Page 13 of Second Down Fake

He set down the book on his lap and looked at her with a chagrined smile. “Sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to interrupt your tea party.”

Mila glared at him as she sat back down. Noa poured the stuffed bear sitting to her right a cup of tea and inquired about the weather, which seemed to calm the kid down.

“But the whole thing is ridiculous,” Rob continued, voice lower this time. “What exactly were you supposed to gain dating Zoey? Tickets to the Oscars? Who cares?”

“Exactly.” I picked up a tiny ceramic teacup at Mila’s hard stare. “I could get to the Oscars, with or without Zoey.”

“Maybe don’t say that in an interview,” Noa said. “Besides, why are you tracking the hashtag? You know better.”

He had a point. The press had been a faint background noise in my career since college. A perpetual buzzing that never entirely stopped but didn’t bother me, either. Even when the coverage expanded to my dating life, I dated women savvy around the press and upfront about their limits. I tagged along on scheduled pap walks and “candid” dinner dates, accepting all the carefully curated “drama” from those dates.

But Zoey’s interview had invited a whole new type of scrutiny. Not about my gameplay or my romantic life, but about me. Who I was as a person. And most of it was pretty nasty.

Like a car wreck, I couldn’t force myself to look away. My earlier “controversies” had been tame: underage drinking, late night parties, and the occasional make-out session with a starlet. Nothing that lasted longer than a few days.

This just seemed to keep getting bigger. More messy.

“James wants to keep track of what’s going on online so we can come up with a game plan for how to stop the chatter before the season starts.”

Rob barked out a laugh. “Isn’t that what you pay him for? Why the hell are you tracking the hashtag?”

I turned away from Rob, focusing on Noa, the person I’d actually came to for advice. Rob had been an unpleasant addition, thanks to a standing tea party. Which, while annoying, was the reason I wanted to talk to Noa. He had a habit of not disappointing people.

“Can’t you just throw Trent under the bus? He’s the fu…” Rob paused mid-sentence, eyes gliding to his daughter. “He’s the duck up in this situation.”

“You don’t throw your teammates under the bus,” Noa said gravely. Mila mirrored his expression, shaking her head ominously as she stood with the bear’s teacup in her hand, carrying it to her father.

I’d certainly considered that tactic, but, then again, I’d also attended the media training days Rob skipped. Blaming someone else wouldn’t get me out of this mess. Only silence, time, and a highly targeted PR campaign could do that.

“Or maybe try dating someone who doesn’t have a movie deal?” Rob took a small sip from the teacup with a plastered on smile that looked unnatural on the linebacker’s face.

“Yeah, I don’t think dating is going to get me out of this mess. Besides, my track record with girlfriends during the regular season hasn’t been great.” I looked at Noa for support.

He shrugged. “It’s not the worst idea Rob’s come up with.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “But it’s not good. Can you imagine the optics? I break up with Zoey and a week later, there’s some other girl in her seat?”

“The type of woman I’m talking about couldn’t afford Zoey’s box seats,” Rob said.

“Not helpful. Besides, dating someone to prove I’m not a shitty boyfriend only makes me a doubly shitty boyfriend. It’s a dumb idea.”

“Hey, I’m just spit balling,” Rob shrugged, nonplussed by the insult. “You came to my house looking for advice.”

“Advice from Kweame, not you. He’s the only adult on the team.”

Rob closed his book with a frown. “I’m an adult.”

“Fine. An adult that gives good advice when it comes to dealing with the press.”

“The press love me.”

“No, the Norwalk Animal Shelter loves you. Everyone else thinks you’re a di—” I stopped short as Noa’s eyes widened, jetting to Mila. “You’re not very friendly.”

Rob’s ability to answer all post-game questions with a single word and a withering glare whittled down his interviews to a breezy three minutes. Unlike mine, which often dragged past the hour mark. He trained most of the press to be too terrified to ask him many questions. And the new ones, well, they learned quick enough.

“Daddy is friendly,” Mila piped up. “Well, to me, and Noa. Maybe not to you, Diego.”

She frowned sympathetically, leaning over the table to pat my knee. She had a point. Rob barely tolerated my presence, or anyone else’s, for that matter.

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