Page 47 of Second Down Fake

The first couple of plays, I probed the defense. Sure, we played the same teams year after year, and short of a coaching shake up or a complete overhaul of the team, nothing really changed. Plays, positions, energy. But not the core of their game. I ran a pitch pass to Frankie that netted us five yards. Then, a short throw to Jacob, our newest receiver, who might not have been quite as open as Trent was, but further downfield. Besides, Trent was still on my shit list.

On the fifth play of the drive, I found a weak spot in the front five, slipping past a tackle and taking the ball into the end zone. A thunderous cheer drowned out Trent whining about being open. I raced past him, ball in the air as I careened toward the sidelines.

I made it back onto the field four times before the half, twice more walking in a touchdown. Trent received exactly one throw. A throw he bobbled and ended up tackled trying to recover. Coach Simmons went after him so hard Trent didn’t have a chance to yell at me about his screw up.

The half crawled to a close, my focus half on the field, half on the stands. For the first time in forever, I missed the natural lag in college football attendance, how the students slipped out midway through the second quarter to grab a drink and relax by their tailgate, clearing the stadium so I could hear myself think and maybe glimpse a friend in the crowd.

NFL fans stayed glued to their seats right until halftime. Even in a blowout, which this game turned into, they paid good money for their tickets and didn’t have the extensive tailgates outside the stadium like college fans. So, even knowing her location, spotting Cassandra in that mass of people was near impossible. And anytime I made a move to swipe the water boy’s phone, a coach wanted to talk to me about a play or a player or a strategy for the next drive.

Pretending to date Cassandra was supposed to free me up to focus on football, but first game of the season and she’d already done the opposite. I bounced on the edge of the field, watching the defense on the field. The ball snapped, and Rob launched off the line of scrimmage. He sidestepped the offense’s center, aiming straight for the quarterback, and tackled him to the ground with a painful thud.

Whistle, cheers, end of the half.

Our defense jogged off the field, but I made a break for the stands. I scanned the crowd, tapping a security guard at the entrance to the field to let me by. The woman startled, eyes growing wider as I peeled off my jersey while she moved to let me pass.

Fans jumped on me immediately. The requests for autographs and souvenirs fell on deaf ears as I spotted Cassandra a few rows back, standing next to Lena and Mila. Catching my eye, she cocked her head. Jersey in my hand, I made my way through the stands to her.

“So, you scored some points,” Cassandra drawled lazily.

“Here,” I said, handing over the frankly disgusting jersey.

“Are we swapping?”

“If that gets you out of Trent’s number, yeah,” I said. “I’m gonna burn the one you’re wearing.”

She raised her eyebrows, fingers playing at the knot on her jersey, before untying it. She pulled Trent’s jersey off and replaced it with mine. Grass stains on the shoulder and mud on the torso, I still liked it a hell of a lot better than before.

“Do I look acceptable now?” she asked with a bemused grin.

“Gorgeous,” I muttered, meaning it more than I probably should. I wiped off a piece of turf from her shoulder and pushed back an errant lock of hair off her face.

“Liar. Now, wipe that frown off your face. We’re supposed to like each other, and people are looking.”

I kept my eyes locked on hers, ignoring the nagging feeling of being watched. Of course, we were being watched. I’d just run into the stands like a psycho midway through the game. “I do like you. And I like you a hell of a lot better when you’re in my jersey.”

She sucked in a breath and ran a hand over my side as she leaned closer. “Point taken.”

I leaned down, fully planning on a chaste kiss on her cheek.

For the press. For the fans. Definitely not for me.

Okay, maybe a little for me.

I wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me, the lingering scent of grass mixing with orange and clove. She pressed her hand against my chest as I dipped my head. Her green eyes fluttered closed, face relaxing, head tilted up expectantly. In a split-second decision, I changed my trajectory.

The stadium slipped away. The fans, the press, my teammates, the game. The impossibly soft, addictive lips of Cassandra Barton became the only thing that mattered. My body stilled, grip on her waist tightening, if only to have her a little closer. A little more mine.

She exhaled, pulling away and taking a shuddered breath before an uneasy smile bloomed on her face. “You should probably get back. Before they notice you’re missing.”

I loosened my grip on her waist with a laugh. “I’m pretty sure they know.”

* * *

I stood outside the press room with Frankie and Cole, waiting to be called inside.

“You guys do this every week?” Cole asked with a frown.

The four touchdowns I scored paled compared to the fourth quarter attempt by the opposing team’s receiver to score a touchdown. The receiver juked half a dozen players until only Cole stood between him and a touchdown. Cole leveled up to the guy, launching into the receiver’s midsection, only to be dragged for ten yards before taking him to the ground.

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