Page 10 of Second Down Fake

I exhaled, wincing at the words before they even came out, well aware I’d either make this situation much worse or much better.

“Once the photographers were gone and our friends, what did we have?” The silence on the other end of the line wasn’t accompanied by a dial tone, so I pressed on. “You’re great. The sex was great. The jetting between our lives was fun and exciting. But when it was just us…”

“We didn’t have anything in common.” She huffed. “Everything was more exciting with a crowd. It was a moment.”

I relaxed. At least I hadn’t made the call worse. “I am sorry, though. The post wasn’t about you, but that doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean to blindside you or make you look bad.”

“I was mad. And maybe had a few too many lunch margaritas with that journalist.”

“Happens to the best of us,” I sighed. “I’m sorry I hurt you and I wish you only the best.”

“You, too, Diego.”

Zoey wouldn’t walk back the quote. As little as we knew about each other in five months of dating, I knew that much. I’d be navigating bad publicity until the football season went well enough or bad enough to move the focus off our breakup. But the faint whiff of anxiety lingering at the back of my mind since I read the news article eased away.

FOUR

CASSANDRA

Breaking the Breakers

Quarterback Diego Salazar’s latest ex, Hollywood A-lister Zoey Meyer, seems to have quieted down in the week after her bombshell interview where she publicly trashed Salazar. I have it on good authority that his “Finally Free” post had nothing to do with Meyer, but that hasn’t stopped Meyer fans from piling on Salazar.

I sighed, turning my phone screen off and picking myself off the couch. Becca and Cal only left a day ago, but already the apartment felt cold and lonely. I unpacked the two suitcases amongst the things they left behind.

While I needed the furniture, living in a house furnished by a car mechanic and a sports trainer didn’t exactly fit my aesthetic. I moved the weight set into the spare room and cleared the bookshelf of anything having to do with internals, car or human.

I dug into the tray of Oreos on the coffee table, stuffing one in my mouth, my eyes locked on the phone. I hadn’t spent the last five years stalking Diego. An occasional Internet search, sure, but only out of morbid curiosity rather than any form of jealousy or longing. I’d relegated my night with Diego as a pleasant memory, one that would easily fall apart if we spent any more time together.

He hadn’t been wrong when he’d guessed I had avoided him. While he was playing in Alabama and I was living in New England, it’d been easy enough. Then he showed up in my hometown. Not to see me, of course, or at least, I’d never tested that theory. He came back to Becca for off-season training following an injury, and I ran away. First to a spare room in Boston and then a couch in San Diego, convinced the memory of our time together was better without a reunion.

And judging by the impressively long list of exes that Diego had racked up in the intervening years, I had no reason to believe he’d thought twice about me.

I grabbed the cookies and stood up, stuffing them into a cabinet before I hoovered the entire bag. I needed to get out of the apartment, and since I hadn’t explored Norwalk yet, now would be the perfect time to start. It’s not like I could spend the next three months lying on Becca’s couch obsessing over Diego. Not without money for food, anyway.

Unlike my older sister who collected diplomas like stamps, I had a high school diploma, a resume the length of my arm, and a lot of charisma, which wouldn’t get me health care or a pension, but made it easy to put money in my pocket. If I stuck around a town long enough, I might have made my way up to management, but I preferred holding a bunch of small jobs rather than a single big one.

And in Norwalk, the bar scene was hot, and the inhabitants had plenty of disposable income. If I could slide into a good bar, I could make bank. Or enough to justify hanging out in Virginia for a few months, anyway.

Thankfully, I was nearly as thirsty as I was snacky. I walked away from the kitchen and into my bedroom, sifting through the open suitcase for an outfit that said both, “I’m here to have fun,” and “I can also handle myself in a packed bar.” I settled on a plain black dress that hugged my curves, showed a lot of leg, and was stretchy enough to maneuver out of the way of handsy patrons.

The salt air mixed with the oppressive humidity made my skin an odd combination of clammy and sweaty. As I stepped outside, I immediately regretted not choosing a more breathable fabric. But the downtown bar district was just a few blocks away from Becca’s apartment. Hopefully, I wouldn’t be a puddle of salt water by the time I ducked into a bar.

I walked past the high-rise businesses that surrounded Becca’s apartment building. The streets flooded with women in blazers and men in suits as workers funneled out of their cubicles. The migration made me queasy, my mind flitting back to New Hampshire and the earnest way my mom had offered to send me back to college. I didn’t mind the offer, but the brief glimpse of disappointment in her eyes nearly broke me. Made me glad to run away to Virginia for a thousand miles of space between a family that loved me deeply and didn’t understand me at all.

The bright gleaming metal and window gave way to cobbled streets and brick buildings, remnants of Norwalk’s colonial past. The fake lanterns and intricate wooden signs bespoke rich patrons and wide-eyed tourists. Big tippers and potential.

Of course, the historic district also didn’t have “help wanted” signs on the windows, but luckily, bartenders weren’t exactly the most dependable employees. Me included.

I’d combed through reviews the night before, settling on a top five list of bars. With a couple of hours before the evening crowds picked up, I hoped to charm a manager into hiring me for an open position.

I aimed for the first name on my list. The Crown & Copper. The drinks were pricey, the music was live, and with a rotating menu of specialty drinks, at least I wouldn’t get bored. My fingers gripped the gilded copper pull on the wooden door when my phone vibrated against my hip.

I dropped my hand, pulling out the phone, surprised to see Diego’s name on the screen. I frowned, eyes skittering back to the empty bar before answering the call.

“Who is this?” I asked, wrapping my free arm around my waist and leaning against the column by the door.

“Uh,” he paused. “Diego?”

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