Page 77 of Not Just a Trick Play

I have endured more reality TV than is probably healthy, and while I’m not entirely won over, I enjoy watching Jake revel thirstily in the melodrama of it all. His cheeky commentary makes each episode a spectacle, crafting wild backstories for the contestants and predicting their next moves with the fervor of a conspiracy theorist. He muses about how he might get himself out of scrapes and challenges thrown at them, and some of his ideas have me in stitches.

When he’s away, I find myself tuning into his matches—games—on my own, and his play-by-play updates, interspersed with lots of phone sex, make it all work.

Then there are the quieter moments, just the two of us and the soft hum of the city. It’s during these times that I glimpse the side of Jake that isn’t always cracking jokes and being Mr.Social Butterfly, but someone more earnest and complex. He confides in me about his dad, his worries about his family, and how he feels a constant pressure to keep everyone happy.

In turn, I open up in ways I never imagined I could, sharing things I hadn’t even fully admitted to myself. We talk late into the nights, and when he drifts off, I get to watch him sleep, tracing the lines of his face. There’s a kind of quiet bliss in lying face-to-face, with nowhere else to be, no one else I’d rather be with.

We don’t venture out much. I’m perfectly content in our cozy little bubble. I know it grates on him that we have to pretend at work, though the sneaking around does add a certain thrill to the day. The secret smiles and knowing looks. The small surprises we exchange—a never-ending supply of high-end teas, Twizzlers and other goodies that mysteriously replenish themselves in my desk drawer.

In return, I’ve made a few cheeky purchases of my own, including aSurvivor“Outwit. Outplay. Outlast” jumper, and, for good measure, a stuffed cat to ward off any rogue rats.

“What’s your favorite thing to do?” I ask after our latest marathon in the sheets.

I’m still catching my breath. It’s the only reason I haven’t moved yet. My head rests on his chest, and I idly trace the superhero contours of his torso.

It amazes me that I have license to explore him. His arms and abs contract under my touch, tightening. He has ridges I’ve only ever seen in movies and commercials. When he’s done with his football career, he could always model underwear—although it would be quite the twist if he ventured into adult entertainment. I suppress a snicker. But honestly, I don’t want anyone else ogling him.

I sigh and slow my fingers, resting them a tad possessively over the left side of his chest. Underneath, his heart thuds strong and steady. Just like him.

“Fuck you,” he responds instantly, with a cheeky smirk, and follows that statement with a hand down the inside of my thigh, a motion of intent.

I clench in anticipation, but I make myself ask, “Besides that?”

His eyes glint. “Have you fuck me,” he says playfully then pauses, pretending to reconsider. “Or maybe that’s my first favorite thing.” His wicked grin has my body thrumming. “How about we try it both ways, and I’ll let you know?”

Between sex and Jake and the Titans, planning my inaugural tour feels like prepping for an existential quiz—no amount of cramming is enough. My phone and index cards practically radiate with my chicken-scratch notes. Was I mad thinking I could do this? What if no one shows up? What if I make a bloody fool out of myself?

“So you’ll make a bloody fool out of yourself,” was Jake’s prosaic declaration when I confessed my jitters, as if it’s no matter. He pestered me about joining me for my maiden voyage (his words), a notion I shut down quick. Though perhaps I should have agreed. At least I’d have a rapt audience of one. The morning of the tour, I’m still nervous.

“You’ll be great. You’realreadygreat. Now go carpe diem that shit.” He ends his pep talk with a peck to my forehead before spinning me around and swatting my arse as if I were a thoroughbred headed for the Royal Ascot. That man.

I’m in yet another band T-shirt and clutching a sign that reads “RhythmRoutes NYC,” the name I finally settled on. Luckily, the domain was available, though Rani insisted we redirect the others. “From Beats to Streets” is scribbled beneath. I decided on an East Village tour. It gives me the most materialand the broadest range of music to cover. The starting point I picked is Saint Mark’s Square.

I posted the details on my newly created social media pages and on a few free event websites, and there has been some interest, but with so many happenings in the city, who knows if anyone will show up? I tell myself it’s a good thing—fewer than twenty attendees means I won’t need a permit for a gathering. Who am I kidding?

A few minutes before 2 p.m., people start walking up to me. First, a couple of curious tourists, then a quartet of college kids, and even a handful of locals intrigued enough to play tourist in their own city. Before I know it, I’ve hit my headcount. Nineteen. Good grief, do I actually need to consider that permit?

With sweaty palms and a pounding heart, I launch into the tour. “I’m Amelia, your guide through the musical soul of the East Village. Welcome to RhythmRoutes NYC!”

Gulping down a quick breath for courage, I dive right in. “We’re kicking off here at theAlamosculpture, better known asThe Cube. This rotating, eighteen-hundred-pound art piece, here at St. Mark’s has been a meeting point and symbol of the neighborhood’s quirky, creative energy since the late 1960s.

“Down the street is Arlington Hall, a spot steeped in history. Imagine a German social club, a mob shootout, a Polish community center that evolved into the legendary Electric Circus, an avant-garde nightclub known for its wild punk shows—including an infamous 1966 Velvet Underground performance—during the peak of the East Village’s radical music scene. This neighborhood is a living testament to New York’s ever-changing cultural pulse. Now, let’s uncover more hidden stories behind these streets!”

As I continue, I’m secretly amazed at how engaged the group is. They’re listening—no, more than that—they’re enthralled.

By the time I get to my second carefully timed, over-rehearsed joke, I’ve got them figuratively eating out of my hand. Metaphorically. Literally too, since I brought energy bars to pass around. Hedging my bets.

I guide them to the Fillmore East, where Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin once played, and dive into one of my favorite anecdotes about the place. “In the late sixties, Led Zeppelin was still an opening act, warming up for Iron Butterfly. You know, the In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida guys?”

A few chuckles ripple through the group.

“Zeppelin blew the crowd away. They get called back for multiple encores, a major no-no for an opener. Backstage, Iron Butterfly’s manager is furious, saying they’ve upstaged his band and refuses to let them perform. Zeppelin completely stole the night—a true rock and roll power move.” My audience is hooked as music from that iconic performance fills their ears.

I point out the final tribute to the Fillmore—the lamppost outside, decorated with the names of legendary rockers who played there, crafted by the famous MosaicMan.

When we pass the mural of Joe Strummer on the wall of the Niagara Bar, I play his cover of Marley’s “Redemption Song.” My spellbound audience listens intently, even laughing at my comedic attempts. My hands, initially shaky, steady as I see faces light up with interest.

As we arrive at Albert’s Garden, where the Ramones’s self-titled debut album was photographed, I pull up an image of the cover.

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