Page 46 of Second Down Fake

I held up my phone with a wave before slipping it back into my pocket.

“Well, you certainly got some attention,” Lena sighed.

“Oh! We’re on the big screen!” Mila cried, waving wildly.

On both sides of the field, the four of us were blown up to twenty feet high, me smack in the middle. I pasted on a smile, waving weakly and double guessing my hilarious idea of wearing Trent’s jersey.

FIFTEEN

DIEGO

“I guess your girl has a thing for me,” Trent crowed triumphantly, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.

I tossed the petrified water boy his phone as Trent pulled me back into the huddle.

Coach Simmons paused his speech, glaring at us both. I elbowed Trent in the ribs and slipped away, moving as far away from him as possible.

“You good?” Noa leaned close, his voice a low mumble.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Maybe it was the only jersey she had?” Noa offered weakly.

“Trent’s?” I growled.

Noa’s jersey? Yeah, I would have believed that. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Cassandra didn’t even own a jersey. And if she borrowed one from Lena, joining the cadre of Kweame fans in the stands, that wouldn’t have been a big deal.

But Trent? No, that was calculated. The gangly high schooler whose phone I swiped to text Cassandra had reluctantly asked for it back and I couldn’t read over the texts again. But the words burned into my brain, anyway.

Score some points and my feelings will probably change.

Despite my threats, I had no intention of taking video game access away from Cassandra, but if she wanted to play games, I could play games. And Trent could fuck right off if he thought he’d get a chance at the ball today.

I half-heartedly listened to the rest of the pep talk, my focus split between the game and the woman in the stands driving me crazy on the opening game of the season. Her face plastered on the big screen didn’t help matters.

When Coach Simmons ended his speech, his eyes stayed glued to mine, a frown forming on his face. “Salazar!”

“Yeah, coach?”

“I don’t know what that was but get it together. I want a big win today and everyone’s talking about our playoff shot, not whatever the hell is going on in the stands.”

“There’s nothing going on. Just Trent being Trent.”

Coach Simmons closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’d trade him if I could.”

“So, you can afford to trade me, but not him?”

“I know if you went to another team, you’d be a professional about it.”

The head coach only had a decade on me, but the deep furrows in his brow and hair graying along his temple reassured me I’d rather be on the field than the sidelines dealing with assholes like Trent and me all day.

“Well, don’t worry. We came here to play.”

He sighed, unconvinced, but dismissed me with a nod.

I lined up with my teammates on the sideline while the national anthem played. The camera panned across my face, so I kept my eyes on the field, on the singer, on the flag, anywhere but back in the stands. But with the stadium filled to capacity, the sidelines crammed with coaches, camera crews, and cheerleaders, the chaos made it impossible to pick out an individual in the crowd.

Maybe it was better that way. I drowned out the cheers, winning the coin toss and taking the ball. Time to score some points.

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