Page 49 of Not Just a Trick Play

Rani, with the down-low on everyone who’s anyone, whispers that they’re tight with the Titans’ owner. The one with the brooding expression and dark hair that probably has its own fan club is Zach Forrester, of the Forrester & Sons empire—think Harrods, but with a New York swagger.

His companion, Luke Kingston, is effortlessly charming, with an easy smile and Kryptonite-green eyes that miss nothing. He exudes the kind of confidence that says he’s used to getting exactly what he wants.

Moments before kickoff, the energy in the room shifts, almost imperceptibly. People straighten, conversations taper off into silence. Noah Winters has arrived, and suddenly it’s as if the world’s swayed a little, gravitating toward him. He’s got this aura that commands attention—dark hair, eyes that don’t just pierce, they dissect. Magnetism oozes from his pores, luring bodies close even when caution would advise otherwise.

He nods at his friends before conferring with Jessica. Their exchange is brief—a simple “All set?” met with a confident “Was there any doubt?” It’s clear these two speak the same high-stakes language.

He gives a nod, sharp as the cut of his suit, and examines us. “Your latest minions?”

“My latest mentees,” she corrects smoothly. One by one, we’re introduced. When it’s my turn, I stand a little taller. “Noah, meet Amelia Stevens. She’ll be helping us for a few months.”

“Ah, yes. Jake’s handiwork.”

My polite, rehearsed greeting dies on my tongue. What does he know about me? But I’m saved from having to respond when two more men walk in and greet Noah, drawing his attention away from us.

As the game commences, I migrate to the suite’s quieter rear and covertly snag a handful of KitKats from the children’s snack area, eyes trained on the emerald expanse of the field below. The players, now specks of gold and white, move in an exhibit of organized chaos, their performance both precise and frenetic.

Noah, flanked by a few of the other sponsors, has staked out a spot by the window, all laser-focused on the unfolding action. They’re riveted by the match, allowing us a quick breather as the clock ticks on. Partway into the match, drinks are dwindling. I scan the room. It’s devoid of staff.

After wiping my hands on the edges of my skirt, I straighten my name badge, take a deep breath, and plunge into the fray. An argument is in progress. Something about a replay involving the quarterback’s performance in the last game. They must be talking about Logan Barnes? I’m still trying to get the players and their positions straight.

“Gentlemen, may I offer you refills?” I interject during a pause in the debate.

Zach requests one more whiskey, and Luke opts for another Heineken.

I’m two steps into my grand escape when I hear a “Hang on a second.”

I pivot, smile fixed in place, and Zach beckons me closer. As I re-approach, he says, “Amelia works for the team. Let’s see what she thinks.”

Oh, the horror.

A cold sweat breaks out, and I mentally shuffle through my catalog of responses. Keep it together. “By all means. Can I help you with anything?” Anything, I silently plead, from your choice of beverage to hypothetical murder plots, anything but the knotty intricacies of American football.

“We’re trying to settle a dispute—last game. That play at the end of the second quarter where they called Barnes for intentional grounding. Fair or BS?”

I paste on a grin that I hope doesn’t look as panicked as I feel. Although I’d sat through rerun after rerun of that game as part of my YouTube crash course, I’ve retained nothing beyond noticing Jake’s ability to weave past defenders who could double as refrigerators. Desperate, I scramble for any recollection of this “intentional grounding” business. “Um, well, I think it depends on the circumstances,” I prevaricate.

Noah, who’s been quiet, taking the backstage, arches an eyebrow. Bollocks, he’s overheard. “And what circumstances would those be?”

Blast it. “Intentional grounding, you say? I suppose that would be…when the quarterback purposefully…er…plants the ball into the ground, rather like…” I’m floundering, and the barely concealed grins confirm I’m botching this.

He tilts his head. “Based on your accent, may I presume you’re not too familiar with our superior version of football?”

Cocky git. Though I guess he can afford to be, given he owns the team.

“Well, on my side of the pond, football is rather different. We fancy a game played solely with thefeet, where playerswrangle a wonderfullyround, black-and-whiteball. It’s quite logical,” I say with a bit of cheek.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Jessica’s hawk-like gaze. Blast it, I’m about to get sacked. Quickly, I offer Noah a sheepish grin, adding, “But I assure you, I am thoroughly educating myself on the finer points of the sport. An avid fan in the making, promise.” I thump my chest for dramatic effect. A tad too hard.

I’m mid-retreat when Jessica glides over to me. “Amelia. While your British enthusiasm adds a refreshing element, let’snot forget that as a representative of the Titans, you are an ambassador for the team and expected to know the game. I trust you’ll take this into consideration in time for the next event?”

Her velvet-coated words are not a suggestion—it’s a survival tip. And then she pirouettes away in those Louboutin heels, leaving me in a haze of Chanel No. 5.

Then, the stadium erupts, swallowing up my worries in an explosion of whoops and applause. The game’s over, and even though Noah’s grin of triumph is subtle, I breathe easier. Surely, in the bubble of victory, our awkward chat is as good as forgotten.

But, as an extra precaution, I slap on the charm as the celebratory mood engulfs the suite, chatting up sponsors, nodding and smiling, steering any conversations away from football and onto the noble cause that is Nurture NYC.

I dole out high fives to the kids and ferry about glasses of champagne and sparkling grape juice amidst the buzz of post-game chatter.

---