Second down fake norwalk.., p.3
Second Down Fake (Norwalk Breakers Book 2), page 3
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.
FOUR
CASSANDRA
Breaking the Breakers
Quarterback Diego Salazar’s latest ex, Hollywood A-lister Zoey Meyer, seems to have quieted down in the week after her bombshell interview where she publicly trashed Salazar. I have it on good authority that his “Finally Free” post had nothing to do with Meyer, but that hasn’t stopped Meyer fans from piling on Salazar.
I sighed, turning my phone screen off and picking myself off the couch. Becca and Cal only left a day ago, but already the apartment felt cold and lonely. I unpacked the two suitcases amongst the things they left behind.
While I needed the furniture, living in a house furnished by a car mechanic and a sports trainer didn’t exactly fit my aesthetic. I moved the weight set into the spare room and cleared the bookshelf of anything having to do with internals, car or human.
I dug into the tray of Oreos on the coffee table, stuffing one in my mouth, my eyes locked on the phone. I hadn’t spent the last five years stalking Diego. An occasional Internet search, sure, but only out of morbid curiosity rather than any form of jealousy or longing. I’d relegated my night with Diego as a pleasant memory, one that would easily fall apart if we spent any more time together.
He hadn’t been wrong when he’d guessed I had avoided him. While he was playing in Alabama and I was living in New England, it’d been easy enough. Then he showed up in my hometown. Not to see me, of course, or at least, I’d never tested that theory. He came back to Becca for off-season training following an injury, and I ran away. First to a spare room in Boston and then a couch in San Diego, convinced the memory of our time together was better without a reunion.
And judging by the impressively long list of exes that Diego had racked up in the intervening years, I had no reason to believe he’d thought twice about me.
I grabbed the cookies and stood up, stuffing them into a cabinet before I hoovered the entire bag. I needed to get out of the apartment, and since I hadn’t explored Norwalk yet, now would be the perfect time to start. It’s not like I could spend the next three months lying on Becca’s couch obsessing over Diego. Not without money for food, anyway.
Unlike my older sister who collected diplomas like stamps, I had a high school diploma, a resume the length of my arm, and a lot of charisma, which wouldn’t get me health care or a pension, but made it easy to put money in my pocket. If I stuck around a town long enough, I might have made my way up to management, but I preferred holding a bunch of small jobs rather than a single big one.
And in Norwalk, the bar scene was hot, and the inhabitants had plenty of disposable income. If I could slide into a good bar, I could make bank. Or enough to justify hanging out in Virginia for a few months, anyway.
Thankfully, I was nearly as thirsty as I was snacky. I walked away from the kitchen and into my bedroom, sifting through the open suitcase for an outfit that said both, “I’m here to have fun,” and “I can also handle myself in a packed bar.” I settled on a plain black dress that hugged my curves, showed a lot of leg, and was stretchy enough to maneuver out of the way of handsy patrons.
The salt air mixed with the oppressive humidity made my skin an odd combination of clammy and sweaty. As I stepped outside, I immediately regretted not choosing a more breathable fabric. But the downtown bar district was just a few blocks away from Becca’s apartment. Hopefully, I wouldn’t be a puddle of salt water by the time I ducked into a bar.
I walked past the high-rise businesses that surrounded Becca’s apartment building. The streets flooded with women in blazers and men in suits as workers funneled out of their cubicles. The migration made me queasy, my mind flitting back to New Hampshire and the earnest way my mom had offered to send me back to college. I didn’t mind the offer, but the brief glimpse of disappointment in her eyes nearly broke me. Made me glad to run away to Virginia for a thousand miles of space between a family that loved me deeply and didn’t understand me at all.
The bright gleaming metal and window gave way to cobbled streets and brick buildings, remnants of Norwalk’s colonial past. The fake lanterns and intricate wooden signs bespoke rich patrons and wide-eyed tourists. Big tippers and potential.
Of course, the historic district also didn’t have “help wanted” signs on the windows, but luckily, bartenders weren’t exactly the most dependable employees. Me included.
I’d combed through reviews the night before, settling on a top five list of bars. With a couple of hours before the evening crowds picked up, I hoped to charm a manager into hiring me for an open position.
I aimed for the first name on my list. The Crown & Copper. The drinks were pricey, the music was live, and with a rotating menu of specialty drinks, at least I wouldn’t get bored. My fingers gripped the gilded copper pull on the wooden door when my phone vibrated against my hip.
I dropped my hand, pulling out the phone, surprised to see Diego’s name on the screen. I frowned, eyes skittering back to the empty bar before answering the call.
“Who is this?” I asked, wrapping my free arm around my waist and leaning against the column by the door.
“Uh,” he paused. “Diego?”
“Diego…?”
“Salazar.” The confusion dropped from his voice, replaced with mild scolding.
I bit back a grin. “Oh, right. Diego. Sorry, most of the guys I give my number to aren’t quite as eager as you. Haven’t you heard of the forty-eight-hour rule? Or does that not apply to football players?”
“Doesn’t apply. Half of us can’t count that high.”
“Two days, but I love the enthusiasm. You went five years without talking to me before.”
“That wasn’t for lack of trying.” His voice pitched low and seductive. My cheeks burned at his words, and I pushed off the column, pacing along the sidewalk to loosen the grip his words had on my chest.
“What are you doing calling me on a Thursday night, anyway?” I cleared my throat. “Don’t you have some fancy football parties to attend or, I don’t know, a yacht to carouse on?”
