6. Diego
I pulledup to Becca’s apartment complex. Cassandra’s, rather.
Becca and Cal rented a cozy, little one-bedroom condo with a view of the ocean in the distance only a few blocks from the stadium. I parked in the garage and took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, knocking on the door and suddenly aware that I’d come empty-handed. A bottle of wine. A housewarming gift. Flowers.
No, not flowers.
Between James’ warning and Cassandra’s reaction to asking for her number, flowers would be a disaster. Better I came only offering friendship.
I knocked on her door.
“Hey! You’re here!” She opened the door with a smile, wearing a faded pair of jeans slung low on her waist and a skimpy green tank top that revealed a band of tanned skin with a white sweater large enough to slide off her shoulder. “I’m not quite ready. Come on in.”
“We said three.” I brushed past her as I entered, picking up on the scent of something sweet and light. Like a candy store or a birthday cake.
“I figured you’d call from the parking lot. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d ever been over here.”
“Once or twice,” I admitted. “Cal warmed up to me. Or, at least, he didn’t have anyone else to hang out with, and we’d go out for drinks or I’d come over for dinner.”
She grinned. “So, this is a pattern for you? Tricking transplants from New Hampshire into being your friend?”
“Maybe,” I laughed. “I mean, it seems to work for me. How are you settling in?”
I took a slow walk around the living room, noting the new pictures placed by the TV and not much else. Becca had cleared away everything except the furniture and Cassie hadn’t done much with the place other than the pictures. “So, not staying long?”
“Until the lease runs out, and then…” She shrugged. “I’m not really sure.”
“But you have a job?” I asked with a grin.
Lucas might have been one of the best kickers in the league, but his passion was as far away from the field as humanly possible. He’d dabbled in stocks, gambling, art, and now, real estate. Bars, more specifically. The onslaught of celebrity liquor brands and restaurant chains had drawn him to downtown Norwalk, and as soon as Cassandra uttered the name of his flagship bar, I’d shot him a text.
“Two, actually, but thanks for making a call for me. Easiest interview ever.”
“The manager interviewed you?” I raised an eyebrow.
“David asked how I knew Lucas. I told him I knew Diego and that was the end of the interview. I’ve had some great friends, Diego, but none that got me a job in the span of ten minutes.”
I shrugged, slaking off the warmth growing in my belly at her smile. “It’s not a big deal. Lucas is always whining about not having enough help, and I bet you’re a killer bartender.”
She grabbed her purse off the side table by the door and shrugged. “I’m a decent bartender. I’m a better conversationalist. But between picking up some shifts at the bar and the walking tours, I should be able to feed myself.”
“Walking tours?” I followed her into the hallway, pausing as she locked up the apartment.
“Yeah, I worked with a company in Boston that just opened up a branch here. History and ghost tours, mostly. In Boston, I could host a tour every night of the week, but there are fewer tourists in Norwalk. I’m just filling in.” She rushed the words, almost apologetic.
“Sounds like a fun job.”
She laughed to herself. “It’s interesting. Sort of like being an actor without ever going to an audition. So, what are we doing?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Have you ever played disc golf before?”
She pulled her keys from the door with a laugh. “Disc golf? No. Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” I said, walking to the elevator. “The only thing I’m better at than football is disc golf.”
“Aren’t rich people supposed to play regular golf? I always got the impression that frisbee golf was for the…” Her eyes darted around the empty hallway before she leaned in conspiratorially. “The poors. Shouldn’t you have custom clubs forged out of pure gold and lessons by Tiger Woods?”
“Shit, regular golf!” I smacked my palm to my forehead. “I got one gold frisbee and Tiger wouldn’t return my calls.”
“Sad.” She shook her head slowly.
We walked down to the parking lot in comfortable silence, my eyes flitting toward her anytime she looked away.
Cassandra had been gorgeous in college. Head-turning. I’d spotted her at a crowded party in an instant and couldn’t keep my eyes away from her the rest of the night. And the years had only added to that beauty.
Any residual awkward gawkiness from young adulthood had melted away long ago. And despite my inability to stop checking her out every five seconds, eyes darting between the thin band of exposed skin on her torso and the gentle curve of her shoulder when her sweater fell down and the way her jeans molded to her ass, her looks weren’t the top reason I couldn’t go a more than a day without calling her.
