“But the whole thing is ridiculous,” Rob continued, voice lower this time. “What exactly were you supposed to gain dating Zoey? Tickets to the Oscars? Who cares?”

  “Exactly.” I picked up a tiny ceramic teacup at Mila’s hard stare. “I could get to the Oscars, with or without Zoey.”

  “Maybe don’t say that in an interview,” Noa said. “Besides, why are you tracking the hashtag? You know better.”

  He had a point. The press had been a faint background noise in my career since college. A perpetual buzzing that never entirely stopped but didn’t bother me, either. Even when the coverage expanded to my dating life, I dated women savvy around the press and upfront about their limits. I tagged along on scheduled pap walks and “candid” dinner dates, accepting all the carefully curated “drama” from those dates.

  But Zoey’s interview had invited a whole new type of scrutiny. Not about my gameplay or my romantic life, but about me. Who I was as a person. And most of it was pretty nasty.

  Like a car wreck, I couldn’t force myself to look away. My earlier “controversies” had been tame: underage drinking, late night parties, and the occasional make-out session with a starlet. Nothing that lasted longer than a few days.

  This just seemed to keep getting bigger. More messy.

  “James wants to keep track of what’s going on online so we can come up with a game plan for how to stop the chatter before the season starts.”

  Rob barked out a laugh. “Isn’t that what you pay him for? Why the hell are you tracking the hashtag?”

  I turned away from Rob, focusing on Noa, the person I’d actually came to for advice. Rob had been an unpleasant addition, thanks to a standing tea party. Which, while annoying, was the reason I wanted to talk to Noa. He had a habit of not disappointing people.

  “Can’t you just throw Trent under the bus? He’s the fu…” Rob paused mid-sentence, eyes gliding to his daughter. “He’s the duck up in this situation.”

  “You don’t throw your teammates under the bus,” Noa said gravely. Mila mirrored his expression, shaking her head ominously as she stood with the bear’s teacup in her hand, carrying it to her father.

  I’d certainly considered that tactic, but, then again, I’d also attended the media training days Rob skipped. Blaming someone else wouldn’t get me out of this mess. Only silence, time, and a highly targeted PR campaign could do that.

  “Or maybe try dating someone who doesn’t have a movie deal?” Rob took a small sip from the teacup with a plastered on smile that looked unnatural on the linebacker’s face.

  “Yeah, I don’t think dating is going to get me out of this mess. Besides, my track record with girlfriends during the regular season hasn’t been great.” I looked at Noa for support.

  He shrugged. “It’s not the worst idea Rob’s come up with.”

  “Sure,” I agreed. “But it’s not good. Can you imagine the optics? I break up with Zoey and a week later, there’s some other girl in her seat?”

  “The type of woman I’m talking about couldn’t afford Zoey’s box seats,” Rob said.

  “Not helpful. Besides, dating someone to prove I’m not a shitty boyfriend only makes me a doubly shitty boyfriend. It’s a dumb idea.”

  “Hey, I’m just spit balling,” Rob shrugged, nonplussed by the insult. “You came to my house looking for advice.”

  “Advice from Kweame, not you. He’s the only adult on the team.”

  Rob closed his book with a frown. “I’m an adult.”

  “Fine. An adult that gives good advice when it comes to dealing with the press.”

  “The press love me.”

  “No, the Norwalk Animal Shelter loves you. Everyone else thinks you’re a di—” I stopped short as Noa’s eyes widened, jetting to Mila. “You’re not very friendly.”

  Rob’s ability to answer all post-game questions with a single word and a withering glare whittled down his interviews to a breezy three minutes. Unlike mine, which often dragged past the hour mark. He trained most of the press to be too terrified to ask him many questions. And the new ones, well, they learned quick enough.

  “Daddy is friendly,” Mila piped up. “Well, to me, and Noa. Maybe not to you, Diego.”

  She frowned sympathetically, leaning over the table to pat my knee. She had a point. Rob barely tolerated my presence, or anyone else’s, for that matter.

  “Kweame, I need advice,” I said, diverting the conversation away from Rob and back to my problem. The entire reason I’d driven to Rob’s house.

