3. Diego
I’d donea lot of dumb things over the years.
Took a third-string position at a top-tier college football program with the understanding I probably wouldn’t get my shot at the field, signed with a brand-new NFL team for a fraction of what I would have made with a more established team just to get a starting position, and this afternoon, I asked for my trainer’s little sister’s number. Five years after I’d asked for it the first time.
But all those other decisions had worked out in my favor, and considering this time, Cassandra said yes, this one might too.
With pre-season right around the corner, I’d have my hands full soon enough. But between seasons, I struggled. Anything more than a weekend in Mississippi, and mom and I would be at each other’s throats, her husband desperate to keep the peace. And while I loved to travel, most of my teammates only wanted to spend a week or two overseas before tapping out for their friends and family back home. Trent was the only guy as aimless as me over the off season, and look at how that turned out.
Cassandra provided a very necessary distraction. One I didn’t dwell on long when I saw my mom’s name pop up on my phone.
“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.”
“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.
“Didn’t think you could take on the hoards without me?”
Rob and I were friendly, but I doubted he’d ever call me a friend. Except for Noa, a giant Hawaiian who befriended everyone, Rob barely considered his teammates acquaintances, and he adopted more of an annoyed older brother role in the organization. With a kid and a long NFL career even before the Breakers, he didn’t need our bullshit.
But he needed someone to play video games with after his daughter went to bed.
“I killed about a dozen zombies before you bothered to show up. And I respawned here.”
I grinned, diving into the game on screen. For the next hour, our conversation consisted only of mumbled commands and strategies. As we reached the checkpoint before the last battle, my phone rang, cutting off Rob mid-sentence.
“Ignore it,” I said distractedly, before pausing. “Actually, I should check who it is. Give me two.”
Before Rob could argue, I pulled off my headphones and checked the phone. Zoey.
“Five!” I said into the speaker before putting the headphones down and answering the call.
“You called my assistant?” Zoey punctuated each word like an accusation.
“I tried to call you.”
“I blocked your number,” she said. Not exactly an invitation to start a conversation, but she had called me, so that had to count for something.
“I wanted to apologize about the post last night. I know how that looked?—”
“I don’t care about your dumb vague posting, Diego. Are you calling about the article? Because that was all before your stupid late-night party.”
My jaw dropped. “It was?”
“Do you think I read your 2 A.M. drunk text and ran out to talk to a journalist? Seriously, Diego? Don’t get me wrong, your timing couldn’t have been worse. They are eviscerating you online. I almost feel a little bad about how it’s all blown up.”
“Wait, you gave that interview before? When?”
“Last week, you asshole, after you dumped me over text.”
“I didn—” I stalled, the words dying on my lips as she released a disgruntled gasp. Arguing would only end in her hanging up and cause more problems. And she wasn’t wrong. Not exactly, anyway. “You were leaving for Portugal, and the season is about to start up. We hadn’t even seen each other much since the vacation.”
“The romantic getaway where you invited your teammates?”
“The vacation we both decided would be better with friends,” I said, metering my words.
“You said it first.” Exhaustion laced her voice.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Well, you did,” she snapped. “I mean, what exactly happened? Because one second, we were all over each other. We were goals. Our pictures plastered on every magazine cover and sources were speculating about a wedding.”
“I never said anything about marriage. No, we. We never said anything about marriage.”
“No,” she admitted. “But you were crazy about me.”
I winced. I’d hurt her, and worse, I’d humiliated her. The tone of her voice made that much clear. For the first time that day, I didn’t focus on the sponsorships or the team, but Zoey. And what a fucking dick I’d been.
“We had a lot of fun.”
“And then what happened?”
I sighed, pushing myself up from the couch and raking a hand through my hair as I paced. I glanced at the television screen and then the headphones. Rob’s angry voice echoed from the headphones thrown on the coffee table. “Honestly?”
“I think you owe me that much.”
I exhaled, wincing at the words before they even came out, well aware I’d either make this situation much worse or much better.
“Once the photographers were gone and our friends, what did we have?” The silence on the other end of the line wasn’t accompanied by a dial tone, so I pressed on. “You’re great. The sex was great. The jetting between our lives was fun and exciting. But when it was just us…”
“We didn’t have anything in common.” She huffed. “Everything was more exciting with a crowd. It was a moment.”
I relaxed. At least I hadn’t made the call worse. “I am sorry, though. The post wasn’t about you, but that doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean to blindside you or make you look bad.”
“I was mad. And maybe had a few too many lunch margaritas with that journalist.”
“Happens to the best of us,” I sighed. “I’m sorry I hurt you and I wish you only the best.”
“You, too, Diego.”
Zoey wouldn’t walk back the quote. As little as we knew about each other in five months of dating, I knew that much. I’d be navigating bad publicity until the football season went well enough or bad enough to move the focus off our breakup. But the faint whiff of anxiety lingering at the back of my mind since I read the news article eased away.