Page 56 of Second Down Fake

EIGHTEEN

DIEGO

Cassandra slid across the booth in a skintight emerald green dress and a pair of heels that made me want to lift her over my shoulder and ban her from wearing that anywhere except in my bedroom.

If I thought I could out-petty her, I had been sorely mistaken.

Because a night club should have been the one place I could achieve that. A VIP booth in a crowded club with free-flowing drinks. On a normal night, Trent, Frankie, and I would have had the booth packed with beautiful women, hanging off my every word.

Instead, Cassandra had Trent and Frankie eating out of her hand. My teammates hadn’t so much as glanced at the dance floor, preferring to giggle in the corner like a group of old school pals.

On the field, everything appeared to be going in the right direction, but off the field? Cassandra had me in a tailspin since she tapped my shoulder in the parking lot during preseason. The worst part of it was, I had no intention of stopping it.

A lull in the conversation had Trent looking for a server and Frankie on his phone.

I took the interruption to slide into a seat beside Cassandra. “You know, if you just wanted to chat, it would have been quieter anywhere else.”

She laughed, eyes sparkling in the glint of the strobe lights. “That’s exactly what Frankie said. He said we could go back to his place.”

I frowned. “Okay. Bad idea.”

Her green eyes fluttered out to the crowded dance floor. “I love this song.”

“Are you trying to get me to ask you to dance?”

“Or Frankie. Or Trent. I’m not picky.” She shrugged as if it didn’t make a single difference, a hint of a grin on her face the only sign that maybe she wasn’t so flippant about her dance partner.

“Hell yeah!” Trent set down the bottle of Grey Goose and held out a hand to Cassandra.

I swatted it away. “I’ve got this covered, thanks.”

Trent ignored me, sinking into the seat on the other side of Cassandra and lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You know, after Diego is rehabilitated, I was thinking you could play my girlfriend for a bit. Get me out of some trouble.”

Cassandra screwed up her lips, tapping a fingernail against her chin. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, honestly. Diego, how many players do you think I can pretend to date? If I only date one a season, of course.”

“One,” I answered tersely, shooting Trent a warning frown before leading Cassandra onto the dance floor.

“You’re awfully prickly tonight,” she laughed, body swaying to the music as we stopped in the crowd of dancers. “You don’t think it’s a good idea to be Trent’s fake girlfriend next?”

“The two of you would be a PR nightmare.”

She laughed, resting a hand on my chest. My heart rate skyrocketed. “Probably. At least you talk me down occasionally. Trent and I would just encourage each other to take things further. I’d make him bungee jump one weekend, and he’d be off the team. It’d be a mess.”

I wrapped my arm around her waist, pulling her closer as a man with two drinks navigated the dancing couples behind her. “Besides, you’re all mine this season.”

She shivered, grip tightening on my shirt. “I’ll try not to let you regret that.”

“Impossible.”

Frankie and Trent didn’t leave us alone for long, holding apology drinks and with new friends in tow. The atmosphere lightened while the bass rocked my chest and sweat formed at my temples. Cassandra closed her eyes, arms up and body rocking against mine.

“Come with me to Vegas,” I called over the music.

She tilted her head back against my chest, ass swaying against my increasingly hard dick. “Yeah?”

“Have you ever been?” She shook her head. “Then you need to come. You can hang out with Lena before the game, and we’ll go out afterward.”

She frowned, eyes flitting back to the booth. “I’m not sure that’s really in my budget right now.”

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