  “I say you lie low, keep your head down. This will pass. Just give it time.”

  “We need to spin this.” James Easton placed two hands on his giant mahogany desk, his mouth set in a frown that miraculously didn’t mar his skin. “We’re getting calls from sponsors. Angry calls.”

  James could handle Coach Simmons’ disappointment, but the second the real money got involved, he turned hot. Which is what I paid the man for. He’d taken a projected first-round draft pick and turned it into a hefty payday, though not only through my NFL contract but so many sponsorships that a fan could wear, eat, and drink only Diego Salazar branded products.

  “I apologized to Zoey.”

  He sighed, his arms straining against his custom-tailored suit as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But did she tell the press? Did she call back that reporter? No. She’s been radio silent.”

  I shrugged. “What do you want me to do? Force her to put out a statement? I’m telling you, that won’t end how you want it to.”

  He pushed himself away from his desk, trudging over to his rolling bar in the corner of the expansive office. He poured amber liquid out of a crystal decanter, notably not offering me a glass, and downed the drink in a single gulp. “This year is huge for us, Diego. Huge. The Breakers have a legitimate run at the Super Bowl. You’ve got some key contracts set to expire in October and we can leverage them into a much bigger deal this round. These are giant paychecks, and I don’t want you fucking them up with your personal life.”

  I suppressed a snort. “Well, some of us need to have a personal life.”

  He glared at me. And for all I knew, James had a family with seven kids. Or he lived alone in a high-rise apartment. For the last four years, he’d been on-call seemingly at all hours of the day and night with no personal obligations. I’d never heard so much as another voice on the other end of the line when I’d called him.

  “I have a personal life, thank you. I’m just capable of keeping it separate from my professional life.” He stiffened, taking a breath before returning to his desk. He placed his fingertips on a plain brown manila envelope and slid it across the desk. “Now, I’ve taken this to our public relations firm for input and we came up with a list of ways to move the focus off your breakup and back onto the field.”

  I leaned forward and took the envelope, ripping open the top and pulling out the three-prong-folder with a glossy front cover. I flipped through the article titles and gossip columns to the end. Scanning through the list of potential solutions, I stopped at the last. “A new girlfriend?”

  “Not someone as flashy as Zoey. We don’t want to drum up any love triangle, revenge dating drama. Just someone who can crush the rumors…”

  “That I date women for clout?” I rolled my eyes, closing the folder and setting it back on the desk. “Rob had the same suggestion. And I just had to have a tea party with his kid. What’d this firm cost?”

  “Plenty, but there are a few good ones in there. If you’re positive Zoey won’t come back with a second interview, I say we just hire an online reputation management firm to drive down the worst of the stuff online. In a couple of weeks, it’ll be gone.”

  “How much will that cost?”

  James shrugged. “A lot to anyone else.”

  I rubbed my eyebrow, wishing he’d had offered me a drink.

  “How about this? We see where we are in a week. If you’re still center stage, I hire the firm. If it’s blown over, we don’t talk about this again and you get me to handle your next break up.” He sighed. “But I need you to keep yourself out of trouble this season. I’m taking on a few more clients and now that you’re an NFL veteran, I shouldn’t have to handhold you that much.”

  “If you wanted an easy client, you should have taken on another Noa.”

  “Noa doesn’t sign sponsorship deals like you, and you know it. And I’m not asking for me. I’m asking because I don’t want you getting traded next season.”

  “Do you honestly think the team would allow that?”

  James shrugged. “I’m not privy to those conversations. What I do know is that Coach Simmons has successfully rehabbed his image in the eyes of the owner and been given carte blanche to run the team as long as he keeps banking wins. And I know he’s been clear that it’s done as a team, not with single individuals. There are at least three top-tier college players coming into the next draft, and if he wanted to make a point, he would. So, unless you’re dying to test his influence or ready to relocate, I suggest you watch yourself this season.”

  I gave James a fake salute and pushed myself out of my seat. “I’m on my best behavior. No parties. No drama.”

  “No Trent!” James added.

  “Except at practice. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s three in the afternoon. How much trouble could I get in?”

  “You tell me.”

  SIX

  DIEGO

  I pulled up 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.”

 

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