Page 63 of Second Down Fake

Normally, I’d never agree to the demands of a pushy on-field reporter. Certainly not one at an away game. I’d stalk back to the locker room without a second glance and shut him out of photographs or questions for the rest of the season. But the promise of Cassandra pushed up against me, my arm around her waist, her lips…Well, he caught me in a good mood.

She slipped beside me, her beaming smile aimed squarely at me.

“How long have you been dating?” The question held a hint of an accusation. Was I dating Cassandra while I was seeing Zoey? Did she cause the breakup?

“Barely any time at all,” Cassandra answered breezily. She tilted her head, hair brushing my chin. I tightened my grip.

“Have you known each other long? Is it true you’re Rebecca Barton’s sister?”

“Guilty as charged,” Cassandra laughed, her fingers drawing circles on my lower back. Her touch was methodic and calming. “We’ve known each other for a while.”

“So a friendship that turned into lovers?”

The guy had no shame. Cassandra ducked her head, cheeks blooming red.

“I don’t know if I’d have phrased it that way. We’ve had a passing acquaintance for years, but I moved to Norwalk when Becca left the team and…” She shrugged, cementing the timeline. When Becca left. That’s when we started dating. Well after Zoey.

“How about a kiss?” The reporter goaded.

Zoey would have scoffed. She would have pulled out her phone and dialed her agent, asking for the press pass of whichever reporter deigned to ask the question.

Cassandra laughed breezily. “I’m taken, but thanks.”

She slid her hand around my forearm, pulling me back into the locker room with a grin. My chest tightened. A kiss would have been nice, but having Cassandra on my arm was better. I dropped my chin, inhaling orange blossom and clove. “So, where are you taking me today?”

“Somewhere…interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“How do you feel about art?” Her eyebrow raised expectantly. It made me want to lie and say I loved art. Couldn’t get enough.

I hated art. Hated museums. “Um, it’s okay.”

“What about immersive art? You know, like watching an artist cry while reading a phonebook or strip naked and juggle fish heads? Not these cheesy shows on the strip. Real art. Shock and awe art.”

I pulled her to a stop before we reached the locker room entrance, with its cadre of reporters waiting to file in for post-game interviews. “What kind of art are you into?”

“The fun stuff.” Her fingertips glided down my forearm as she swayed toward me, a teasing smile on her lips.

My throat tightened and I chanced an arm around her waist. “I think the fish heads are really going to sour my enjoyment of the show.”

“Good news! No fish heads this time. And the place even has a bar.”

“A bar? That’s what you should have led with. Not the art.”

“Well, I’ll remember that for next time,” she drawled.

Next time. My mind latched onto the word.

“Diego, we need you for the press conference.”

I startled as Coach Mack interrupted our conversation. Reluctantly, I dropped my hand from Cassandra’s waist and stepped away. “Give me thirty minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

TWENTY-ONE

CASSANDRA

Diego ran his hand along a shelf of tchotchkes, his fingers brushing over a stuffed duck and a plate embossed with a head of state. He stopped, grasping a snow globe and pulling it from the shelf, his eyes fixed on where it’d been.

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