Page 16 of Second Down Fake

We walked down to the parking lot in comfortable silence, my eyes flitting toward her anytime she looked away.

Cassandra had been gorgeous in college. Head-turning. I’d spotted her at a crowded party in an instant and couldn’t keep my eyes away from her the rest of the night. And the years had only added to that beauty.

Any residual awkward gawkiness from young adulthood had melted away long ago. And despite my inability to stop checking her out every five seconds, eyes darting between the thin band of exposed skin on her torso and the gentle curve of her shoulder when her sweater fell down and the way her jeans molded to her ass, her looks weren’t the top reason I couldn’t go a more than a day without calling her.

The single night we’d met before she moved to Norwalk, she’d had a playful exuberance. An earnest enthusiasm that somehow hadn’t disappeared since college. That night, she’d reminded me of what my life was like before football. Before everything involved competition and discipline.

Even four years later, I could already feel myself getting drunk on that feeling. Wanting to capture it and keep it with me. Keep her with me. Which, considering my current controversy with my ex and a long-standing professional relationship with Cassandra’s sister, should scare me far, far away.

“Wow, what happened to your Range Rover?” Cassandra asked as I stopped in front of my car. “Did you ditch that and pull out the big guns for me?”

“Oh, the Range Rover isn’t mine. That’s a teammate’s.” I opened the passenger door to my Tahoe, the car I’d received my freshman year of college.

“So, you were kicking a teammate’s car?” She stifled a laugh. “The teammate who wrote ‘finally free?’”

“Trent, and yes.” I opened the passenger door so Cassandra could slide inside. I propped my hand on the roof, leaning in. “But don’t worry, this car hasn’t broken down yet. You’re probably safe.”

“Didn’t you just sign some disgustingly huge contract?” she teased.

I closed the door behind her. Even my agent, James, teased me mercilessly about the car. But, the 2003 SUV had been a gift from my mother in high school, and I couldn’t stomach getting rid of it.

With so much inconsistency, constantly changing schools and coaches and teams, I had to hold on to something and the Tahoe had been it.

“I like this car. It’s comfortable and I’ve already dinged the hell out of it, so I don’t get mad if someone kicks it in a parking lot,” I said, sliding into the driver’s seat and turning the key. The car purred to life. Alright, maybe purr wasn’t the word. Rumbled. Coughed. Seized slightly.

“Makes sense. Particularly since I’ve noticed a spate of hulking men kicking cars in parking garages since I’ve moved here.” She shifted in her seat, pulling her leg up and knocking open the center console. “What’s this?”

She dropped her leg to the ground and opened up the cover, pulling out a bag of Twizzlers from inside. “Did I just stumble on your secret junk food stash?”

I shut the console. “I have no idea how those got there.”

“So, you won’t mind if I grab a few?” Cassandra slipped her hand over mine, prying it away and opening the top again. “Do you have anything else in there? Any better snacks?”

“Better snacks? That’s impossible.”

“Oh, it’s not. Maybe some Sour Patch Kids or something with chocolate.”

“Chocolate melts in the center console.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so you’ve tried that? Does your dietician know you’re sneaking sweets on car rides? I don’t listen to Becca all that often, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be on a strict diet during the football season.”

“Are you going to narc on me?” I asked, putting the car into reverse while Cassandra raided my snack stash.

She didn’t answer as she took out two Twizzlers, handing me one while digging through the bottom of the bin. “Oh, spice drops! I haven’t had those since my Nana died. Which color is your favorite?”

“Black,” I answered immediately.

Her nose scrunched. “Licorice? Who hurt you?”

“Black licorice is amazing. It’s so good.”

“It’s barely candy, like when people sneak zucchini into muffins. It’s a punishment pretending to be a treat.” She sifted through the bag, pulling out a handful of red drops and handing me a lone black one.

“Well, as long as you’re taking the cinnamon ones.”

“The best ones?”

“The most boring ones. Who likes cinnamon?”

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