Second Down Fake (Norwalk Breakers Book 2)

1. Diego

Sweat poured down my face.The salty ocean air mixed with the tequila seeping out my pores, and the smell made me nauseous.

“Christ, Salazar,” my trainer said as he threw a towel at me. “Did you sleep in a distillery?”

I wiped off my face, jogging off the field and collapsing onto the bench set up on the sideline. “Long night.”

“Certainly smells like it.”

“You can’t give me shit. Pre-season doesn’t start for a few more days.”

He shook his head and left me to regret my life”s decisions. I didn’t blame him. While the players and staff trickled back into the stadium for another season of Norwalk Breakers football, I’d been making increasingly bad decisions. Last night, that bad decision took the form of going out to a club with my wide receiver, Trent Vogt.

Going out just a few days before pre-season was already a bad idea, but with Trent? Disastrous. The guy had a busted liver and an incredible ability to attract trouble. And, if he couldn’t find trouble, he made it himself.

But I didn’t have a good reason to say no. Worse, I wanted a reason to say yes. My latest relationship had ended with the football season, and besides a brief visit back home, I’d been kicking around Norwalk, bored and a bit lonely. With the rookies focused on impressing the Breakers’ coaching staff and the veteran players trickling back to Virginia, Trent had been my only friend up for some fun.

My phone chirped in my duffel bag, and I fished it out, squinting at the screen in the mid-afternoon sun.

JAMES

Page Six

Cosmo

TMZ

A random list of publications flooded the screen, capped by a more ominous message.

JAMES

Coach wants to see you. Today. Three. Stop embarrassing me.

Baffled, I navigated to my missed call log and found that texts hadn’t been his first point of contact. I quickly called him back.

James Easton kept a small cadre of football players on his client list, but he monetized the hell out of us. Brand deals, ambassadorships, merchandising, James provided a boutique agent experience. He also negotiated one hell of an NFL contract. Pissing him off wasn’t in my pre-season plans.

“Oh, you’re calling me now? So you know how badly you fucked up?” James’ clipped voice greeted me within two rings.

“Um, not even a little,” I confessed. “I’ve been strength training and fending off a hangover all morning.”

He sighed audibly. “Well, I hope you had fun because you started a shit storm with your ex last night.”

The snippets of memory I had from the night before included a little dancing and a lot of drinking. Nothing to do with my ex. “I’m lost.”

“Well, you can catch up on pretty much any gossip site. Coach Simmons’ office. Three. Don’t be late.” He disconnected without a goodbye.

I sifted through my bag, pulling on a pair of sunglasses before taking his advice.

Actress Zoey Meyer calls ex-boyfriend, Diego Salazar, quarterback for the Norwalk Breakers, ‘immature’ and ‘a clout chaser’.

My stomach dropped. We hadn’t so much as seen each other in months. After an awkward post-season vacation, our relationship had been all but over.

And maybe we didn’t officially break up until earlier that week when she’d called me from a film set in Portugal, but we hadn’t texted in two weeks. Hadn’t talked in a month. We both knew our relationship was over. Or at least, I thought we both did.

Reluctantly, I clicked the link for the full article.

Meyer, filming in Portugal after a whirlwind season following the Norwalk Breakers and its star quarterback, recounts their breakup.

“As soon as the season was over, and the constant attention from the press died out, he vanished. I called him after not hearing from him for a week, and he said he wanted to break up. Fine. But then he’s posting online that he’s ‘finally free,’ as if he hadn’t ghosted me for months.”

I grimaced at the picture below the quote. My social media page. My name with a green check mark beside it. A picture at the club. I sat on a couch, my arms over the back and flanked by two women on each side. I held a bottle of tequila in one and a half-empty drink in the other. My eyelids drooped, and I wore a goofy ass drunk smile on my face. And the caption below read, “Free at Last!!!!”

And I knew the asshole who typed those words. Trent Vogt. I scanned the rest of the article.

We’ve reached out to Salazar for a statement on his recent social media posts but received no reply as of publication.

Bullshit. Based on the four-hour old timestamp, the reporter had just taken the quote and raced to publish it. And who wouldn’t? A juicy story where Hollywood’s sweetheart had her heart stomped by an NFL quarterback. I could already predict the backlash.

At least that explained James’ panic. Giant athletic wear brands didn’t offer multi-million-dollar endorsement deals to athletes who had a legion of superfans calling for their head on a spike.

And Zoey’s rabid fans would definitely call for my head on a spike.

