Chapter Twenty-One #2
Ansel Daily takes responsibility for Cash Curran deepfake in Instagram Live, shocking fans: “Sorry for the harm I’ve caused”
by Jaimie Xin
published on January 18
Ansel Daily has claimed responsibility for the deepfake video of Cash Curran that was posted online last month, depicting
the NFL quarterback kissing his ex-girlfriend.
The drummer turned to social media to apologize for his actions after rumors of his involvement in the scandal took the internet
by storm. “I, uh, wanted to hop on and let you all know that I did a really stupid thing,” Daily said, live on Instagram Thursday
evening. “I’m the one responsible for the deepfake video that everyone’s been talking about. It was a joke, but I recognize
now that what I did was wrong.” His eyes darted off screen several times during the Live. “I’m sorry for the harm I’ve caused
Cash Curran and Ashley Tibbey, along with . . . I guess Lyric and anyone else hurt by the video.”
“Cash is relieved to have answers and hopes that this entire, painful ordeal can finally be put to bed. The harm can’t be
undone, but he’d like to move forward and focus on repairing the damage done,” Curran’s publicist, Poppy Peterson, said in
response to People’s request for comment.
Adair’s publicist has yet to respond.
January 24
Portland Pathfinders @portlandpathfinders · 10h
RISE AND SHINE! IT’S GAME DAY, PATHFINDERS NATION! #GBvsPDX #NFCChampionship #PathfindersNation
“How’s Benji liking his first football game?” Poppy ghosted her fingers over the downy soft hair on Cassidy and DeAndre’s son’s head, cooing when he yawned.
Cassidy stroked a finger from his forehead down to the tip of his nose, laughing when his whole face scrunched up tight, making
him look like a grumpy little old man. She’d dressed him for the occasion in a teeny-tiny Pathfinders onesie, a miniature
version of the jersey she wore, an itty-bitty 89 on his equally itty-bitty chest. Adorable. “He’s loving the attention, that’s
for sure.” Cassidy sighed. “And I, for one, couldn’t be happier to leave the house. I was going stir crazy.”
“Well, if you ever need a sitter, I’m happy to, and I’m sure Cash would be too.”
“How’s he doing?” Cassidy’s lips twisted to the side in a sympathetic smile. “A little better, I hope. What with . . .” She
trailed off, the resemblance between her and Benji never more obvious than when her nose wrinkled. “You know. Considering
the last couple games haven’t been total shit shows, I imagine he’s got to be feeling somewhat better.”
Or he’d gotten better at compartmentalizing, same as her.
“You know Cash,” she said with a shrug. “He’s an eternal optimist. He’s still holding out hope that everything’s going to
work out. That Lyric just needs a little more time.”
A week had passed since Cash’s second Hail Mary play, since he’d tracked Ansel down and, together, he and Poppy had seen to
it that Ansel had taken responsibility for the deepfake video in the most indisputable way possible, by issuing a public apology
live. As gratifying as it had been, watching Ansel humble himself in front of five hundred thousand live viewers, the fact
that neither Lyric nor Rosaline had reached out in the days after made it feel like a hollow victory to Poppy.
Out on the field, the game clock counting down the seconds to halftime hit zero.
“All right, folks,” the announcer’s voice poured through the speakers. “And that’s the half. Pathfinders up by fourteen, the
score thirty-four to twenty.” The players jogged off the field, heading for the tunnels that led to the locker rooms. “The
Pathfinders would like to welcome the Jefferson High School marching band for a special halftime performance.”
A hush descended over the stadium as the marching band took to the field, and—
Poppy gasped and the crowd, seeing what she saw, went wild.
Cradling Benji in the crook of her left arm, Cassidy tugged eagerly on Poppy’s sleeve.
“Poppy. Poppy.” Cassidy bounced on her toes. “Tell me I’m not seeing things.”
If Cassidy was seeing things, then so was Poppy, so was the whole stadium. One giant, mass hallucination.
