Page 60 of Second Down Fake

“You’re paying for our date tomorrow.”

His voice rested on the word “date” and a well of excitement shot through me. “I could have covered some show tickets too, probably.”

“Which show?” he asked and damn it if he didn’t sound like he legitimately wanted to know.

I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Something with acrobatics and a musical score, I’m sure.”

“And drinks!” Lena called from her bedroom.

“And drinks,” I added.

“Well, be good, okay? I don’t want to wake up and find out that Diego Salazar’s girlfriend got married in Vegas to someone else.”

I grinned. “Is it too late to ask for another ticket to the game? Just in case.”

“Way too late.”

“Fine,” I pushed out my lower lip in a pout. “Guess I’ll just have a totally normal night with Lena.”

I hung up the phone, strangely sad even with an entire night in Las Vegas ahead of me. Rather than mope, I knocked on Lena’s doorframe. “What’s the plan? We getting out of here?”

“Yep.” She threw open her suitcase, rifling through until she pulled out a shiny red dress. “Just getting changed.”

“Oh, we’re getting dressed up?” I’d thrown in a couple of slinkier dresses but planned to live in leggings and football jerseys for the bulk of the trip.

“What’s the point of coming to Las Vegas if you’re not going to get dressed up?” Lena asked, stripping off the oversized sweater and pulling the dress in her hand over her head.

She had a point. “Alright, give me twenty to get changed and throw on some makeup.”

* * *

After getting foxy, Lena and I called on Romeo for suggestions on how to navigate to dinner and the show in heels. At Lena’s insistence that she wanted to play some blackjack before we ate, he settled us at a table and arranged for a driver to get us for dinner. Better than that, Romeo flagged down a server. Thanks to his influence and a near endless stack of five-dollar chips that seemed to flow from Lena, by the time the driver came to get us, I was lit.

“You didn’t tell me you’re a card shark,” I laughed, leaning back onto the padded bench in a posh, dimly lit restaurant. The only bursts of light came from the near endless parade of diners taking pictures in front of a giant statue at the back of the restaurant.

“Noa’s not a huge fan of gambling, so I’m getting it out of my system tonight.” She sipped demurely at her frothy pink drink in a martini glass.

I ran a finger over the tiny shot glasses of sake arranged on an egg skelter in front of me. “Well, I certainly enjoy the endless slew of free drinks and watching the old guys at the table get pissed off when you win.”

“So, you’ll come back out with me after the show?”

“Why not?”

TWENTY

DIEGO

I checked the clock. 2 A.M.

I should be asleep.

My first year with the Breakers, the pre-game schedule drove me nuts. Game film, followed by dinner, then a team movie, and lights out by nine. I’d toss and turn and fight the urge to play video games or go out for a drink. But over four seasons, the schedule turned into a ritual as necessary as my other pre-game rituals.

Only tonight, sleep wouldn’t come.

After tossing and turning, I’d pulled out a book and fired off another text to Cassandra. No response.

Unsurprising.

---