The single night we’d met before she moved to Norwalk, she’d had a playful exuberance. An earnest enthusiasm that somehow hadn’t disappeared since college. That night, she’d reminded me of what my life was like before football. Before everything involved competition and discipline.
Even four years later, I could already feel myself getting drunk on that feeling. Wanting to capture it and keep it with me. Keep her with me. Which, considering my current controversy with my ex and a long-standing professional relationship with Cassandra’s sister, should scare me far, far away.
“Wow, what happened to your Range Rover?” Cassandra asked as I stopped in front of my car. “Did you ditch that and pull out the big guns for me?”
“Oh, the Range Rover isn’t mine. That’s a teammate’s.” I opened the passenger door to my Tahoe, the car I’d received my freshman year of college.
“So, you were kicking a teammate’s car?” She stifled a laugh. “The teammate who wrote ‘finally free?’”
“Trent, and yes.” I opened the passenger door so Cassandra could slide inside. I propped my hand on the roof, leaning in. “But don’t worry, this car hasn’t broken down yet. You’re probably safe.”
“Didn’t you just sign some disgustingly huge contract?” she teased.
I closed the door behind her. Even my agent, James, teased me mercilessly about the car. But, the 2003 SUV had been a gift from my mother in high school, and I couldn’t stomach getting rid of it.
With so much inconsistency, constantly changing schools and coaches and teams, I had to hold on to something and the Tahoe had been it.
“I like this car. It’s comfortable and I’ve already dinged the hell out of it, so I don’t get mad if someone kicks it in a parking lot,” I said, sliding into the driver’s seat and turning the key. The car purred to life. Alright, maybe purr wasn’t the word. Rumbled. Coughed. Seized slightly.
“Makes sense. Particularly since I’ve noticed a spate of hulking men kicking cars in parking garages since I’ve moved here.” She shifted in her seat, pulling her leg up and knocking open the center console. “What’s this?”
She dropped her leg to the ground and opened up the cover, pulling out a bag of Twizzlers from inside. “Did I just stumble on your secret junk food stash?”
I shut the console. “I have no idea how those got there.”
“So, you won’t mind if I grab a few?” Cassandra slipped her hand over mine, prying it away and opening the top again. “Do you have anything else in there? Any better snacks?”
“Better snacks? That’s impossible.”
“Oh, it’s not. Maybe some Sour Patch Kids or something with chocolate.”
“Chocolate melts in the center console.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so you’ve tried that? Does your dietician know you’re sneaking sweets on car rides? I don’t listen to Becca all that often, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be on a strict diet during the football season.”
“Are you going to narc on me?” I asked, putting the car into reverse while Cassandra raided my snack stash.
She didn’t answer as she took out two Twizzlers, handing me one while digging through the bottom of the bin. “Oh, spice drops! I haven’t had those since my Nana died. Which color is your favorite?”
“Black,” I answered immediately.
Her nose scrunched. “Licorice? Who hurt you?”
“Black licorice is amazing. It’s so good.”
“It’s barely candy, like when people sneak zucchini into muffins. It’s a punishment pretending to be a treat.” She sifted through the bag, pulling out a handful of red drops and handing me a lone black one.
“Well, as long as you’re taking the cinnamon ones.”
“The best ones?”
“The most boring ones. Who likes cinnamon?”
“All the best people. People with taste.”
“You didn’t even ask how long those spice drops have been in my car. I’m not sure you’re an arbiter of taste.”
“You haven’t even seen my snack stash. You can’t judge.”
“Fair. Next time, we’ll take your car and I’ll house your snacks while you drive me around,” I said with a grin.
Cassandra rolled her eyes, popping a red spice drop into her mouth. “At least I’ll offer you some halfway decent candy.”
We pulled up to the mostly empty park. In the distance, people walked and ran around the path circling the lake. From the car, the disc golf course looked empty, and I sighed in relief.
“Is this it?” Cassandra asked, returning the candy to my center console.
“It’s a pretty exclusive course. You’re lucky I got us a tee time.” I parked the car and pushed open the door.
