Page 12 of Not Just a Trick Play

“ESPN’s already running the story non-stop and even the New York Times has mentioned it.” Dan says.

Must be a slow news day.

Coach peers down at his phone. “Barely hours online, and the photo’s gotten millions of likes and reposts and comments. Who are these freaks who don’t sleep?” He flicks at the screen, his frown growing with every swipe.

The urge to rip it out of his hand and throw it against the wall is almost overwhelming, but the last thing I need is some mention of anger management issues tacked on to this shitshow.

“His fans,” Jessica remarks. “An Etsy shop’s already cashing in on the frenzy, offering mugs with that photo for pre-order. I hear business is booming.”

Coach snorts. “Great, now our fans can enjoy their coffee with a view of your morning wood.”

Dan’s eyes take on a scheming glint. “Maybe we should demand a cut. Or produce some of our own.”

A fresh wave of irritation washes over me, and I spear him with a glare. He doesn’t need twenty percent of my fuckup.

“Do you want to explain to Noah why his beloved football team is hawking kink cups?” Jessica responds, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “I mean, he’s always looking to diversify, so who knows? He might even thank Jake.”

I frown. Noah Winters, billionaire owner of the Titans, and occasional poker adversary. We like to think we’re his favorite business—that’s saying a lot, given he probably has a hundred ventures.

“Fine, then let’s sue. It’s revenge porn. Defamation of character,” Dan says.

“I’ve already spoken to our lawyers,” Jessica responds.

“I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal. Hell, I’ve been in underwear commercials before,” I point out, a little more defensively now.

“Calvin Klein ads are practically a rite of passage. Players in handcuffs? Not so much.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not that bad,” I insist. The next player with a DUI or a steroid scandal, and this will be ancient history.

She shrugs. “It wouldn’t be. This is New York City. Everyone’s got their thing. I don’t give a damn what you do in private, but anything that affects the team? Then I care.”

“I still don’t get it,” I mutter petulantly.

“There’s more.”

Something in her tone fills me with dread.

“The board of Nurture NYC called. They’ve asked us to suspend prep on the end-of-season charity gala we host for them.”

“What? Why?” I bolt to my feet.

“They have concerns the close association with the team will do more harm than good to their mission.”

Jessica’s words hit hard, and my chest tightens. Nurture NYC.

I lobbied for the Titans to become a major sponsor right after my rookie year. But the connection runs deeper—the charity isn’t just another obligation, it’s part of my heritage. Dad was raised in the Nurture NYC foster care system. His experiences there transformed him; his journey from a beneficiary of their kindness to its staunchest supporter is a story that has shaped all our lives.

When he died, Mom took on his cause, serving on the board until she was sure it was in good hands, stepping down to spend more time with the grandkids a couple of months ago.

I can’t even begin to imagine her disappointment and embarrassment if she was still involved and then had to pull the plug on the gala thanks to her son’s antics, and am glad to be spared that.

I glance down at my lap. Shame coats my skin at the knowledge that I may have damaged Dad’s legacy and harmed the cause Mom’s dedicated so much of her life to.

“But the gala—we need all the funding we can get.”

Jessica raises a brow, unbothered. “The funds won’t be a problem if you suck up to Noah.”

I wince at the suggestion. Sure, he could cover the gala’s financial targets in seconds, presumably taking a chunk out of my pay to make a point. And that’s fine by me. “It’s not just about cash. We need to raise awareness. Keep up the momentum. Money alone isn’t enough. The charity needs the publicity.”

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