Page 87 of Not Just a Trick Play

The hushof my apartment wraps around me like a sobering shawl, a jarring silence that marks the end of my time with the Titans. No more early mornings fueled by caffeine and late nights drenched in gossip. No more afternoon rituals of cheekily ogling players from the stands.

Yet beneath the nostalgia, anticipation flickers. Tomorrow’s the Nurture NYC Gala—months of hard work culminating in one final celebration with my colleagues.

It’s also the evening Jake and I reveal our relationship to the world. I’m a tangled tango of excitement and sheer terror at the thought of the limelight.

It’s rather scary, yet there’s loads to look forward to. I’ll be diving into RhythmRoutes full-time, and Jake and the Titans have made it to the Playoffs. I’ll miss those snatched moments together at work, especially now that our lives are set to become utter chaos, with his practices ramping up and my whirlwind preparations for the Gotham Guides vetting tour, which, unfortunately, coincides with the first game. I’m certainly not about to ask them to reschedule.

To top it all off, I found the most adorable flat—a bed-sit. Or studio, as they call them here. Not large, but perfectly sizedfor me. With this last paycheck and what’s left in my reserves, there’s just enough for a security deposit and the first month’s rent. Although daunting, I know such places are rare, prompting me to apply immediately.

The broker assured me it’s all but mine, and I can collect the keys the moment the owner signs off. I’ve even chosen a king mattress, which should keep Jake from constantly trying to have me over to his towering monstrosity.

Time to start packing. The room is littered with Titans swag: caps, tees, and tiny Teddy keychains mixed in with a rainbow of venue wristbands; pages of scribbled notes, and optimistic RhythmRoutes signs—witnesses to a whirlwind two months. It’s shocking, really, the pile of life I’ve built so quickly.

My gaze lands on the familiar suitcase perched above the cupboard, Gran’s name dangling from its handle.

It’s time for The Call.

No more putting it off. I have to break the news I’m not returning to England.

Uncertainty coils in my stomach like a tight spring. I owe Gran everything. She stepped in when my mother stepped out. Will she ask me to go back? And if she does, how will I find the courage to refuse?

A sigh heaves out of me. Maybe I should send her a carrier pigeon instead. Or a telegram. Or a message in a bottle. Something sans the possibility of audible disappointment.

Steeling myself, I approach the dining table to face my charging phone before summoning up her contact details. My thumb hovers momentarily above “Matilda Bartlett” before crashing down. My knees lock, a feeble attempt at fortitude as the call connects. Ring by ring, my confession nears.

Then, her voice: “Amelia. It’s been a while since you’ve rung.”

Guilt hits me through the speakers, and I flinch. How on earth do I even begin to explain?

“I’m sorry. Things have been a bit mad over here.”

She harrumphs, the sound echoing down the line. I can picture her pursed lips and the high arch of her brow, the look of stern disapproval I know all too well.

I tread carefully, knowing my query will be fraught. “You’ve been managing all right?”

“I’ve coped.” She makes no effort to hide the curt reproach in her tone. “Needless to say, Benjamin has been a great help, and Margo has stepped up too.”

Of course, she has. Gran’s mercifully unaware of the sordid saga that is Amelia, Ben, and Margo. A lump forms in my throat. It’s fine. This is a good thing, really. Now there’s no need to feel as if I’m abandoning her. Yet the strangling sensation persists. Would she be less inclined to accept their assistance if she was privy to the ugly truth?

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, the words feeling inadequate.

“And when might we expect you back?”

The moment I’ve been agonizing over has arrived. Squaring my shoulders, I barrel into my announcement before fear can take over. “I’ve decided to stay in New York and started a business of my own.” Be proud of me. Please. You’re an entrepreneur yourself.

But my declaration only makes the distance between us seem more vast. “Is that so?” she finally asks.

I dive into an explanation. “Yes. I’ve begun offering tours. Centered on music history. New York is full of it.”

“And you’re able to make a living?” Her voice is steeped in skepticism.

“I am.” I’m barely breaking even, but now that I can devote all my time to RhythmRoutes, there should be enough to live on.

“So you won’t be coming home.”

Home.Memories rush back, bringing with them a melancholic pang. Despite the work required, the inn’s been home for most of my life. The cozy fireplace in the family lounge where I accidentally scorched my favorite book. A guest room on the third floor I’d sneak into whenever it was vacant. The blend of polished wood intertwined with lavender notes that enveloped the place. Nooks and crannies that cradled my childhood treasures—journals filled with teenage scribblings, a compact mirror of Gran’s, the old bangle I’d found of my mom’s. Dad’s cherished vinyl collection, postcards he’d send from the various places his band performed. Even a tiny plastic horse from one of the Kinder Eggs he’d bring me.

“I’ll visit,” I say in a small voice. And I will. The inn and Gran are my constants, solid and sure, as I sail shifting currents afar. But on my return, I plan to glide in as a guest, not as staff, and definitely not as the prodigal granddaughter who gambled on a dream and failed.

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