Page 7 of Second Down Fake

“Hey, it’s not Tuesday,” I joked as I slid into my SUV, waiting a beat for the car to connect to my phone.

“I thought you might need someone to talk to,” she said, her voice raspy from a twelve-hour shift at the nursing home.

My throat closed, a rush of guilt coursing through me. “I’m fine.”

“That actress doesn’t seem fine,” she drawled. “She seems pretty pissed off.”

Mom hadn’t met Zoey, and I couldn’t remember anymore if that was my idea or Mom’s. “Yeah, I fucked up a very amicable break up.”

“Watch your language. Have you called her to apologize?”

“I tried. She blocked my number.” The silence on the other end informed me that wasn’t good enough. “I’ll call her assistant.”

“Good idea. I assume James is on top of the fallout?”

“Formulating plots to get me back in the good graces of the Breakers and the general public as we speak.” While Mom had no interest in who I dated, she jumped at the chance to meet my agent, immediately declaring him the type of workaholic who’d negotiate the best deals and keep me out of the ditches. She wasn’t wrong. “How’s work?”

“Oh, you know,” she exhaled. “Short staffed, hectic, exhausting. Same old.”

“Seems like a fantastic time to tap that account James set up for you.” I navigated around the source of the money, my NFL salary. “Take Paul on a vacation. See the country.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she huffed. “I’m not taking your money and I’m not quitting my job.”

“That’s not what I?—”

“I didn’t call to argue, Diego. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Now, call that actress and apologize. Love you, kiss kiss.”

“Love you too, mom.”

I groaned, dropping my head against the steering wheel and dreading the next call I’d have to make.

Two days ago, I never would have guessed that Zoey would blast me like she did. We’d had fun, a whirlwind five-month romance where I followed her to movie sets while she grabbed box seats to my games. The few days we actually spent together usually began at work and ended in bed. We’d attempted a romantic getaway, but by day two, we called for reinforcements, jetting out a couple of her friends and my teammates. After that, we petered out. No harm. No foul.

Until Trent got a hold of my phone.

I sucked in a breath and dialed her assistant.

“Margo,” she answered.

At least her number didn’t go straight to voicemail.

“Hey, Margo.”

I waited through the long pause.

“Diego?”

The poor woman was probably kicking herself for not blocking my number with Zoey in solidarity.

“Yeah. How are you doing?”

“If this is about the article, I had nothing to do with that,” she stuttered.

“I know and I didn’t call to stress you out. I just wanted to apologize to Zoey, but she blocked my number.”

“She’s pretty pissed.” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Yeah. I fucked up.”

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