“The Pathfinders,” the announcer’s voice boomed, “would also like to welcome a very special musical guest—” The drummers in
the marching band provided a cheeky drumroll. “Lyric Adair!”
The crowd, already wild, went frenzied.
The camera zeroed in on Lyric as she made her way across the field, smile positively beatific as she waved, stopping on the
giant double P spray-painted on the turf, mic in hand, the other waving at the crowd. Her smiling face appeared on the jumbotron; she had
Cash’s number 3 painted on her right cheek.
“Holy shit,” Poppy breathed, a laugh erupting from her lips, her eyes stinging and vision blurring as the camera panned to
the tunnel where Coach Fitz, the Pathfinders’ offensive coordinator, dragged a confused-looking Cash out onto the sidelines.
There was no mistaking the moment Cash spotted her; he fell to his knees then and there, burying his face in his hands for
the briefest of seconds before he raised his head, eyes sparkling as he stared at her unblinking, like he couldn’t bear the
thought of losing sight of her for even a moment.
“Did you know about this?” Cassidy asked, and Poppy gave a wet laugh, gesturing to the mess of tears ruining her makeup.
“Does it look like I knew about this?” She shook her head and gingerly wiped beneath her eyes with her fingertips.
“Hi, everyone,” Lyric spoke into the microphone, her voice echoing across the stadium. The green glitter around her eyes caught
the light and shimmered. “Hope you don’t mind that I crashed your halftime, but—”
The roar of the crowd was so loud Lyric had to pause, lowering the microphone with a bright laugh. Over on the sidelines, Cash had made it back up onto his feet, standing with a hand covering his mouth, grin so huge his eyes had all but disappeared.
Lyric waited until the noise died down from a roar to an eager titter. “Halftime is only thirteen minutes, and I don’t want
to get in trouble for throwing off the schedule,” she said, and the crowd laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever
heard, the idea that the team, the league, the network, anyone, would complain about an impromptu performance by Lyric Adair. News of her appearance was probably spreading like wildfire
on social media, people tuning in to the game right now just to watch what would probably go down as one of the most talked
about moments in NFL history. “So, without further ado, I’d like to sing one of my favorite songs of all time.” She grinned
sheepishly, scuffing the toe of her heel against the turf. “This is ‘Time After Time’ by Cyndi Lauper. I’d like to dedicate
it to this guy. You might’ve heard of him.” Her smile was radiant. “His name is Cash Curran.”
With a nod from Lyric, the marching band, led by the bright, percussive snare drums, launched into the beautiful, bittersweet
ballad.
“Talk about a grand gesture,” Cassidy murmured.
“Lyric was worried she’d be too late.”
As if her heart had sprouted wings, as silly and impossible an idea as that was, the sound of Rosaline’s voice sent her chest
aflutter.
Cassidy shot her a sidelong glance and a lopsided grin. “I think Benji’s hungry. So, I’m just gonna go whip my tit out somewhere
that’s, you know, not here, and let you two talk.”
She scurried off, Benji fast asleep in her arms, leaving Poppy alone with Rosaline.
Talk. There were a million things Poppy wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure whether she should say any of them, if Rosaline would want to hear them, so she kept her mouth shut.
Rosaline stepped into the space Cassidy had just vacated at Poppy’s side, facing the field. Poppy wiped her sweaty palms on
her thighs and stole a peek at Rosaline from the corner of her eye.
She looked . . . well, she looked beautiful, but that was nothing new. Rosaline always looked beautiful. She looked beautiful
all dressed up and she looked beautiful in the morning with bed head. Looking at Rosaline, even just from the corner of her
eye, made it hard for her to breathe.
Rosaline stared out at the field, watching as Lyric crooned the song’s second verse.
“Did you two come straight here from the airport or something?”
Rosaline turned her head and looked at Poppy and, if she had thought it was hard to breathe before, it was next to impossible
now, Rosaline’s eyes meeting hers steadily. “Yes, but . . . Lyric was worried Curran wouldn’t want to see her. I told her
she was being ridiculous.”
