“No,” Donny says. “He said you’re good at your job and that he’s really happy with the direction everything is going behind the scenes. What I think you’re missing here is that nobody is accusing you of being a shit fuckin’ human. What I am saying, though, is you work for one.”

“I mean, sure, Mr. Mahler probably doesn’t deserve the Nobel Prize”—and he is threatening to fire me over someone else’s actions—“but that seems a little extreme.”

“You know football?” he asks out of nowhere.

“No, I just chose to work for a professional team for shits and giggles. Do you know football?”

“She’s a smart-ass too. What’s with Colorado?” he says to himself . . . or the people in his head. Who knows with this guy? “Anyways. What do you know Quinton for?”

“For stepping up when the quarterback got hurt, clinching the starting position for himself, and then leading Atlanta to their first ever championship.” You don’t even have to know football to know that.

“Exactly. ’Cause Q is a quarterback. Everything about that man is leadership, quick thinking, and the best fuckin’ throwing arm I’ve ever seen, and Gavin Pope is one of my clients, so that’s saying something.”

Considering Gavin Pope was my fantasy pick every year until last year when I swapped him for Quinton, I cannot disagree.

“Okay.” He’s piqued my interest. “What’s your point?”

He glances over his shoulder before changing lanes. “My point, dear naive one, is that after the general manager reached out about possibly getting Quinton in orange and blue, we had to table the negotiations because Mahler said he’d only want him if he’d make the switch to wide receiver or running back.”

“What?” My head jerks back and bounces off the headrest. “Why would he want to put him at wide receiver? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Mahler said that players like him are better at speed than quick-thinking, high-pressure situations.”

My eyebrows knit together and I couldn’t hide my confusion even if I tried. “Players like him? What does that even mean?”

Donny’s mouth falls open and he takes his eyes off the road for about two seconds too long before he snaps out of it and focuses on driving. “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?”

“No.” I shake my head, genuinely confused. “I really don’t understand why Mr. Mahler would’ve wanted him at wide receiver. Especially after all of his success at quarterback.”

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel. “Because he’s a fucking racist, that’s why.”

“Oookay.” I shake my head and roll my eyes. “I could see how it makes Mahler look incompetent at his job, but racist? I feel like that’s pushing it.”