Page 48 of Not Just a Trick Play

Naturally, I can’t resist that little opening. “You are right. Iamnice.”

“And I’m not?”

The challenge in her tone ignites something reckless within me. Dropping my voice, I lean in closer. “Not so nice after what you said on Saturday. One-star, really?”

Her eyes dart around the room, her composed façade flickering as she checks for eavesdroppers. “I stand by my review,” she asserts with a firmness that almost convinces. “Also, I’m friends with your sister and that ‘incident’ was a one-time thing—that no one can know about.” Her gaze sharpens, a clear boundary set. “Plus, staff’s not supposed to get involved with players, and I’m not risking this job. You’re going to have to live with your one-star for now.”

“For now, hmm?” I murmur, latching onto her words, a hint of playfulness in my tone. “So, not forever…”

She doesn’t contradict me, and my grin widens. Patience might just pay off. “No constructive criticism in the meantime?”

“Maybe consult a book,” she tosses out the suggestion. Then, with a cheeky tilt of her head toward my hand, face alight with mischief, she adds, “Or perhaps some self-study?”

I chuckle at that. “I suppose it will have to do.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

AMELIA

Overnight,my life’s taken over by the Skybox Sponsorship and becomes a series of meetings and deadlines and branding collateral as we drum up publicity for the campaign.

It’s a living, breathing marketing machine, and I’m a cog along for the ride, playing catch-up as I try to learn the intricacies of a sport resembling a toddler’s interpretation of rugby.

This, I reckon, is how Americans must feel when trying to decipher the mysteries of cricket. It’s like cramming for the world’s oddest exam but not able to absorb a thing which leaves me slightly terrified of being sacked my first week. Though I hope not before I get paid because thanks to Terri’s friend’s roommate’s brother’s decision to spend a semester in Croatia, I’m now the proud resident of a fourth-floor flat in the Financial District through the new year.

I’m also tasked with preparing talking points on Nurture NYC, an assignment that thankfully seems less arcane, and assigned the running of a new dedicated social media account for the sponsorship and populating it with shots of the players interspersed with information about the foundation.

This, at least, justifies the daily swooning sessions, although I do try to keep it all business. Still, it’s difficult to suppress the odd churning in my stomach whenever a colleague singles out Jake.

Instead of their fawning cementing my resolve to focus on the importance of the here and now of my job, my brain’s concocting gut-wrenching scenes of him boosting his one-star status with another woman straightaway, rather than holding out for that vague “not forever” possibility he left dangling—the one I didn’t dismiss. Not that it matters if he does move on. I should, too. Yvonne’s right. There’s a plethora of choices in New York. I have no need to fixate on one. Like she said, the best way to get over someone is to get on top of someone else. Many someone elses.

As if that wasn’t enough, messages from Gran await—obliquely asking when I’ll be returning—that I fob off. Eventually, though, the weight of family duty has me trudging through a backlog of notifications before switching to the inn’s social media accounts.

Thumbing through the inn’s Instagram feels as if I’m flipping through an old photo album—comforting and suffocating all at once. It would be easy to return, slip back into the well-worn routine of a life that never quite fit the way I wanted it to.

That temptation lasts exactly until I scroll into it. Ben and Margo. Big giant stupid ring. On the front lawn ofmyfamily’s inn. I grit my teeth, kill the app, and a cue up a YouTube video titled “Ten Things You Need to Know About Football.”

In no time,game day arrives, and the colossal stadium comes to life. Hours before the main event, people trickle in. First appearing in the massive parking lot to engage in tailgating—a truly American custom that involves drinking warm beer from the boot of a car—fans make their way through the concourse and concession stands, before filling the rows upon rows of seats.

My nerves are on edge as I meticulously inspect the sponsorship suite, making sure everything is in order before the guests show up.

We arranged the enormous space in three levels with floor to ceiling windows that overlook the broad side of the field. The topmost level, closest to the doors, is for the buffet and bar. A step down is for mingling. The lowest tier has a couple of rows of comfortable seats with open areas on either side.

I confer with the waitstaff, ticking off items on my to-do list, one by one.

Food and drinks? Check.

Swag bags crammed full of goodies for the sponsors and children? Check.

Information pamphlets on Nurture NYC? Check.

Life-sized, overly muscular Teddy the Titan cardboard cutout for obligatory photo ops? Ridiculous, yet check.

The thermostat reads seventy degrees Fahrenheit. Google translates this to a more logical twenty-two Celsius. Acceptable.

A half hour before the game is scheduled, the room fills up with the internal team and other guests. Jessica chats with a few of the VIPs while Margie oversees Terry, Rani, and me as we welcome representatives from Nurture NYC and their charges—a lively group of ten children, ranging from tiny tots to almost-teenagers. The air buzzes with their energy, a cacophony of giggles and questions bouncing off the walls.

Two gorgeous men join us, in suits that could have come bespoke off of Jermyn Street.

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