Cassandra stretched her arms over her head as she stood up from the car. My eyes wandered down to her exposed stomach, trying to remember the words she’d used to describe herself that winter night five years ago.
Soft. Mushy. No, squishy. There hadn’t been anything squishy about Cassandra. Soft, definitely. Not squishy.
“So, is there a pro shop where I can rent out some discs?” she asked, dropping her arms and giving me an amused grin.
I popped the trunk and pulled out a duffel bag. “I have you covered.”
Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I gestured for Cassandra to follow me to the first hole.
“How did you get into this sport, anyway? Is ‘sport’ the right word? This hobby?”
“I’d call it a sport. There’s walking.”
“Ah,” she nodded. “Walking. Definitely a sport. So, how?”
“There aren’t many options for football players. My contract keeps me from playing anything with even the faint whiff of injury.”
“What was that I heard about a windsurfing accident two years ago?” she asked with a grin.
I raked a hand through my hair before setting down the bag. “Not my finest moment. I was still new and thought I could get away with the same things I did in college. And then I nearly blew a multimillion-dollar contract, so my agent and your sister bailed me out. I’m reformed.”
It’d been the first summer I spent in New Hampshire, training with Becca. I couldn’t risk staying in Norwalk. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, and I didn’t need the head coach to find out I had violated my contract during the off season. Instead, I’d reached out to the same woman who trained me in college. And then, I got her hired onto the team.
“She’s good at that, bailing people out,” Cassandra said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Especially handsome, cocky quarterbacks.”
“So, you think I’m handsome?” I fought back a grin.
“And cocky.”
“I’ll take that compliment.”
I gave Cassandra a brief rundown of the game. More of a hobby, really, but during football season, when my entire life was devoured by plays and press and games and the team, the disc golf course was my oasis. A place where I didn’t need to be competitive. I didn’t need to rely on anyone else. I could just play.
I opened my bag, ready to start playing.
“Did you buy out a disc store?” Cassandra asked, sinking down beside me to run her hand over the colorful discs.
“No. I just like to be prepared.”
“How many of these do you actually play with? Don’t you just need one?”
“Do you play golf with one club?” I sifted through the set and pulled out a bright green control driver, handing it to her. “These all have different purposes. What did you think was in the bag?”
She shrugged, taking the disc with a smile. “Beer?”
I grabbed a distance driver and stood on the tee pad, surveying the course.
Empty. Well, mostly.
On the eighth hole, a group of three kids in their late teens stood on the tee chatting. Their loud guffaws carried on the breeze, but they were far enough ahead not to bother us. Or recognize me.
The social media fervor seemed to have died down over the weekend, thanks in part to an A-list musician losing his shit on a first-class flight to Tahiti, but it hadn’t stopped.
Then, Zoey walked a red carpet, pointedly avoiding questions about our breakup with a pat, “no comment,” which renewed interest with a new angle. Now, she was framed as “rising above” my pettiness.
Not great. But, better than last week.
Still, I’d been careful to keep a low profile. I’d hung out at friends’ houses, tapped my assistant to run my errands, and mostly stayed at my house or the stadium.
“You okay?” Cassandra asked, resting her hand on my arm. “Do you know them?” She nodded toward the kids.
I shook my head. “No. Sorry. Getting in the zone.”
“Okay. Well, once you’re in the zone, we need to place some stakes on the game.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Stakes?”
“Yeah, just to keep it interesting. I don’t want to get bored beating you.”
I swallowed a belly laugh. “I play pretty much every day I can, and this is my home course. You really think you’re going to beat me?”
“Not outright, but if you give me a fair handicap, we can still make this fun. Or was that your game? You lure me out to your disc golf course and decimate me? That doesn’t sound very fair.”
“I wasn’t going to ‘decimate’ you. I was planning on impressing you with my amazing disc golf skills, so you’d say, ‘Oh Diego, teach me more disc golf so I can get as good as you someday.’” I pitched my voice into a false falsetto that made her laugh.
I liked that. I liked watching her cheeks grow red and her eyes sparkle. I liked the way they turned from a mossy green to almost emerald in the sunlight. And better than that, I liked the way her laugh made me feel. Like I’d actually done something besides poorly imitate her.