Of course, the post hadn’t been directed at Zoey at all, but my long-time trainer, Becca, who’d taken a job in New England. A gallows humor joke I didn’t especially find funny, but Trent, with his middle school level of humor, kept repeating.

Becca had kept me on a tight leash, and while I appreciated her work, her training had separated me from the team. Or, more accurately, partying with the team.

Reflexively, I dialed Zoey’s number with a vague notion that maybe the quote had been taken out of context. Possible. Not likely, but possible. But the immediate sound of an electronic voice asking me to leave a message told me she’d blocked my number.

Perfect.

With each passing minute, my panic mounted, and I turned to my only other outlet. I dialed Trent.

“What the fuck, Trent!” I yelled into his voicemail, sure he’d never hear it. The guy was probably still passed out, naked in some girl’s apartment without a care in the world.

I hung up the phone and threw my head back, pressing my palm to my head to fend off a mounting headache. Yelling at Trent would have made me feel better, but realistically, wouldn’t fix anything.

I had a half-hour before my meeting with Coach Simmons to shower and come up with an apology that would get me out of hot water. With the team and my sponsors, at least. I grabbed my bag and pushed myself up, trudging inside.

When I walked into the locker room, the conversations between my teammates stopped.

“My niece called me this morning to let me know you’re an asshole,” Lucas said, breaking the silence as he stepped out of the showers, white towel slung low around his hips and a shit-eating grin on his face. “She wanted me to tell you that to your face.”

“Let her know I said thanks,” I bit out with a grimace. Not a great reception from my teammates, but probably the reaction I’d be enjoying out in public for the next week, until someone fucked up worse than me.

I didn’t need to be loved, but I certainly liked it. An underdog college football prospect who fumbled into a top-tier program almost by accident, thrown onto the national stage by not one but two injuries. I’d gone into my red-shirt sophomore season with all the analysts expecting me to lose my starting position to an upstart freshman or a previously injured player.

Instead, a soft-spoken trainer had showed up at my dorm room, asking whether I wanted to sulk all summer or if I wanted to clinch my spot in the starting lineup. Obviously, I was a starter.

And I’d had a meteoric rise since. A national championship and a first-round draft pick onto a new, upstart team. We’d been chipping our way toward the Super Bowl for five seasons now, and I didn’t want anything upsetting that progress, certainly not by pissing off my head coach or the fans.

But that trainer abandoned me for a promotion and an address closer to her hometown. And now I was in shit because she’d left me unsupervised for all of a week.

“Trent!” I yelled as my teammate attempted to slink out of my eyesight on his way to the offices. “Seriously, man? I go out with you one night and I get called into the head coach’s office!”

He looked a mess, dirty blond hair disheveled, dark bags under his eyes, and as I drew nearer, the stink of alcohol lingering. He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, Diego. I thought you had a training session until four. Didn’t think I’d run into you.”

“I bet you didn’t. What the hell? Why’d you have my phone?”

The edge of lips jerked up in a grin. “You gave it to me.”

“To hold, dumbass. So I wouldn’t send any embarrassing texts!”

Lucas barked out a laugh. “You trusted Trent? That’s really your fault, then, isn’t it?”

I glared in his direction before turning back to Trent. “How the hell did you even unlock my phone?”

“It’s a square. We all know that,” Lucas interjected.

I turned on the kicker. “Am I having a conversation with you, Golder? You know, for someone who doesn’t say five words during the season, you sure do run your mouth a lot.”

Annoyingly, Lucas threw back his head and laughed.

“Fine, I’ll let you two brain trusts work it out. One last piece of advice though, next time, don’t go out without this one’s babysitter.” Lucas hooked a thumb at Trent and turned back to his locker.

“First off, Frank is with his family because his father’s sick and second, he’s not my babysitter,” Trent snapped.

A small surge of guilt ran through me. I’d only agreed to go out with Trent because he was the only person as aimless as me this offseason. His roomie and best friend had traveled back home. Frank would be back in a couple of days, but Trent didn’t thrive alone. Though, in the brief bits of memory I recovered from last night, being alone didn’t seem to be much of a problem for him.

“Anyway, Coach called me in. So it’s not as if I’m not getting an ass chewing, too.”

That didn’t make me feel better. As team captain and a leader, I was supposed to set the example. Not get dragged into the press with my teammate. And I had a couple of years of age on Trent and a shit ton of maturity. Lucas was right. I knew better.

“What time are you meeting him?” I asked.

He checked his wrist. “Five minutes ago.”

