15. Diego
“I guessyour girl has a thing for me,” Trent crowed triumphantly, wrapping an arm around my shoulder.
I tossed the petrified water boy his phone as Trent pulled me back into the huddle.
Coach Simmons paused his speech, glaring at us both. I elbowed Trent in the ribs and slipped away, moving as far away from him as possible.
“You good?” Noa leaned close, his voice a low mumble.
“Yeah, fine.”
“Maybe it was the only jersey she had?” Noa offered weakly.
“Trent’s?” I growled.
Noa’s jersey? Yeah, I would have believed that. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Cassandra didn’t even own a jersey. And if she borrowed one from Lena, joining the cadre of Kweame fans in the stands, that wouldn’t have been a big deal.
But Trent? No, that was calculated. The gangly high schooler whose phone I swiped to text Cassandra had reluctantly asked for it back and I couldn’t read over the texts again. But the words burned into my brain, anyway.
Score some points and my feelings will probably change.
Despite my threats, I had no intention of taking video game access away from Cassandra, but if she wanted to play games, I could play games. And Trent could fuck right off if he thought he’d get a chance at the ball today.
I half-heartedly listened to the rest of the pep talk, my focus split between the game and the woman in the stands driving me crazy on the opening game of the season. Her face plastered on the big screen didn’t help matters.
When Coach Simmons ended his speech, his eyes stayed glued to mine, a frown forming on his face. “Salazar!”
“Yeah, coach?”
“I don’t know what that was but get it together. I want a big win today and everyone’s talking about our playoff shot, not whatever the hell is going on in the stands.”
“There’s nothing going on. Just Trent being Trent.”
Coach Simmons closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’d trade him if I could.”
“So, you can afford to trade me, but not him?”
“I know if you went to another team, you’d be a professional about it.”
The head coach only had a decade on me, but the deep furrows in his brow and hair graying along his temple reassured me I’d rather be on the field than the sidelines dealing with assholes like Trent and me all day.
“Well, don’t worry. We came here to play.”
He sighed, unconvinced, but dismissed me with a nod.
I lined up with my teammates on the sideline while the national anthem played. The camera panned across my face, so I kept my eyes on the field, on the singer, on the flag, anywhere but back in the stands. But with the stadium filled to capacity, the sidelines crammed with coaches, camera crews, and cheerleaders, the chaos made it impossible to pick out an individual in the crowd.
Maybe it was better that way. I drowned out the cheers, winning the coin toss and taking the ball. Time to score some points.
The first couple of plays, I probed the defense. Sure, we played the same teams year after year, and short of a coaching shake up or a complete overhaul of the team, nothing really changed. Plays, positions, energy. But not the core of their game. I ran a pitch pass to Frankie that netted us five yards. Then, a short throw to Jacob, our newest receiver, who might not have been quite as open as Trent was, but further downfield. Besides, Trent was still on my shit list.
On the fifth play of the drive, I found a weak spot in the front five, slipping past a tackle and taking the ball into the end zone. A thunderous cheer drowned out Trent whining about being open. I raced past him, ball in the air as I careened toward the sidelines.
I made it back onto the field four times before the half, twice more walking in a touchdown. Trent received exactly one throw. A throw he bobbled and ended up tackled trying to recover. Coach Simmons went after him so hard Trent didn’t have a chance to yell at me about his screw up.
The half crawled to a close, my focus half on the field, half on the stands. For the first time in forever, I missed the natural lag in college football attendance, how the students slipped out midway through the second quarter to grab a drink and relax by their tailgate, clearing the stadium so I could hear myself think and maybe glimpse a friend in the crowd.
NFL fans stayed glued to their seats right until halftime. Even in a blowout, which this game turned into, they paid good money for their tickets and didn’t have the extensive tailgates outside the stadium like college fans. So, even knowing her location, spotting Cassandra in that mass of people was near impossible. And anytime I made a move to swipe the water boy’s phone, a coach wanted to talk to me about a play or a player or a strategy for the next drive.
Pretending to date Cassandra was supposed to free me up to focus on football, but first game of the season and she’d already done the opposite. I bounced on the edge of the field, watching the defense on the field. The ball snapped, and Rob launched off the line of scrimmage. He sidestepped the offense’s center, aiming straight for the quarterback, and tackled him to the ground with a painful thud.
Whistle, cheers, end of the half.
Our defense jogged off the field, but I made a break for the stands. I scanned the crowd, tapping a security guard at the entrance to the field to let me by. The woman startled, eyes growing wider as I peeled off my jersey while she moved to let me pass.
Fans jumped on me immediately. The requests for autographs and souvenirs fell on deaf ears as I spotted Cassandra a few rows back, standing next to Lena and Mila. Catching my eye, she cocked her head. Jersey in my hand, I made my way through the stands to her.
