Page 89 of Second Down Fake

Diego winked and made a break for the tunnel, leaving me with an audience of reporters eager for more.

“Cassandra!” My name from a stranger’s lips shocked me. “How long have you and Diego been dating?”

I eyed the tunnel that Diego had disappeared to. “Just a few months.”

“Did he say you're his good luck charm?” An older lady in a gray skirt suit and a pair of heels that pierced the turf asked.

A man in a pair of gray sweats shot forward. “And what’s your comment on the rumors that Diego will break up with you at the end of the season?”

I recoiled at the question.

“Think you’ll make it to the off-season?” Gray skirt asked.

A lady snapped my picture. “Is it true you started dating Diego before Zoey?”

The players had all filed into the tunnel and behind me, the mob of fans turned their attention on the exchange.

“Leave her alone, you damn vultures!” A tornado in the form of a blue hair and sharp gray eyes pushed herself between me and the press.

“Yeah, you should know, Pop!” gray sweatpants yelled back.

“Aren’t you all sports reporters? Where do you get off traipsing all over my beat?” She lightly tapped my arm. “You can take off. You don’t have to answer shit to these people.”

“Thanks,” I sighed, glad she’d shaken me out of whatever stupor I’d found myself in at being cornered without Diego by my side. “I’m Cassandra.”

“I’m well aware.” She grinned, the light smattering of freckles coming to life. “Poppy. Everyone calls me Pop. Full disclosure. I run the Breaking the Breakers social media account.”

“So, you’re just getting them out of your hair so you can talk to me?” I asked. She didn’t give off that vibe, but what the hell did I know? I sure as hell didn’t expect to be mobbed with questions.

“I mean, if you want to talk, that’d be great, but no.” She brushed a hand through her hair and followed me up the stadium steps and away from the sidelines. “It’s just the hypocrisy, you know? They’re just as eager as anyone to find out some dirt on the players, but they do it under the guise of being above board professionals.”

“And you’re not above board?”

“Fuck yes I am.” She stopped as we passed a snack bar. Employees boxed up supplies as a trickle of fans ambled their way to the parking lots. “And I have a degree, which, let me tell you, half the people on the field don’t have. I just got into reporting a little differently.”

“As a gossip columnist?”

“I prefer human-interest sports reporter. I’m interested in the games as a fan, of course, but I cater to fans’ interest in the players’ personal lives.” She scoffed. “Don’t look at me like that! It’s all good press for the Breakers. At worst, I report on Trent Vogt’s nights out and honestly, that’s just townie news at this point. He’s not exactly discrete.”

“Well, I appreciate you breaking that up.”

“No problem.” She waved her hand before reaching into her purse and pulling out a card. “If you ever want to talk, though, call me. I love what you and Diego have going on, and my readers are rooting for you to make it past playoffs.”

She floated away and despite the kind words, I couldn’t help the pit in my stomach at the offhanded comment. People were rooting for me to make it past the season. I wouldn’t. I’d be gone before the end of the year.

I navigated out of the stadium, stopping to say goodbye to Lena before I left. Pulling out of the parking garage, I navigated through downtown and into the suburbs, feeling more at ease as the chaotic cityscape made way to sprawling lawns and cheery cottages. I fished out the key that Diego gave to me. A gesture more practical than romantic after we made plans to hang out and I spent an hour on his porch.

Still, the tiny set of metal made my heart skip a beat.

My stomach grumbled as I pushed through the door. I glanced at the clock. Depending on the press conference, Diego could be home in fifteen minutes or another two hours.

I opened the fridge, well aware that not much would be inside. Diego hired some mysterious cook who came in once or twice a week, loading him up with pre-made meals and slipping back into the ether. I’d found her notes peppering the kitchen counter and a small assortment of ‘extra’ meals that suddenly popped up after week five, when I spent more time with Diego than at Becca’s apartment.

I sifted through the extra containers, selecting an orzo salad with black olives and sitting at the table. My phone, set on the counter, buzzed, and expecting to hear Diego’s voice on the other end, I answered it without a second glance.

“Ms. Barton?”

The formal greeting made me check the caller ID to find an unknown caller with a Norwalk area code. “Um, yeah. I’m not interested in buying anything.”

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