Page 27 of Not Just a Trick Play

However, the signs identify the monstrosity in front of me as the stadium for the New York Titans. A football team. American football, that is. Not that I’m any better suited for work related to the sport. My limited knowledge is career limiting in and of itself.

Adding to my dismay is a giant poster mounted to the side of the building featuring an oval-shaped ball—if you can call it that, since it looks more like a dinosaur egg.

The reptilian potato doesn’t bother me so much as the figure clutching it, who bears more than a passing resemblance to Jake Cunningham. Who is a football player. Unless his beaming smile implies he’s hawking toothpaste. Either is a possibility. Both make him a celebrity.

I groan. And I called him a porn star. But that was his own fault. No wonder he was talking about all the crazy celebrities in this city. He’s probably part of that circle.

I harrumph. Not that I could be blamed if the man didn’t correct me, let me go on rambling on, and having me think he lived with his mother. Though I suppose he could be living with her.

No matter, now’s not the time to dwell on it, but it’s hard to ignore the strange giddiness that adds to the cocktail in my belly as I enter, mixing with my nerves to create a confusing soup of outrage, anxiety, and a bizarre sense of anticipation.

At the reception desk, a bubbly woman who introduces herself as Sara takes my information then escorts me through the structure constructed around a massive field. She walks me past the concession stands and public loos to a bank of lifts. Despite my usual discomfort, the roomy interior makes the journey up tolerable.

In seconds, we’re in a corporate area with several glass-walled offices and conference rooms, informing me our destination overlooks the twenty-yard line. If there’s any proof the game is primitive, it’s the archaic use of the imperial system, long after the rest of the world has gone metric.

I nod, dumbstruck, as she points out framed photos of hall-of-famers and rattles off player stats as if they should meansomething. A large stuffed fellow whose name I’m told is Teddy the Titan sits in a corner.

Every fact and figure out of her mouth has me tensing further. Goodness, am I expected to know things? I keep a fake smile on my face and nod, meanwhile making mental notes to find a good resource on American football. After all, I’m a brave and brazen lass with access to YouTube.

As we pass other sharply dressed employees, I’m grateful for the gray business suit from Marks & Spencer I somehow had the foresight to pack, and though my Primark pumps fit the part, the pinch reminds me that my new existence has a price.

Finally, we enter a spacious room, empty but for a long oval table, fancy ergonomic chairs, and floor-to-ceiling windows that look over the aforementioned line.

Sara glances at her smartwatch and frowns. “Shoot. Ms. Murray’s running about fifteen minutes late, and I’m needed at another meeting. Will you be all right over here? Go ahead and look around.” She motions at the hallway we came through. “Restrooms are right behind us, and the small break room’s down the corridor to the left. Help yourself to whatever you want.”

When Sara leaves, I fidget with the pens on the table, the collection of miniature football stress balls, little keychains of Teddy. I peek outside at the field and watch bulky players bash into each other like cavemen fighting over a potato.

I check the time. Perhaps a spot of tea is in order? I follow Sara’s directions to the breakroom, which turns out to be anything but small.

Clusters of tables and chairs take up the center space while cozy settees and loungers line the walls. Numerous screens mounted on the ceilings are turned to sports channels, their volumes set to low.

A state-of-the-art coffee machine dominates the back wall, and to the right of it are see-through fridges stacked with water, sodas, energy drinks, and ice cream. On the other side is a long table of snacks, ranging from the healthy to the uber-junky. I detect a canister of Twizzlers—precisely what I need to stave off an impending panic attack.

Gran used to have me flip my bag and pockets inside out when I was younger to check for contraband. These days, I usually keep a few sweets handy, but I went through my stash when I was busy job hunting.

I run my fingers over the top of the red sticks, their plastic wrapping, and the subtle ridges soothing in their familiarity. Right as I’m about to pluck one from the bunch, I hear, “Thought I’d find you here.”

I yank my hand back and spin around, only for my eyes to crash into Jake’s. My pulse trips. His arms are folded over his chest, and a cocky grin plays on his lips.

“What do you have there?” His gaze dips to my fingers.

Somehow, I’ve come away with an entire fistful of Twizzlers. I drop them into the canister as if they are fiery red vipers. “I didn’t mean to take so many.”

“Sure,” he grins. “Just wanted a few, right?”

“Exactly. Sara said I could help myself.” I shrug. “Plus, who can resist sweets?”

He eyes me hotly. “Yes, who?”

Despite his words, I reckon he has no trouble saying no to sweets, judging by his solid form. White tights lovingly mold to his muscular thighs, and a gold jersey with shoulder pads straight from the eighties only accentuates his already broad chest, emblazoned with the number sixty-nine and his surname.No, not your average poster boy for dental hygiene.

All right then, time to address this not-a-porn-star situation. “You work here.”

He inclines his head, a hint of amusement on his face.

“And you’re an…athlete?”

“What gave it away?” Lethal. That smile of his is lethal. I try to school myself into something resembling disapproval, and even manage a little “tsk.”

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