Page 48 of Second Down Fake

The impressive play by our punter had been the focus of our on-field attention. Whether Cassandra and I merited any off-field attention, I would find out inside.

Well, off-field attention from the press, anyway.

Coach Simmons had waited by the bleachers to yell about my failings as a quarterback and a team captain on my way into the locker room. I’d probably get a fine from the league and definitely spend next week getting dragged via physically exhausting drills. But my game play made it impossible to bench me.

I’d come out alright.

“I only have these press conferences every other week,” Frankie said with a laugh. “Apparently, it was my turn since Diego didn’t throw to Trent. So strange how he couldn’t get open, huh?”

“A real mystery,” I muttered.

The door to the press room opened, and I filed in between Frankie and Cole. Rows of reporters waited for us to sit as Coach Simmons slipped out of the room. A PR employee for the Breakers asked for questions and the room erupted.

“Cole, could you tell us what was going through your head during that play?”

Cole launched into an animated retelling of his play, and I settled into my seat, happy to have the attention elsewhere. The man was a natural born storyteller, so I settled back, laughing along with him.

After a string of questions all aimed at Cole with only one softball to me about how I liked our shot for the Super Bowl this year – good, always good – the PR employee called for one last question.

“Diego?”

Fuck.

Bill Chevok stood up, a forgettable, normal-looking reporter in his mid-40s who was anything but. He held a pad of paper and a pencil, an anachronism in the sea of tablets and cell phones. Unlike the other reporters, he came decked out in Breakers’ gear. The Norwalk Times didn’t bother pretending not to root for the team, even while Bill interviewed us like he planned to run an expose.

He’d calmed down a little after Rob threatened to break his nose last season. Rob ended up with a hefty fine and issuing a public apology for the gaffe, but Bill kept his habit of pretending to lob a softball question only to throw a hook.

“Just after halftime, you went into the stands and somehow lost your jersey. Would you care to comment on that?”

I leaned toward the microphone, eyes trained on Bill. “No.”

“I just ask because there’s a rumor circulating that the lady you gave the jersey to is the sister of your former trainer. Barton.” He tapped his pen against his cheek as if Becca’s name wasn’t on the tip of his tongue. “Rebecca.”

He leafed through a page of his notebook. “And her sister’s name is Cassandra.”

I tensed at her name in his mouth. “No comment.”

“One more question: after your recent break up, will another girlfriend prove a distraction on the path to the Super Bowl?”

I worked my jaw when Frankie cut in with a laugh. “The entire team is focused on making our first Super Bowl appearance this year, Diego most of all. He’s played for this team for four seasons and no one who practices with him has any question about his commitment. Now, does anyone have a question for me? I only ran two touchdowns. Don’t trip over yourselves to ask me anything. I’m prepared to stay up here all night if need be.”

“I think that’s enough questions for one day,” the PR rep cut in, nodding at us to leave.

So, they had Cassandra’s name. Of course they did. If they hadn’t figured it out themselves, James would have provided it to them. Becca and I had sat down for a couple of interviews over the years, so dating her sister would provide reporters a fun fluff piece to cap off their game coverage. And Cassandra had signed the contract. She knew the terms. Still, I hadn’t expected the way my stomach would twist or the vague sense of unease at having a stranger say her name like they knew her.

I pushed through the doors, out of the conference room and into the hallway. A quick stop to grab the duffel bag I’d stashed, I avoided the lingering reporters exiting the locker room. I’d had enough for one day. Instead, I headed to the conference room where the player’s friends and family waited. Where Cassandra waited.

Mila caught me at the door, bumping into my knees. A disappointed frown that reminded me of her father crossed her face. “Where’s Dad?”

“He wasn’t in the press conference,” I shrugged. Not exactly a surprise. Rob treated all interviews like interrogations. “I’m sure he’s just scaring away a couple of reporters before he meets you out here. What’d you think of the game?”

“Lena bought me an ice cream and Cassie told a mean guy to die mad,” Mila enthused.

“That was supposed to be a secret,” Cassandra said gently, squeezing Mila’s shoulder.

She’d twisted her hair up into a messy bun but still wore my jersey. My chest constricted as my mind zipped straight to the kiss.

“Dad says I can’t keep secrets,” Mila said somberly. “Only surprises.”

---