Page 83 of Second Down Fake

“Do you have any idea what my mom would do to me if she found you on the couch in the morning?”

“Murder?”

“Disowned, at least. And you said I was the dramatic one.”

“You have your moments.” Her breath was hot against my shoulder, head lolling into me and voice sleepy.

“Good night, Cassandra,” I sighed, already aware I wouldn’t be getting much sleep.

* * *

The cool coastal air that felt so refreshing on my jog around the neighborhood that morning had turned hot and cloying. A mild humidity by Mississippi standards, but oppressive, particularly when cornered by a dozen local church ladies.

“I have a sister in Virginia. Maybe you know her?” One of them, Bunny or Chicky, an animal name, tucked her hand into my arm, pressing a manicured finger to her mouth. “Roanoke, I think.”

“That’s on the other side of the state,” the woman next to her correctly pointed out.

“But she goes to the Breakers’ games. At least twice a year.”

“Don’t be dotty, Barb,” one of the other ladies tutted, turning her attention to me. “How do you like Virginia?”

“It’s not Mississippi,” I answer diplomatically.

A noncommittal response, but the ladies exchange a knowing look, as if I’d just admitted that Virginia is nowhere near as wonderful as Mississippi.

“If only we had an NFL team…” Barb sighed.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I should probably check on my guest.” I slipped out of Chicky’s grasp with a winning smile that sets them all tittering in my wake.

I kept Cassandra in my periphery. She’d spent the morning confined to the kitchen with my mom, who insisted Cassandra learn to cook a good southern meal. During the party, I’d caught her sharing a beer with Paul’s fishing buddies and then in a serious discussion with the pastor, who no doubt wanted us at church on Sunday.

I hadn’t spotted her in a while, though. The “small neighborhood get together” had spiraled out of control by the time food was served. Thankfully, most of the attendants had brought a dish and there was plenty to go around.

I dipped past no less than half a dozen people eager to get a bit of conversation in with me. Former schoolmates, friends and teachers. Even the daycare owner who’d watched me when I was an infant. Mom apparently had left no stone unturned in inviting people to the party.

An uproarious round of laughter echoed from the backyard, and floating above the other voices was Cassandra’s, high and vibrant. As the sun set, the bonfire illuminated the backyard. Cassandra stood around it with another ten people, all around our age, a few faces I actually recognized.

“Diego!” she cried excitedly, leaving the group to throw her arms around me. A warm greeting I didn’t expect, but certainly didn’t mind. Her lips brushed my cheek and came to a rest on the corner of my lip.

I caught a familiar smell and pulled away. “Please don’t tell me Ram gave you some of his moonshine.”

She grinned, holding up an unmarked bottle. “He said it’s legal.”

“And awful.” I grabbed the bottle from her hand, sniffing the contents. “Smells like straight peaches and rubbing alcohol.”

A subtle improvement from the battery acid he used to brew in his basement. He offered me a liter once when I came home from high school, and I’d got the entire team drunk from the single bottle.

“It’s a bit of an acquired taste, but so good,” Cassandra insisted.

I chanced a sip and shrugged. “Okay. It’s better than I remember. I’ll give him that. But seriously? You just took unmarked liquor from a guy named Ram?”

“Paul said it was okay.” Her eyes sparkled, voice clear. She dipped her head. “Also, your friends have been telling all your secrets.”

I winced, eyes skirting back to the familiar faces around the bonfire. “You can’t hold any of them against me. I was in high school and a real asshole.”

After I’d left for a boarding school on a football scholarship, my brief visits back home were as close to a vacation as I’d get. Long weekends, maybe a week, in the late winter, after championships and before Spring Training started in earnest. A strange hybrid of a Rumspringa and Spring Break. I’d gotten wild, that much was for sure, and I flipped through the various stories that might have been told around the fire with a bottle of moonshine.

“Something about night fishing?” she whispered, eyebrows waggling.

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