Page 57 of Not Just a Trick Play

Jake taps his chin. “Hmmm… Isn’t that convenient? I happen to know someone who’s able to teach you all about football. Could totally get you into it.”

So cocky. But I eye him speculatively. He’s not wrong. If there’s anyone who could make the game interesting, it would be him. Either the idea has merit or the tea softened my brains, because my next words are, “I don’t know…”

His eyebrows shoot up, a flicker of surprise mingling with intrigue that I haven’t immediately shut him down.

He leans in, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. “Sometimes practical application is better than a book.” There’s that impish grin again. “I’d be open to pointers myself.”

Oh, that ridiculous one star review. I find myself laughing despite myself. The man is incorrigible. But as I catch the sparkle in his eyes—those green, green eyes—I let myself imagine it. Him. Me. Playbook sessions that could teach me more than football.

“It would mean spending time togethernow.” My emphasis on “now” is a reminder of our previous discussion about jumping headfirst into disasters.

His response comes with a hint of caution, but he’s clearly game. “It would.”

The ball’s firmly in my court. See? I’m already getting the hang of these sports metaphors.

“So, in essence, it would be a trade…” I muse aloud.

“A trade. Sure. We can call it that,” he agrees, his grin broadening. “We can call it whatever you want.”

“I can’t risk my job.” It’s more a warning to myself, but I lay out my objections, hoping he’ll help me tear them down.

The man is nothing if not obliging. “You won’t. In fact, you’ll get better at it. Think of all the things I can teach you.” His tone is light, but the sincerity in his gaze promises he’d never let this backfire on me.

And he makes a compelling point. I need this job. And I won’t keep it if I can’t tell the difference between a touchdown and a touchback.

“Yvonne?” I continue, throwing up my next concern.

“You don’t have to bring it up with Yvonne. This is no one else’s business but ours. This is a one-on-one arrangement.”

It better be. I’m not sharing him with anyone while this is going on. Our eyes lock, and my heart thuds audibly.Are we really doing this?That’s my silent question.

I’m willing if you are, is his unspoken response. His stare is hot, lighting me up from within.

“One-on-one, huh?” Am I about to cast caution to the wind and be someone’s secret again?

“Just between us,” he affirms.

“That means we’re going to have to work together. Closely.” Working, learning, surrendering—it’s all the same.

“So close…”

A thrill zips through me at his echoed words. One I quickly tamp down, because this is a situation I intend to keep firmly under my control. “But just until the end of the season, this ends when I’m done with the Titans.” I watch as the implications of my decision set in. “If we do this, we wouldn’t go out. No dates, no sleepovers.”

“No sleepovers,” he echoes.

“No one can know.” I glance around, noting the few convert glances still coming our way. “No more of this.” I gesture vaguely at our surroundings. “We’d keep things straightforward. Focus on the basics. Nothing complicated.”

He nods slowly. “No need for complicated. We can keep this bare bones. Simple, basic…football.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

JAKE

In the interestof keeping our “lessons” private, I rush Amelia out of the hotel. My car’s parked somewhere in the next galaxy, and I’m not risking her second-guessing this.

I spot a waiting courtesy car at the curb and hustle her into the back seat before jumping in after her. “Tribeca,” I tell the driver, not bothering with the rest of my address. Incidental.

“My flat is closer,” Amelia says. I resent the milliseconds it takes to adjust the directions. Every moment I’m not touching her feels like forever.

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