Page 74 of Second Down Fake

“Yeah,” she rushed out. “Great. Just settling in, finding my place on the team. It’s all new. That’s not why I called.”

“Really? You weren’t reaching out to talk pigskin? I’m shocked.”

Becca laughed. “No. Definitely not.”

I waited a beat, pulling out my phone to check the connection. “So, you’re calling because…”

“I’m calling to apologize because, I guess, you’re not distracting Diego.” She ground out the words as if they caused her physical pain. Which, knowing my older sister, they probably did.

“An apology? For me?” I feigned surprise, grabbing the attention of a guy wearing skinny jeans and a toboggan. “Well, color me shocked.”

“Don’t get used to it. I just…I worry about you, specifically with Diego.”

I tipped my head, turning up the volume as if I hadn’t heard her right. “You mean you’re worried about Diego?”

“No, you,” she exhaled into the phone. “Diego’s a great guy, but he’s a football player.”

“A football player?” I stopped for Ollie to sniff at a tree, feeling oddly riled by Becca’s tone. “What does that mean?”

Becca’s discomfort oozed over the phone. She was a protective big sister. One who’d take out a bully for me. Not one who shared her feelings with me.

She smacked her lips. “It means that he can’t be serious about football and someone else. It’s just not possible. And Diego, well, he’s Diego. He runs hot and cold. He’s obsessive about whatever’s new. But ultimately, he’s just gonna go back to football, because he has to. He doesn’t have a choice.”

“And you know that how?” I bristled. “Because, according to you, you don’t care about player’s personal lives.”

“Because you’re my sister and I love you? Because I know Diego better than most players?” Becca fired back.

I bit my tongue. “We’re just pretending.”

The words sounded unconvincing, even to me. The silence drug on, and I kept walking, Ollie wagging his tail happily, completely unaware of the tense conversation.

“I don’t want you to get hurt, Cassie. And you know his history, right?” I didn’t want to get hurt, either. Becca sighed loudly. “Anyway, it’s not important, right? You’re just pretending?”

“Right,” I agreed half-heartedly, desperate to change the subject. “So, how’s Boston?”

“Framingham,” she corrected. “And it’s not Norwalk.”

* * *

I returned Ollie to his owner and headed to Becca’s apartment after a quick stop for takeout. Diego had left a key to his place, but I’d avoided using it, doubting my ability to be in his home and not snoop, end up wearing a bunch of his clothes, and convincing myself I shouldn’t have turned him down when he’d asked me on a date. A pathetic visual and probable reality if I went to his empty house.

As much as I craved video games and snooping and the scent of turf and sun and Diego, I stayed strong, buoyed by a sizable backlog of trashy reality TV that I hadn’t gotten around to consuming. I popped the cork on a bottle of wine and sat on Becca’s couch with a plastic container of curry in my lap and the bottle tucked beside me. A veritable tableau of all the reasons Diego shouldn’t date me.

I belonged in relationships with emotionally unavailable line cooks and guys in decades-old bands waiting for their big break. Sure, I’d had the occasional relationship with a go-getter, a guy with a job and a retirement plan and an apartment they didn’t share with a dozen other people. I’d been wined and dined and played a trophy girlfriend for a dinner party or two. But those relationships fell apart as soon as someone asked what I did.

No guy with a salary wanted a girlfriend who did odd jobs and ghost tours on the weekend. They could accept two extremes: women with a plan and a future, and women interested in a ring and a pretty house and a picture-perfect social media presence. I didn’t fit either box.

And when those guys left, I wasn’t heartbroken. Disappointed? Sure. A little pissed? Absolutely. But heartbroken?

Witnessing Diego’s dawning realization that I was a mistake would break my heart.

I lost myself in the drama on-screen, emptying the wine bottle over the course of a love triangle going awry. My eyelids grew heavy, and I fell asleep on the couch.

A jaunty chime startled me awake. On screen, ten contestants had been whittled down to three, and above Diego’s name on my phone, the time read 11:35 pm.

“Hey,” I answered the call with a yawn.

“Hey, I’m guessing you didn’t watch the game?” Diego said from the other end of the country.

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