32. Diego
I chuckedmy grass-stained jersey into the laundry basket with a grunt.
“You did all you could out there,” Frankie said. “Their offense was just too stout.”
The game was a nail-biter, and a last-minute field goal gave the opposing team the edge and gave us our first defeat in five games. Still in line for a championship run, but a frustrating loss.
“Salazar, Vigil, Cooper, post-game conference,” Coach Henson barked at us as she sailed through the locker room.
“You don’t want Rob?” Isiah Cooper laughed, nearly missing a swing by our star center.
“They know better than to let Rob go in after a loss,” Frankie laughed, wrapping an arm around me. “And don’t worry, big shot, I’ll field all the questions about why you threw rather than let me run.”
The Cleveland defense had jammed up all of our running backs, but Trent, asshole that he was, slipped between their linebackers with ease. But putting Trent and me onstage at the same time was asking for trouble with the press. Frankie was a mediating force and had charmed most of the reporters into lobbing softballs at him whenever he got tapped to take part in the post-game conference.
“Fifteen minutes.” Coach Henson tapped her watch before disappearing into a shuttered office in the back of the visiting team locker room.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the play-by-play texts Cassandra had sent with a grin.
Guess I needed my lucky charm in the stands.
Rather than follow me to Ohio, Cassandra stayed put in Norwalk, helping Becca move the last of her furniture up north. The move left Cassandra in an empty apartment and with no job. All the elements to move back to New Hampshire if she didn’t want to date me.
The thought made my stomach tight. The feeling almost as uncomfortable as when she’d considered taking a job she’d hate. But I trusted Noa and trusted his advice. If I wanted Cassandra in my life, she had to want to be there. She needed space to make that decision.
Our deal had been simple in the early weeks of the season: she faked being my girlfriend for the press. But somewhere along the way, I stopped faking and started believing it.
I loved Cassandra.
Whether she loved me back was a different question. She loved having sex with me, sure. She loved hanging out with me. But somehow, those two activities seemed to exist on different planes in her mind. She cleaved our relationship into separate parts, unwilling to merge them together until the contract was over.
CASSANDRA
Let me know when you’re on your flight back.
My chest tightened, hoping she wanted to know because she missed me. Maybe missed me like I missed her.
Need time to clean up all the hookers and blow?
CASSANDRA
I’m cooking dinner…and I have to kick out all the hookers and clean up all the blow. So, let me know. Good luck with the press conference. Who’s going in with you?
Frankie and Isiah.
Boring. Send in Rob!
I’ll let the staff know you’re interested in picking the players for post-games.
It might be my dream job! Hurry home.
I put away the phone with a smile on my face. In two more weeks, the contract would be over, and I could ask Cassandra to be with me, no strings attached. The dread of an impending press conference seeped away.
Isiah patted me on the back. “Well, you look pretty pleased. Let’s get in front of those reporters and wipe that smile off your face.”
* * *
I walked into my house, assaulted by a cloudy haze and the smell of burnt pepper. Music flooded the hallway, and I followed the sound into the kitchen.
Cassandra stood in front of the oven, conducting along to the beat with a spatula as the pan in front of her belched smoke.
“Everything okay in here?” I yelled.
She jolted, giving me a chagrined smile before turning down the song. “Hey, you’re home! Dinner’s not ready.”
“I thought you were joking…” I set my bag down and rounded the kitchen island.
For someone who couldn’t cook, she had an ambitious number of pans on the stove. A cast iron in the back bubbled with oil while one in the front held a lumpy flour mixture with uneven chunks of vegetables. I pressed the palm of my hand against her back and leaned over to inspect the dish. “It looks good.”
She laughed, pressing back against me and lifting an eyebrow in my direction. “Liar.”
“I can’t wait for you to tell me what you’re cooking.” I set my chin on her shoulder and wrapped my arms around her waist. Even with the fire alarm seconds from screeching, I could get used to having her in my house. Having her waiting for me at home.
“Country fried steak, green beans, and potatoes.” She mixed the burping flour mixture before slipping out of my arms. “Your mom said it was your favorite.”
Her cheeks turned red as she opened the fridge and emerged with two pieces of steak. “I’m not really sure what country gravy is, and I think I screwed it up.”
“It looks great.” I picked up a whisk, pushing aside the chunks of potato to incorporate the flour into the sauce. “You called my mom?”
Cassandra set the steak on the counter, opening the drawer underneath to grab a pair of tongs. “We chat. Does that bother you?”
“No. Not at all. Just surprised.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I should have known that Mom would fall for Cassandra as fast as I did.
