Page 105 of Not Just a Trick Play

The Gotham Guides team retreats, taking with them the last embers of my dream. The press, sensing no more drama, backs off. The ensuing silence is deafening, echoing louder than all their questions combined.

The headsets are anvils in my hands, a tangible measure of defeat. And as tears threaten, I think of the irony. Today was supposed to be the first day of my new life. Instead, here I am, with hardly an option to return to the old one.

I drop the equipment at home, the urge to collapse into bed strong.

But restlessness wins out. I’m too wound up to stay put, too tangled in my thoughts of what went wrong.

I head back outside and walk.

And keep walking.

The city swirls by in a monochrome blur, its usual delights dulled and distant as I wander aimlessly. The world is speeding by while I’m paused, stuck in a slow-motion replay of today’s mishaps.

The shrill ring of my phone alarm slices through my daze—the game. I’m miles from where I started.

I slip into a Midtown sports bar like a shadow. Without ESPN at home, this public setting is my reluctant viewing arena.

The place is a hive of cheers and chatter, awash with Titans jerseys. I stick out, still in my RhythmRoutes uniform.

As I approach the counter, a stool miraculously frees up—the first stroke of luck I’ve had all day. I clamber onto it, right in front of a large telly. I ask for mineral water. The bartender raises an eyebrow but says nothing. On a whim, I add an order of chicken wings. That should help me blend in. They sit untouched.

Around me, Titans fans buzz in excitement, dissecting the season’s highs and lows. The TV booms with the voices of commentators analyzing the vying teams’ records, their predictions punctuated by vibrant clips of players in action.

Every inch of the room vibrates with the energy of the crowd, their collective pulse racing as the clock ticks down to 6 p.m.

As the hour strikes, the bar erupts—a symphony of clinking glasses and shouted chants. On screen, the Titans burst onto the field, a riot of color and muscle.

There’s Jake, number sixty-nine. a vision of power and grace, the star running back.

As the National Anthem echoes through the air, the camera lingers on him for a moment before widening to include the entire team. Still, my focus is on him alone.

Memories bubble in. That cheeky grin as I unlocked his handcuffs. Peering up as he tied my shoe like a real-life Prince Charming, and then completely outdoing that image by showing up as Willy Wonka on Halloween.

He’s beautiful and kind and amazing. Watching him now, on the brink of another victory while I’m grappling with my own setback, is bittersweet.

I’m so proud to see him on the cusp of triumph, but it only highlights my own failures further, and I’m reminded of how different our lives are.

The game kicks off, pulling my attention to the present.

First Quarter: The Titans make a strong start. Touchdown. Field Goal. Up by ten.

Second Quarter: The intensity ramps up. Jake narrowly stays in bounds as he races down the sideline and dives into the corner of the end zone for another touchdown. The extra kick goes off the post. Not good. The bar buzzes with growing excitement and nervous energy.

Third Quarter: The Sabretooths push back hard. They complete a long drive for a touchdown and extra point. Then immediately score again off an interception. The kick is good. The Titan’s lead is cut to two.

Fourth quarter: Ninety seconds to go, the Titans are up by two. Logan hands the ball off to Jake, and in an instant, he’s a blur of sheer determination. He dodges a tackle, spins past another defender, sprinting down the field as the crowd’s roar swells to a crescendo.

Out of nowhere, a mountain of a man in Sabretooth red appears.

He slams into Jake. The impact is crushing, sending his head bouncing against the turf.

My heart lurches into my throat, lodging itself there as his helmet skids to a stop a few feet away.

The whistle blows. Logan and Hunter rush to Jake’s side, helping him stagger upright. Medical staff run out into the field.

“…doesn’t look good. Cunningham’s heading straight for the blue tent…” The commentator’s voice cuts through the haze of my shock.

On screen, Jake’s collision loops endlessly, assaulting me from every angle. Close-ups. Wide shots. Each replay is a fresh stab of fear.

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