“So, you scored some points,” Cassandra drawled lazily.
“Here,” I said, handing over the frankly disgusting jersey.
“Are we swapping?”
“If that gets you out of Trent’s number, yeah,” I said. “I’m gonna burn the one you’re wearing.”
She raised her eyebrows, fingers playing at the knot on her jersey, before untying it. She pulled Trent’s jersey off and replaced it with mine. Grass stains on the shoulder and mud on the torso, I still liked it a hell of a lot better than before.
“Do I look acceptable now?” she asked with a bemused grin.
“Gorgeous,” I muttered, meaning it more than I probably should. I wiped off a piece of turf from her shoulder and pushed back an errant lock of hair off her face.
“Liar. Now, wipe that frown off your face. We’re supposed to like each other, and people are looking.”
I kept my eyes locked on hers, ignoring the nagging feeling of being watched. Of course, we were being watched. I’d just run into the stands like a psycho midway through the game. “I do like you. And I like you a hell of a lot better when you’re in my jersey.”
She sucked in a breath and ran a hand over my side as she leaned closer. “Point taken.”
I leaned down, fully planning on a chaste kiss on her cheek.
For the press. For the fans. Definitely not for me.
Okay, maybe a little for me.
I wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me, the lingering scent of grass mixing with orange and clove. She pressed her hand against my chest as I dipped my head. Her green eyes fluttered closed, face relaxing, head tilted up expectantly. In a split-second decision, I changed my trajectory.
The stadium slipped away. The fans, the press, my teammates, the game. The impossibly soft, addictive lips of Cassandra Barton became the only thing that mattered. My body stilled, grip on her waist tightening, if only to have her a little closer. A little more mine.
She exhaled, pulling away and taking a shuddered breath before an uneasy smile bloomed on her face. “You should probably get back. Before they notice you’re missing.”
I loosened my grip on her waist with a laugh. “I’m pretty sure they know.”
* * *
I stood outside the press room with Frankie and Cole, waiting to be called inside.
“You guys do this every week?” Cole asked with a frown.
The four touchdowns I scored paled compared to the fourth quarter attempt by the opposing team’s receiver to score a touchdown. The receiver juked half a dozen players until only Cole stood between him and a touchdown. Cole leveled up to the guy, launching into the receiver’s midsection, only to be dragged for ten yards before taking him to the ground.
The impressive play by our punter had been the focus of our on-field attention. Whether Cassandra and I merited any off-field attention, I would find out inside.
Well, off-field attention from the press, anyway.
Coach Simmons had waited by the bleachers to yell about my failings as a quarterback and a team captain on my way into the locker room. I’d probably get a fine from the league and definitely spend next week getting dragged via physically exhausting drills. But my game play made it impossible to bench me.
I’d come out alright.
“I only have these press conferences every other week,” Frankie said with a laugh. “Apparently, it was my turn since Diego didn’t throw to Trent. So strange how he couldn’t get open, huh?”
“A real mystery,” I muttered.
The door to the press room opened, and I filed in between Frankie and Cole. Rows of reporters waited for us to sit as Coach Simmons slipped out of the room. A PR employee for the Breakers asked for questions and the room erupted.
“Cole, could you tell us what was going through your head during that play?”
Cole launched into an animated retelling of his play, and I settled into my seat, happy to have the attention elsewhere. The man was a natural born storyteller, so I settled back, laughing along with him.
After a string of questions all aimed at Cole with only one softball to me about how I liked our shot for the Super Bowl this year – good, always good – the PR employee called for one last question.
“Diego?”
Fuck.
Bill Chevok stood up, a forgettable, normal-looking reporter in his mid-40s who was anything but. He held a pad of paper and a pencil, an anachronism in the sea of tablets and cell phones. Unlike the other reporters, he came decked out in Breakers’ gear. The Norwalk Times didn’t bother pretending not to root for the team, even while Bill interviewed us like he planned to run an expose.
He’d calmed down a little after Rob threatened to break his nose last season. Rob ended up with a hefty fine and issuing a public apology for the gaffe, but Bill kept his habit of pretending to lob a softball question only to throw a hook.
“Just after halftime, you went into the stands and somehow lost your jersey. Would you care to comment on that?”
I leaned toward the microphone, eyes trained on Bill. “No.”
“I just ask because there’s a rumor circulating that the lady you gave the jersey to is the sister of your former trainer. Barton.” He tapped his pen against his cheek as if Becca’s name wasn’t on the tip of his tongue. “Rebecca.”
He leafed through a page of his notebook. “And her sister’s name is Cassandra.”
I tensed at her name in his mouth. “No comment.”
