Page 20 of Second Down Fake

He sighed, chest rising as he tipped his head back. “I should have just told them to go away.”

“Wow. And I thought you were just awed by my pure talent.”

“Sorry.” He dropped his hand from his face and shook his head. “The kids aren’t a big deal. It’s probably fine.”

“Probably fine?” I eyed the retreating gaggle of children. “What are they going to do? Come back and jump us?”

“They’ll post that picture. Then, it’ll get picked up by some gossip site and by tomorrow, I’ll be fielding phone calls from my agent, my coach, and your sister about why I’m being photographed with another woman not even a week after Zoey called me a dog in an interview.” He exhaled heavily.

I flinched at the rapid-fire assessment of a selfie. “Well, good news. My sister probably won’t refer to me as ‘another woman’.”

“And my agent would actually be thrilled.” Diego worked his jaw. “He consulted with some PR firm who suggested I get a new, low-profile girlfriend.”

“You have a PR firm? How many scorned girlfriends do you have running to the press on a daily basis, Diego?” I tutted.

“Usually, none. But the whole interview thing got out of hand, and he got one in case I couldn’t calm things down.”

“But that?” I scrunched my nose and pointed to the kids piling into an SUV. “That was a picture. It’s nothing.”

He shrugged. “Things have changed a lot since I played college ball. Some of it is definitely my fault, but in college I could...”

“Make out with random girls in treehouses?”

He nodded. “It was a simpler time.”

I swiveled my head around the course and, finding it empty, took a step toward Diego, brushing my shoulder against his. “How about another bet? I bet this won’t amount to anything. So, if our picture pops up on some gossip site, you win. If we don’t see it again, I win. They seem like nice kids.”

“What are we betting?”

I shrugged. “How about another round of disc golf?”

He laughed, sloughing off the stress from the picture. “How’s that a bet? I was going to drag you back out here with me, anyway?”

“Trust me, after I beat you, you’re never going to want to bring me back.”

“Game on.”

* * *

I straightened as Diego served me a plate of falafel at the fold-up table beside a food truck that had drowned out the belching of their generator with loud K-pop.

“One point,” he muttered.

The pita was fresh and warm, and the falafel crunched as I folded the entire sandwich into a burrito. I took a bite, closing my eyes and rocking slightly in my seat as I ate. When I opened my eyes, Diego watched me with a grin.

“One point,” he repeated and shook his head without the smile fading.

“I think that’s a sign that we were evenly matched. But, ultimately, I’m the better player.”

“Uh-nuh,” he protested through a mouthful of gyro meat. “You can’t say that when I had four points to make up per hole. I’m clearly the better player.”

“Give me a few more rounds and I’ll catch up.”

“Does that mean you’ll drop the handicap next time we play?”

“Not a chance,” I said, grabbing a napkin from the pile he’d dropped at the center of the table to wipe my mouth.

A lone car passed by the food truck, and we sat alone in an otherwise empty parking lot. Too late for lunch and too early for dinner, not exactly surprising. Still, the seclusion made me wonder if Diego hadn’t picked the food truck specifically so no one would see us.

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