I rolled my eyes, and Trent shot me a salute before waltzing toward the offices.

A quick shower and I had time to kill before my meeting with Coach Simmons. I took a detour, walking through the trainer’s suite of offices. Becca’s door sat open, the contents of her cozy office now in boxes, the light on, though she wasn’t inside. A quick check of the empty break room, and I resigned myself to not catching Becca until later. I’d stop by on my way out to say bye before she officially left the team.

The move hadn’t taken me completely off guard. Becca was an exceptional trainer who could have taken a job from any team in the country. But her home was New England, and when a trainer spot for their team opened up, a promotion and a pay raise included, I couldn’t blame her for leaving.

Five minutes to three and I raked a hand through my hair as I stood in front of Coach Simmons’ office door, steeling myself before I knocked.

“Come in,” he said.

I opened the door into the head coach’s office only to find James, my agent, sitting across the mahogany desk from Coach Nathan Simmons.

“James,” I said, glaring at him as I sat. Even on a weekend, he wore a tailored suit, blond hair slicked back. “You didn’t warn me you’d be joining us.”

“This seemed like a conversation that could use my expertise.”

James’ expertise normally involved getting me the biggest payday possible, so I couldn’t exactly blame him for showing up. No offense to Coach Simmons, but his expertise was winning football games and not much else. Certainly not public relations disasters like the one I’d stirred up.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Coach asked, steepling his fingers and leaning across the desk. The guy couldn’t have been more than a decade older than me, barely thirty-five, but depending on his facial expressions, could look anywhere from twenty to sixty. His forehead furrowed, eyes narrowed, clearly annoyed. Unlike James, he hadn’t dressed up for the occasion, sporting the same khaki-golf shirt combo he wore for practice.

“I’m well aware I screwed up.”

Besides telling an interviewer what a shit boyfriend I was, my ex had also liked multiple posts that alluded to the same opinion. Or outright stated it.

“What you’re probably not aware of is the fact I’ve fielded nearly a dozen calls this morning, not about our team’s pre-season, but for a statement about your off-field actions.”

I grimaced. “I wasn’t, but I want to apologize for my post last night.”

Coach Simmons’ hire as head coach ruffled a lot of feathers. He’d come in on a storm of controversy in the college football world, and half the first season’s fans had only tuned in to find out if he’d blow his shot in the pro league by continuing his college antics.

He hadn’t. If anything, he’d come onto the field a completely changed man. Not regarding his football genius. That was still intact. But the rumors and gossip that surrounded him faded to nothing. He’d given the press nothing about his life. Nothing other than a winning football team.

“I spoke to Trent. He’s on thin ice already,” he continued. “I’ve turned a blind eye to your…extracurriculars. I’m not doing that anymore.”

I glanced over at James, hoping for some support. He kept his eyes glued on the coach.

Coach Simmons sat back in his seat. “I don’t need distractions on this team. Not even from my starting quarterback. If you want to have your name in the tabloids, you can do it on another team.”

I blinked, stunned. “Excuse me?”

I’d just signed a five-year contract. Getting rid of me would be a financial nightmare, not to mention a logistical one. With my four seasons in the NFL, I was still fresh blood. No offense to my backup, but he’d played in the league for nearly a decade before I went pro. Our third string was just out of college and didn’t have the chops. Not now, anyway. Sure, being a starting quarterback never came with a guarantee, but my position was pretty damn close.

“You heard me.” He set his mouth in a firm line.

“Listen, the Zoey situation sucks. I get that. If I can get in touch with her, I’ll smooth it over.” The vague swell of panic morphed into a tide as the pressure behind my eyes pounded against my brain. “But it’s a misunderstanding. It’ll blow over. And you can’t be serious. I just signed a contract.”

“I’d break it.”

I pitched forward in my seat, panic gripping my throat. “You can’t do that. That would be up to the owner and the shareholders.”

Coach Simmons crossed his arms. His eyes narrowed. “I have their full support. This is my team and I’ll run it as I see fit. If you want to be an irreplaceable player, join another team.”

I looked at James. His eyes narrowed. Probably adding up his cut of my buyout and a contract with a new team. But I didn’t want another team. I wanted the Breakers.

“Understood.” I ground the word out.

“I hope so. I’m serious, Diego. You’re a great player, an excellent leader, but you aren’t the only person on this team. You aren’t even the most important person. I’m not dealing with bad press and drama all season. Get your shit together.”

He nodded, dismissing me. I pushed myself up and stalked out the door.