Down on the field, Cash had already crossed the thirty-yard line, making his way toward the middle of the field where Lyric
stood. “He’d wait forever for her. He told me.”
Lyric reached the chorus, singing about falling, catching, waiting.
“What about me?” Rosaline said seemingly out of nowhere, glancing out at the field and back at Poppy, bottom lip trapped between
her teeth. “Am I too late?”
Every last thought inside Poppy’s head vanished; it took a moment to register what Rosaline was asking. Only, she couldn’t
possibly be saying what Poppy thought she was. “I guess that depends on what you mean.”
She refused to assume, couldn’t stomach the idea of getting her hopes up only to have them dashed.
Again. And not to be petty, at least Poppy didn’t want to be, wasn’t trying to be, but Rosaline had called things quits between them.
She had ended their relationship. Poppy understood why, but if Rosaline had something to say, she needed to be the one to say
it. Poppy wasn’t even going to try to fill in the blanks. Trying to read Rosaline was as frustrating as it was futile, 90
percent of the time. Poppy liked it so much better when Rosaline just told her how she felt and left out the guessing.
“I’m saying I’m sorry.” Rosaline’s throat clicked when she swallowed. “I shouldn’t . . .” She trailed off with a frustrated
sigh. “I shouldn’t have let their relationship dictate ours. It was shortsighted and impulsive of me, jumping the gun like
that. I should’ve . . . I should’ve done a lot of things differently, I realize.”
What Rosaline was saying was exactly what Poppy had spent the last month dreaming. The difference was those were dreams. Dreams
didn’t have to contend with real-world logic.
“What if he’d done it?” Poppy’s voice quivered as she asked the question, dreading the answer, but needing to know. “What
if the video had been real? What if next time, because God knows there probably will be . . . what if next time Cash really
is guilty?”
Cash wouldn’t cheat, but he was only human, same as Lyric. Whether it was next week or ten years down the line, any number
of things could happen that might spell doom for their relationship.
Was Rosaline going to break up with Poppy every time there was trouble in paradise between Lyric and Cash? She couldn’t go
through this again.
To her credit, Rosaline seemed to give the question the deliberation it was due. Wearing a subtle frown, she looked out at the field. Cash had crossed the forty-yard line, his footsteps slowing the closer he got to Lyric, almost like he was savoring every step, committing the moment to memory.
“It would be hard,” Rosaline admitted. “I won’t lie. But Poppy, these last few weeks have been hell and I realized I’d rather
face the hard things with you. I know I told you there was no we in this, but that was a mistake.” It was with an almost shy sort of reverence that Rosaline took Poppy’s hand between both
of her own and clasped it against her chest. Her heart was beating so hard Poppy could feel it against the inside of her wrist
where her own pulse pounded. “There is a we, or at least I really want there to be, if you’ll still have me.”
If she’d still have her. Poppy choked. “Rosaline—”
“Before you say no.” Rosaline’s grip tightened on Poppy’s hand like she was afraid Poppy would try and steal it back. “I spent
the last eight years believing Lyric needed me to take care of her, and maybe for a time she did, but she doesn’t need that
now. She doesn’t need me like that. She doesn’t need me to protect her or fight her battles for her. And I get that, I do.
But I’ve spent almost a quarter of my life, half of my adult life, believing it was the only thing I was good at.” She stole
a glance at Poppy from beneath her lashes and brought their joined hands a little higher, closer to her lips. She buffed a
kiss across the back of Poppy’s knuckles and smiled, the corners of her mouth drawing and dimpling sweetly. “But I think I
could be really good at loving you, if you’d let me.”
Rosaline’s voice didn’t falter and neither did the expression on her face, unflinchingly open and earnest, her words a confession and oath rolled into one perfect package.
They flooded Poppy’s chest with liquid warmth so hot she nearly looked down to check and see if she was bleeding through her jersey.
Happy tears sprang to her eyes. She leaned in, breathing in the scent of Rosaline’s perfume, drinking in the way Rosaline
trembled softly when Poppy brushed a soft kiss against her lips.
“I think you’ll be exceptional at it, actually.”