Page 108 of Not Just a Trick Play

The moment I reach her door, it swings open, and there she stands—breathtaking in red leggings and another of her band shirts. Relief floods me, washing away the lingering adrenaline of travel and the echo of yesterday’s loss. She’s here, she’s real, and nothing else matters.

Wordlessly, I tug her into my arms. Her hands wrap around my neck as I bury my head in her hair, breathing her in. Finally, I’m right where I’m supposed to be. For the first time in days, I’ve found my center again.

“I’m sorry about the game,” she whispers against my throat.

I draw back, sighing heavily. “You win some, you lose some.” I weave my fingers through her inky locks and tilt her head up.

There’s a weariness to her, dark circles ring her eyes. Even her cheeks have hollowed out.

The last few days have been a whirlwind of crap, with the relentless stream of bullshit photos plastered everywhere. Stupid captions like, “Alone in the Rain: Is this the end of #JAM?” Fuckers. And the even more idiotic, “Romance Rerouted: Amelia’s Tours Trump Titans’ Trip to the Playoffs.” As if her missing my game to actually, you know, be a dedicated professional doing her job defines the state of our relationship. If only they put half that effort into the real news.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she mumbles, but downcast lashes still veil her thoughts.

“You sure?”

She hesitates, then meets my gaze, swallowing. “Jake…it’s just…I missed you,” she rushes out. She draws my head down and presses her mouth to mine. I clasp her to me more fiercely.

Her lips tremble, but gradually, she softens in my arms and releases a shuddering breath as her shoulders relax.

I ease back to offer her a crooked smile. “Missed you too, Sweets. So much. And—bright side, I now have all this extra free time to hang with you.”

But when her features tighten again, I know she’s spiraling again and jump in to reassure her. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here. Tell me about the tours.”

She shrugs. “There’ve been a lot of requests for refunds… It’s been difficult with all the press taking over.”

She edges back a small step, but that tiny retreat might as well be miles.

Every fiber in me screams to erase the gap, close the distance, and haul her in my arms, but her shuttered expression halts me. My hands curl into fists at my sides, grappling with the frustration of not being able to protect her and an urge to go find the idiots who’ve ruined her tours and smash their faces in. The fact that I can’t do either makes me feel so fucking impotent.

“I’m sorry.” I mutter. “What about Gotham Guides?” Crap, in all the chaos of the game, I hadn’t even asked about it sooner, and guilt eats at me. “How did it go?”

She laughs bitterly. “How do you think?”

“Not well.” Yeah. State of the obvious, won’t you, dude? I clear my throat. “What happened?”

“They’ve decided against the partnership.”

“But why?” The question comes out, laced with disbelief.

Amelia looks at me as if I’m thick. “Well, it’s kind of hard to make a case for providing some family friendly activities when someone off to the side is asking detailed questions about my BDSM lifestyle.”

Ah, crap. “We’ll find you another investor,” I say, already going into fix-it mode.

“It’s not only that.” She swallows. “I’ve decided to give up the new flat. I won’t have a place here anymore.”

“Move in with me.”

She stands there, stunned, as if I’d suggested we relocate to Mars. My penthouse isn’t that bad, is it? Or maybe the problem is me.

Tears brim in her eyes, and I’m left floundering, trying to decipher the silent SOS she’s sending. “It’s not that simple,” she whispers, clearly holding back a flood.

“Why not? There’s something else you’re not telling me.” I wish she would lay it all out so we can fix things and move on.

“Yes. No.” Amelia visibly collects herself, squaring her shoulders. “I got a phone call. My grandmother.”

“Is she okay?” A million scenarios rush through my head. Illness? Accident?Worse?

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