Page 2 of Second Down Fake

Meyer, filming in Portugal after a whirlwind season following the Norwalk Breakers and its star quarterback, recounts their breakup.

“As soon as the season was over, and the constant attention from the press died out, he vanished. I called him after not hearing from him for a week, and he said he wanted to break up. Fine. But then he’s posting online that he’s ‘finally free,’ as if he hadn’t ghosted me for months.”

I grimaced at the picture below the quote. My social media page. My name with a green check mark beside it. A picture at the club. I sat on a couch, my arms over the back and flanked by two women on each side. I held a bottle of tequila in one and a half-empty drink in the other. My eyelids drooped, and I wore a goofy ass drunk smile on my face. And the caption below read, “Free at Last!!!!”

And I knew the asshole who typed those words. Trent Vogt. I scanned the rest of the article.

We’ve reached out to Salazar for a statement on his recent social media posts but received no reply as of publication.

Bullshit. Based on the four-hour old timestamp, the reporter had just taken the quote and raced to publish it. And who wouldn’t? A juicy story where Hollywood’s sweetheart had her heart stomped by an NFL quarterback. I could already predict the backlash.

At least that explained James’ panic. Giant athletic wear brands didn’t offer multi-million-dollar endorsement deals to athletes who had a legion of superfans calling for their head on a spike.

And Zoey’s rabid fans would definitely call for my head on a spike.

Of course, the post hadn’t been directed at Zoey at all, but my long-time trainer, Becca, who’d taken a job in New England. A gallows humor joke I didn’t especially find funny, but Trent, with his middle school level of humor, kept repeating.

Becca had kept me on a tight leash, and while I appreciated her work, her training had separated me from the team. Or, more accurately, partying with the team.

Reflexively, I dialed Zoey’s number with a vague notion that maybe the quote had been taken out of context. Possible. Not likely, but possible. But the immediate sound of an electronic voice asking me to leave a message told me she’d blocked my number.

Perfect.

With each passing minute, my panic mounted, and I turned to my only other outlet. I dialed Trent.

“What the fuck, Trent!” I yelled into his voicemail, sure he’d never hear it. The guy was probably still passed out, naked in some girl’s apartment without a care in the world.

I hung up the phone and threw my head back, pressing my palm to my head to fend off a mounting headache. Yelling at Trent would have made me feel better, but realistically, wouldn’t fix anything.

I had a half-hour before my meeting with Coach Simmons to shower and come up with an apology that would get me out of hot water. With the team and my sponsors, at least. I grabbed my bag and pushed myself up, trudging inside.

When I walked into the locker room, the conversations between my teammates stopped.

“My niece called me this morning to let me know you’re an asshole,” Lucas said, breaking the silence as he stepped out of the showers, white towel slung low around his hips and a shit-eating grin on his face. “She wanted me to tell you that to your face.”

“Let her know I said thanks,” I bit out with a grimace. Not a great reception from my teammates, but probably the reaction I’d be enjoying out in public for the next week, until someone fucked up worse than me.

I didn’t need to be loved, but I certainly liked it. An underdog college football prospect who fumbled into a top-tier program almost by accident, thrown onto the national stage by not one but two injuries. I’d gone into my red-shirt sophomore season with all the analysts expecting me to lose my starting position to an upstart freshman or a previously injured player.

Instead, a soft-spoken trainer had showed up at my dorm room, asking whether I wanted to sulk all summer or if I wanted to clinch my spot in the starting lineup. Obviously, I was a starter.

And I’d had a meteoric rise since. A national championship and a first-round draft pick onto a new, upstart team. We’d been chipping our way toward the Super Bowl for five seasons now, and I didn’t want anything upsetting that progress, certainly not by pissing off my head coach or the fans.

But that trainer abandoned me for a promotion and an address closer to her hometown. And now I was in shit because she’d left me unsupervised for all of a week.

“Trent!” I yelled as my teammate attempted to slink out of my eyesight on his way to the offices. “Seriously, man? I go out with you one night and I get called into the head coach’s office!”

He looked a mess, dirty blond hair disheveled, dark bags under his eyes, and as I drew nearer, the stink of alcohol lingering. He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, Diego. I thought you had a training session until four. Didn’t think I’d run into you.”

“I bet you didn’t. What the hell? Why’d you have my phone?”

The edge of lips jerked up in a grin. “You gave it to me.”

“To hold, dumbass. So I wouldn’t send any embarrassing texts!”

Lucas barked out a laugh. “You trusted Trent? That’s really your fault, then, isn’t it?”

I glared in his direction before turning back to Trent. “How the hell did you even unlock my phone?”

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