Page 8 of Second Down Fake

“You did,” she snorted over the line. “I really liked you, Diego, too.”

My stomach turned. Add Margo to the growing list of people disappointed in me. I didn’t like the feeling.

“I liked you, too. And Zoey. We didn’t work out, but the post last night, that had nothing to do with Zoey, but was out of line. I just want a chance to tell her that.”

She heaved a put-upon sigh. “Okay. I’ll tell her you called to apologize, but I can’t do anything more than that.”

“I know, and I appreciate you taking my call, Margo.”

“Good luck, Diego.”

I hung up the phone, my shoulders loosening as I untied the mess I’d made over the last twenty-four hours. Even if Zoey never called back, at least I tried. I wasn’t the first asshole playboy in the NFL and definitely wouldn’t be the last.

But I had to right the public relations nightmare I’d created. James and Coach Simmons drove part of that need. I had a team to support and sponsors to placate.

Having Cassandra, the goddess who told me to pound sand four years ago, tell me I was a shit boyfriend to my face though?

Rough. Maybe unrecoverable. But I planned to try, anyway.

I drove out of the stadium parking lot and through the city. The traffic eased as I entered the suburbs.

Once home, I dropped my duffel bag on the floor and stalked into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge to find a neatly stacked selection of meals. College habits died hard, and after watching a teammate get bumped down to the practice squad and then off the team thanks to late night drive-thru runs and drinking, I splurged on a personal chef.

The chef, a sweet lady in her fifties, stopped by with fresh food every three days, letting herself in and leaving a neatly written page of instructions on the kitchen counter, telling me where to find breakfast, lunch, and dinner along with a pen to mark down which ones were my favorite.

All of them. I grabbed a pasta dish and read the heating instructions written on the aluminum top. On the counter, my phone lit up.

TRENT

Coming out tonight?

I shook my head at the text, disappointed it wasn’t Zoey, but also unsurprised Trent would disobey Coach Simmons so quickly. Trent had survived the last two seasons through a preternatural ability to catch uncatchable throws and a best friend willing to bail him out of trouble. But with Frankie gone, Trent spiraled, and I certainly hadn’t helped.

Nah. I’m turning in early and keeping out of trouble. You might want to do the same.

The smile emoji he sent back didn’t fill me with confidence, but not much I could do about him. I had to keep myself out of trouble. Out of more trouble. But a night alone in an empty house didn’t sound much better. With the oven temperature climbing, I picked up my phone and scanned through my contacts.

I paused on Cassandra, thumb hovering over her name, before sliding away.

Rob. Rob was perfect. A single dad, boring as hell, never busy after his kid was in bed.

Blast some shit online? Eight?

The oven chimed, and I slid the dish inside, checking the time. The phone came to life with the reply.

ROB

Fuck yeah.

* * *

My four-bedroom Cape Cod wasn’t nearly as fancy as my teammates’ houses, but a hell of a lot nicer than any of the mobile homes and shoddy apartments I’d grown up in. An interior designer with a client list featured in Architectural Digest and a bad attitude spent three months transforming the ground and second-floor rooms into showrooms.

While he carried out a six-figure remodel, I hunkered down in the basement, accessorizing the big screen theater with my computer gear and a ratty bean bag chair. When he cleared out, the damage had been done. The basement became my place, the upstairs reserved for entertaining girlfriends and meals.

I wolfed down my meal and beelined for the familiar plush couch in the basement with its dearth of throw pillows and non-matching end tables. Burrowing into the couch, I put on my headphones.

“About fucking time,” Rob grumbled as I logged into the game.

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