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 it.” Marie’s voice sounds like a shout in the suddenly quiet stadium. She’s completely oblivious as she lifts her beer to her lips and takes a final sip. “Is that some kind of quarterback thing?”
The only time Marie has ever watched football was when her ex-boyfriend played on our college team. He wanted her to support him. She broke up with him after the second game because no man was worth that kind of torture—her words, not mine. She came today after letting me know that in no way, shape, or form was I to yell at her when she started playing Candy Crush in the first quarter. I was honestly just so proud that she knew football was comprised of quarters and not periods or innings that I couldn’t argue with her. So when she says she’s confused, she means it.
Usually I can clear things up, but not this time.
“Not that I know of.”
I think she keeps talking, but I can’t hear her anymore. All I can do is track Quinton’s movement on the field like everyone else. I think of any positive way to spin him blatantly disrespecting the League paying him millions of dollars. I have to be misunderstanding his intentions.
Time ticks by and both teams go to their benches. Most of the fans seem to have let whatever the hell he was doing roll off their backs and I relax a little. I grab my phone out of my purse, wanting to make sure nobody from the Mustangs has sent a panicked email as the first beats of the national anthem start to play.
Then it happens.
I’m waiting for my email to refresh when I hear the cascade of whispers and boos beginning to build.
I hope it’s just the poor performer forgetting the words, but when I look up, my eyes are laser focused on Quinton Howard Junior.
On his knee. During the national anthem.
He’s making a stand. He’s not the first player in the League to take a knee, but he is the first Mustangs player to do it.
I get goosebumps on my arm. As a biracial Black woman, I’m aware of the injustices Black people face daily and respect Quinton’s protest. But pride wars with panic over how this will affect my new job.
“Oh shit.” Marie doesn’t even try to hide her smile. “Looks like your job just got more interesting in the best possible way.”
I’m about to spout off some sarcastic response when my phone starts vibrating in my hand, my boss’s number on the screen.
I’m not sure the fallout at the Mustangs will be the “best,” but Marie wasn’t wrong. It did just get a lot more interesting.
Two
The world is on fire.
Okay. Fine. That’s mad dramatic.
The world is not on fire, but my job has for sure taken the first crazy train straight to chaos.
I’m the strategic communications manager for the Denver Mustangs. Most people have no idea what that means and look at me like I have two heads. Then I tell them I’m basically Olivia Pope . . . but for football players. This helps most people. Or, at least it helps Shondaland fans. And why would I even talk to someone who doesn’t appreciate the greatness that is Shonda Rhimes?
Anyways, it’s my job to fix problems when they arise and to place the Mustangs organization in the best light possible. When I found out about the opening for this position—the position I put on my dream board my freshman year of college—I already had a binder full of strategies. Drunk driving? Covered. Injuries? Check. Failed drug test? I have ten different emails ready to send out. I had any and everything that could possibly happen mapped out with at least five ways to spin each one.
I even had a tentative plan for one of the players taking a knee. One I hoped would keep the player, the community, and the organization happy. What I didn’t expect? The quarterback blacking out his logo and protesting his employer too. I mean . . . what in the world?
Like I said: Crazy. Train.
“Did you see what Glenn Chandler said?” Paul, my coworker, asks.
Glenn Chandler is the latest person to throw their hat into the upcoming presidential race. It’s just that the hat he threw in is covered in outrageous statements trying to get him the most coverage possible. And boy is he eating up this Quinton thing. “That Quinton is an ungrateful and entitled American, spitting in the faces of our troops?” I repeat the talking points Glenn really harped on. “I did. And people seem to be eating it up.”