The Trouble With Quarterbacks by R.S. Grey

CANDACE: KAT & YASMINE! DO NOT DALLY! Come straight home after work. Kat, don’t take the long route from the subway station just so you can pass by Cute Hot Dog Guy. This is important!
I’ve had THE BEST DAY. You won’t believe it. There I was in my preschool classroom, washing a bit of poo out of some soggy trousers, when this absolute babe came to collect his nephew from my class.
Truthfully, I thought I’d blacked out for a moment when I first saw him. He was a proper hunk with glorious brown hair, quite tall, and he had these arms. Are muscly arms supposed to turn me on? I’m panting just thinking about them.
Anyway, he told me he’s a professional foosball player. At least, I think that’s what he said. The tots can get quite loud near pick-up time.

YASMINE: Foosball? What are you on about? Have you gone mad?
KAT: Oh sod off. So what if I like to have a good look at Hot Dog Guy’s arse on my trek home after a hard day’s work? It’s called self-care.
CANDACE: Kat, you’re hopeless. Yasmine, yes—foosball! I suppose it’s a big thing over here in the States? We must investigate and learn everything we can.
By the way, he’s called Logan.
Logan + Candace. I think that sounds quite nice! I can hear the wedding bells now. Dum dum da-dum.
YASMINE: Oh good grief. I suppose we can do some snooping when I get home. I’ll grab wine on my way.