“One more question: after your recent break up, will another girlfriend prove a distraction on the path to the Super Bowl?”
I worked my jaw when Frankie cut in with a laugh. “The entire team is focused on making our first Super Bowl appearance this year, Diego most of all. He’s played for this team for four seasons and no one who practices with him has any question about his commitment. Now, does anyone have a question for me? I only ran two touchdowns. Don’t trip over yourselves to ask me anything. I’m prepared to stay up here all night if need be.”
“I think that’s enough questions for one day,” the PR rep cut in, nodding at us to leave.
So, they had Cassandra’s name. Of course they did. If they hadn’t figured it out themselves, James would have provided it to them. Becca and I had sat down for a couple of interviews over the years, so dating her sister would provide reporters a fun fluff piece to cap off their game coverage. And Cassandra had signed the contract. She knew the terms. Still, I hadn’t expected the way my stomach would twist or the vague sense of unease at having a stranger say her name like they knew her.
I pushed through the doors, out of the conference room and into the hallway. A quick stop to grab the duffel bag I’d stashed, I avoided the lingering reporters exiting the locker room. I’d had enough for one day. Instead, I headed to the conference room where the player’s friends and family waited. Where Cassandra waited.
Mila caught me at the door, bumping into my knees. A disappointed frown that reminded me of her father crossed her face. “Where’s Dad?”
“He wasn’t in the press conference,” I shrugged. Not exactly a surprise. Rob treated all interviews like interrogations. “I’m sure he’s just scaring away a couple of reporters before he meets you out here. What’d you think of the game?”
“Lena bought me an ice cream and Cassie told a mean guy to die mad,” Mila enthused.
“That was supposed to be a secret,” Cassandra said gently, squeezing Mila’s shoulder.
She’d twisted her hair up into a messy bun but still wore my jersey. My chest constricted as my mind zipped straight to the kiss.
“Dad says I can’t keep secrets,” Mila said somberly. “Only surprises.”
Cassandra suppressed a grin. “Oh, okay. Then it’s a surprise. When he asks if you want dessert tonight, surprise! You already had it and you learned something new to say to mean people.”
“Dad!” Mila shouted, jetting off as Rob walked into the room.
“Should I sneak out before she spills?” Cassandra asked, ribbing me as she slid closer.
I wrapped an arm around her waist, almost subconsciously searching for a way to get her closer. Her eyes slanted up at me, but she didn’t move away. “I don’t know. How much ice cream did you feed her?”
“She dropped her first one…well, the cone anyway, so I had to buy a second.”
“Oh, yeah, we should definitely split. Grant’s gonna have a fit.”
“Bye Mila, thanks for hanging out with me!” Cassandra waved as I guided her to the door. “Bye, Lena!”
“So, what’d you think?” I asked as we emerged into the back entrance to the Breakers’ office building and into the team parking deck.
On a weekday, I could identify every single car in the lot, but on game days, anyone with a tag took advantage of the security-controlled parking and the entrance away from the stadium parking lots. I guided her to my car.
“The tailgate was a blast. The game was interesting.” She drug out the last word with a grin. I opened the passenger door, and she paused, squaring up with me from the other side. “So, real talk. How mad were you when you saw my jersey?”
“Pretty pissed,” I admitted. “You made Trent very happy, though.”
“Until you stopped throwing him the ball?” She quirked up an eyebrow, and my gaze slid down to her lips.
“I was just breaking in some new receivers.”
I’d get an earful tomorrow from Coach Simmons and the receivers’ coach about boxing Trent out of any passes. But Trent would get over it. Eventually.
“He didn’t have anything to do with my jersey.”
Relief mixed with exasperation. “Please tell me you didn’t buy his jersey.”
“Maybe I found it in Becca’s stuff.” Cassandra winked.
“Liar. Becca would never.” I rounded the car. “And you know I can’t strip for you every game, you know.”
She frowned, scrunching up her nose. “Sad. The other fans really liked it.”
“I bet they did,” I mumbled as I slipped into the car. Cassandra already had the console open, Sour Patch Kids on her lap. “I’m taking you back to my place so you’ll eat something besides all the candy in my car.”
“I have food at my place.”
“And I can give you a couple of jerseys. My jerseys.”
“You keep a stock of jerseys at your house? Did I not get the complete tour? Is there a Diego Salazar museum that I missed? Complete with a gift shop?”
“My assistant keeps some merchandise in the spare bedroom for me to sign and send to fans, thank you.”
“Your memorabilia is in the sex spare bedroom? That’s pretty warped, Diego.”
I rolled my eyes and started the car. “If you’re going to be difficult, I’ll just drop you off at home and you can wash that one to wear for the next game. No video games for you.”
The edge of her lips pulled up. “Alright, take me back to your place, then.”