Page 62 of Second Down Fake

“But we shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. And you probably shouldn’t either. It’s late.”

She hummed. “You should be in bed.”

“Yeah.” I pushed up from the chair, eyes back on the bed, more than a little disappointed. “You’re going to wear my jersey tomorrow, right?”

“I’m wearing my favorite player’s jersey.”

“You mean me, right? I’m your favorite player.”

“Good night, Diego,” she giggled.

“Good night, Cassandra.”

* * *

I wiped sweat off my brow, jogging off the field as Frankie rounded the end zone, the ball held up to the crowd. A spattering of boos followed his procession which I expected with us playing on the other side of the country.

“You look good out there, Salazar.” Coach Mack patted me on the back, his wrinkled face breaking out into a toothy grin. “You look a little tired, but you’re playing well.”

I nodded, my attention flitting into the big screens, hoping for another look at Cassandra on them.

An apologetic text message had greeted me after breakfast.

CASSANDRA

Sorry I was drunk and sloppy. Good luck.

Drunk and sloppy and, judging by the sunglasses and hat, she pulled down over her face whenever cameras panned in her direction, also nursing a massive hangover. But the number eleven splayed on her chest had been more than enough to forgive the late-night call.

Seconds counted down on the clock, and we clinched another win. I didn’t have any interest in the sideline reporters, weaving through them as I searched the fans making their way to the tunnel entrance.

Not spotting her, I followed my teammates to the tunnel. While most stopped for a quick picture or two, Kweame hung out by the entrance, signing every piece of memorabilia, and posing for all the pictures. Not spotting Cassandra yet, I joined in, posing for pictures and signing jerseys.

“Hey, think you can sign my jersey, too?” Cassandra’s soft lilt captured my attention away from the dozens of other requests for photos.

I grinned. “I only sign my own jerseys.”

“Well, good news, I have a Diego Salazar jersey. He’s my favorite player.” She leaned over the railing, biting her bottom lip. “You played okay out there.”

“Just okay?” I lifted an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s no four touchdown game, but you won, so that’s gotta count for something.”

Distracted, I accepted a picture shoved in front of my face by another fan, scribbling my name onto the back and returning it. “Thanks for noticing. After your phone call last night, I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

“And miss all this?” Cassandra rolled her eyes up to the stadium roof. “When I could be gambling? Or dancing? Or watching a show? You’re crazy.”

I covered her hand, rubbing my thumb over her knuckles. “You know, some people come to Las Vegas just to watch the game.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll never understand football fans.”

“How about players?”

“I’m coming around to them.” Hinging at her hips, she rested her chin on my hand. “Slowly.”

“Hey, Diego? Can we get a pic?” The flash from the camera blinded me before I could agree. My head pivoted onto the field where the photographer had crouched down, snapping pictures in tiny blasts of light. “How about a kiss? Can you let her onto the field?”

He waved down a burly-looking guard with his head tilted down to his phone. The guard jerked his head up, eyes roving to me and then Cassandra. He gave the photographer a nod. Cassandra laughed, her hand slipping from mine as she walked the short distance down the stairs and onto the field.

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