that?"
"I think you should be talking to your players instead. Getting them revved up. Isn't that your job as the team leader? I'd think that you'd be good at that."
A waitress in a pink shirt and black pants finally comes over to take our order.
"Excuse me, but aren't you Saint Stevenson?"
Or maybe she could care less about our order.
"That's me, darlin'."
"I hope you don't mind, and I wouldn't normally bother someone like you, but my manager would love it if you would let us take a picture for our wall. We're big Nighthawks fans, and we love you here. You were amazing last Sunday in New England."
"Was I?" he asks while looking at me in that "I told you so" voice.
"Didn't you say you wanted to try and find another restaurant?" I say annoyed.
"Forget lunch. I always have time for fans. Especially when they are as sweet as you."
Oh good grief.