“I have practice tomorrow, so no. I’m sitting alone at home wondering how my favorite sports trainer’s sister is doing in Norwalk.”
I grinned. “Job hunting, so not great.”
“Job hunting? It’s almost dinner.”
“It’s also the perfect time to catch a manager at a bar. They’re open, but it’ll be quiet for another hour or so. I’m hoping to charm someone into employing me.”
Diego scoffed. “Where are you applying?”
“Anywhere that will take me, if I’m honest,” I sighed. “But I’m at the Crown & Copper to start.”
“I know the place. The drinks are great.”
“Which means they need great bartenders, and I just so happen to be one.”
“Is that a fact?” he asked, a bemused tone to his voice that made my stomach flip.
“Once I get a job, I’ll have you come for a drink and find out.” I winced at my flirtatiousness, well aware I was being overeager. “Any chance you want to come out for a drink? After I’m done making the rounds, of course.”
The deafening silence over the other end of the line made my stomach flip in an entirely different way. I’d come on too strong, which wasn’t exactly my style, but apparently, around Diego, I couldn’t help myself. Which was exactly the reason I had avoided him for the last five years.
“I’ve got an early practice tomorrow, or I would.”
“Right, of course,” I forced a smile.
“But I actually called to see if you wanted to hang out soon. Maybe on my day off?”
“You get days off? I’m shocked.”
“I had an entire month off, but you missed that. Training camp is wrapping up and then pre-season starts, so I go back to Tuesdays off.”
“Wow, Tuesday? What kind of fun can you have on a Tuesday night?”
“Not to sound like a conspiracy theorist, but I’m pretty sure they schedule our day off specifically so we can’t have fun.”
“Well,” I pitched my voice lower. “Good thing I know where all the Tuesday night raves are.”
He chuckled. “I’d love to hear how you plugged into the local rave culture so quickly. How about Tuesday? I’ll show you around town and you can tell me all your secrets.”
“It’s going to take more than a tour around Norwalk to find out all my secrets.”
“Good. Then I’ll have an excuse to keep seeing you.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, glad I hadn’t completely turned him off with my enthusiasm. He was the only person I knew in Norwalk, and I could use a friend since dating probably wasn’t in the cards.
“Is ten too early?”
Okay, dating definitely wasn’t in the cards.
Dates didn’t happen at ten in the morning unless they were a holdover from the night before. I brushed away the faint flutter of disappointment when, really, Diego was doing me a favor. Foxy pro quarterbacks didn’t date girls like me. Guys with questionable jobs and girlfriends dated girls like me.
“Nope. That sounds perfect. Where should we meet?”
“I’ll pick you up,” he said, his voice slightly distant, distracted almost. Clearly, I’d worn out my welcome.
“Great. See you then!” I hurried to hang up the phone when Diego’s voice stopped me.
“Hey, when you go inside, ask for David.”
“David? In the bar?”
“Yeah, he’s the manager. I told him to expect you.”
“While we were on the phone?” I asked. “Wait, you know the manager?”
He laughed. “I know the owner. Congrats on the new job! We’ll celebrate on Tuesday.”
FIVE
DIEGO
I sank into a fluffy pink beanbag chair on Rob’s living room floor. The tea party set in front of me didn’t distract me from the flood of notifications on my phone.
“This shit was supposed to die down,” I grumbled at yet another headline speculating about Zoey’s sudden silence.
“You can’t say ‘shit’,” Mila, Rob’s daughter, replied as she brushed out her doll’s hair in front of me. “Only daddy can say shit.”
She dropped the doll and her eyes widened as she turned in horror toward Rob.
“It’s fine,” Rob said with a wave of his hand. Unlike the rest of us, Rob got a free pass from sitting on the floor and playing tea party. “And Diego can say it, too. It’s an adult word.”
“It’s an adult word for adult conversations,” Noa, the Breaker’s center and Rob’s best friend, said as he carried a tiny tea set into the room, balancing the pale pastel cups and saucers on a metal tray. The set rattled as he lowered himself to the floor. The small pastel chairs around the table would never support his nearly 300 pounds of muscle, but he sat crisscross in front of the table with unnatural ease. “Some tea, my lady?”
Mila nodded, eyes alight, as Noa carefully poured “tea” into a cup.
“Mr. Salazar, would you like a cup?” Mila asked.
“I’d love a cup,” I said with a sigh, my eyes glued to my phone. I hadn’t planned to spend the afternoon playing tea with a six-year-old, but the gossip machine had been quiet and rather than die away, my breakup with Zoey had snowballed online. “There’s even a hashtag now. Diego Drama.”
Rob snorted, turning the page of the book in his hand. “They couldn’t come up with something more clever than that?”
“You’re not helping,” I said.
“No phones are allowed at the tea party,” Mila tapped my forearm.
“Diego Sycophant?” Noa said with a grin.
“Dickbag Salazar?” Rob countered.
“You’re not helping.” I pocketed my phone and picked up the green cup in front of me.
“I’ve got it! Diego Star-Fu—” Rob said.
“No name calling at my tea party!” Mila’s tiara wobbled on her head as she stood up from the table, glaring at her father.
He set down the book on his lap and looked at her with a chagrined smile. “Sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to interrupt your tea party.”
Mila glared at him as she sat back down. Noa poured the stuffed bear sitting to her right a cup of tea and inquired about the weather, which seemed to calm the kid down.