“Well, she’ll probably stop answering my calls if she finds out how badly I butchered her recipe.” She picked up a steak with the tongs and lowered it into the pan of oil. The flour coating sizzled on contact, and she placed a splatter guard over the top.
“We’ll keep it our little secret.” I bounced against Cassandra’s shoulder with a grin.
Her smile faltered. “We keep a lot of secrets, don’t we?”
The observation cut through my teasing. “But not from each other.”
“We don’t?”
I shook my head. “Never from you.”
“Same.” The tension drained from her shoulders and the edge of her lips turned up.
“And in the interest of not keeping secrets from you, I have to tell you that the gravy goes on the meat and isn’t used to braise the potatoes and green beans.” I moved the green beans to the corner of the pan and fished out the potato chunks, setting them in a bowl on the counter. “I’m not sure what got lost in translation between you and my mom.”
“I might have been a little overconfident about understanding how to make this meal.”
“Well, that’s her fault. She’s seen you cook.”
“We were on the same page until she started talking about the gravy. I thought she meant turkey gravy. The conversation got real confusing after that. Apparently, there are fifty different types of gravy and I’ve been living in a world with only one. I’m pretty sure she’s planning on hosting a gravy tasting seminar next time we’re in Mississippi.”
I bit back a grin. Next time we’re in Mississippi.
“Good thing we’re knocking one gravy off the list tonight, then.” I grabbed a whisk from Cassandra’s side of the oven and stirred the gravy. Even with the vegetables gone, the lumps remained.
“I’m not sure if what I made is going to count,” Cassandra said slowly, clenching her jaw as she assessed the gravy.
“I can fix it,” I insisted, grabbing a sieve from under the counter and a second pan. “Hold this.”
She took the sieve, holding it up over the empty pan on the back eye of the stove. I drizzled the lumpy gravy into the sieve, taking the sieve back and pressing the gravy through with a wooden spatula. “All better.”
“As long as it tastes good.”
I swiped a finger over the bottom of the sieve and tasted it. “More pepper and it’s perfect. My mom will turn you into a cook yet.”
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, but I’m glad I’m not about to ruin your favorite meal.”
With the last steak cooked, we plated up dinner. Cassandra salvaged the green beans with a fried onion topping and I added enough butter and cheese to the potatoes to mask the aftertaste of gravy. For someone who burned an entire skillet of pancakes just a few weeks ago, the meal looked pretty good.
I took a pull of my beer and settled down next to Cassandra at the table, suddenly aware that I hadn’t actually sat at the table for a meal with anyone else since I’d moved into the house three years ago. I ate most of my meals at the kitchen counter, phone in my hand, or in the basement with the TV on.
“So, how’d I do?”
“It’s a good first start. I’m prepared to let you try as often as necessary until you nail it.” I grinned and Cassandra ducked her head, hiding a smile. “Is Becca’s apartment empty?”
She nodded. “Yep. She and Cal took off yesterday morning. We had fun. I took them out on a ghost tour. Cal loved it, Becca tolerated it.”
“That’s all you can really ask of her.”
“Isn’t it the truth?” Cassandra bit her bottom lip, running the tines of her fork through the gravy. “She found out about the job.”
“What about the job?”
“I turned it down.”
I kept my face impassive, my chest tightened, fear and relief mixing together uncomfortably. Cassandra didn’t have any other reason to stay now. “What’d she say?”
“She’s disappointed, but I’m sure I’ll get an earful about it once I get home.”
The holidays. Or at least, a holiday-centric bye week. New England had a brutal Christmas Day game, decimating any hopes of the players or staff being home for Christmas. Instead, they’d make do with a bye week the first week of December.
“When are you leaving?”
“The second.”
Two days after the contract ended. With no job and no contract, I didn’t have much time to convince her to stay.
“Have you bought a plane ticket yet?”
“Yeah,” she said, taking a long pull of her drink. “A budget airline and in coach. I booked it before I knew the magic of first class. It’ll be a painful return to normal life.”
“I’d be happy to upgrade it.” The offer was not at all in the spirit of Noa’s advice, but I couldn’t stop myself.
She chuckled. “No. I’m going to have to learn to fly with the peons again. Besides, I’m not sure there’s first class service to New Hampshire.”
“Well, there’s where you’re wrong,” I teased.
“And here I thought you just took a private jet up to the White Mountains.” Her shoulders relaxed as she picked up her fork again, a faint sadness crossing her face. “I can’t believe we have just one more game.”
One more game before I laid my heart on the line. One more game until I had Cassandra.
Or I didn’t.
I brushed her cheek with my thumb. “Then we better make it a good one.”