Page 120 of Not Just a Trick Play

Everything in me revolts at the thought of him taking someone else to bed.

Tension coils in my shoulders, turning them into knots of discomfort. I tug at the manacles—once, twice, a third time. They only scrape my skin. I clench my fists tight, driving half-moons into my palms.

Drawing in a deep breath, I catch the lingering scent of Jake on the bedding. It’s an instant hit of calm. I greedily suck in more of that comfort, and mentally recite the digits of pi until I reach the tenth.

I continue to huff like a junkie as I switch to listing out my favorite sweets.

When I run out of those, I move on to belting out British hits from the last couple of decades.

Still, the silence feels heavier and heavier, closing in on me.

“Just shadows,” I mutter and keep at it—breathing, humming, singing, stuck in the space between worry and wishful thinking.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

JAKE

“You’ve reached Amelia Stevens.I’m unable?—”

Once more, I cut the call then try again, only to endure the maddening refrain for what feels like the thousandth time. I rake my fingers through my hair. Is she ghosting me? Screw it. I’m going to her place.

Desperation fuels me as I scan the street outside Mom’s. Among the parked cars, one cab idles at the far corner. Its “off duty” indicator is a glaring contradiction of the shadow lounging in the driver’s seat. Whatever. I barrel toward it and yank the door open with more force than necessary before flinging myself into the backseat.

The man upfront twists around. “Hey?—”

“Dude, I’m desperate. I need to get to my girl.” The knot in my stomach tightens with every second that ticks by.

After a long look, a reluctant nod follows. “Fine.”

Small victories. I’ll take them. “Fulton Street Station.”

The cab lurches into motion and the cityscape blurs into a messy wallpaper as I scramble to form some version of a “please don’t leave the country because of my momentary idiocy” apology. I’m better with actions, not words. Then a new thoughtparalyzes me—what if she’s already left? Fuck. My passport. “Wait!”

Brakes screech, sending me slamming forward. “Tribeca. We gotta go to Tribeca.”

A giant scowl finds me in the rearview mirror, but the taxi turns in the direction of our updated destination anyway while I stab at my phone for the next flight out.

As soon as we’re in front of my building, I’m halfway out of the car. “Hang on, I just need to grab something. I’ll be right back.”

The driver twists, skepticism etched on his face. “Buddy, I don’t do waiting gigs,” he mutters, clearly unamused by my erratic behavior.

Without hesitation, I dig into my wallet, pulling out every dollar I find and thrusting them at him. “Please, just wait.” The stack of bills rustles in the tense air between us. “I have more upstairs,” I tack on. Whatever it takes to sweeten the pot.

He eyeballs the money, then me. “You got five minutes, Romeo,” he concedes, grabbing the cash, though his expression still tells me he’s second-guessing his decision.

I nod, grateful, and dash out of the cab, pulse hammering as I tear through the lobby. For all I know, it’s already too late.

The ride to my penthouse is the longest journey of my life. Visions of what Amelia will do once I catch up with her race through my brain—she’d be well within her rights to tell me to fuck off and walk away after how I left her. A fresh burst of fear blooms in my gut.

But I’m not ready to give up. Not yet. I’ll do anything to win her back. And if she really wants to go to England and run her inn?

Deep breath. Fine. I’ll become the king of afternoon tea and scones if I have to. I love New York, my family, the Titans. But for Amelia? I’d swap the skyline for Stonehenge in a heartbeat.

There’s no reason I can’t learn to like the UK. Bet I’d be an awesome soccer player, too. I’m sure I can talk Noah into buying some Premier League team. Or even better, make the NFL a thing in Europe. They’d had a taste of those pre-season games, now I’ll deliver the full feast. If Beckham could turn soccer into an American dream, surely Cunningham can unleash some gridiron magic across the pond.

The panels part with a ding. I dash through my penthouse, grandiose plans of reclaiming my love while changing the face of international sports swirling in my head. That’s when a bizarre melody halts me mid-stride. It’s coming from my bedroom. Off-key. Is that the Spice Girls?

With a mix of caution and curiosity, I edge toward the source of the sound, my heartrate picking up with each step. The moment I push open the door, the humming cuts off and my world stops. There, in the middle of my bed, as if I’ve conjured her, is Amelia.

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