Page 90 of Not Just a Trick Play

My response is equally soft, “Not usually. But then again, they’ve never had a reason like you.” I keep my gaze steady, willing her to see herself through my eyes.

In her emerald gown, Amelia’s nothing short of stunning, her hair an elegant constellation of twists secured by a simple silver clasp. Throughout the ride over, I found myself caught in a silent debate: leave her looking like the goddess she was or free those dark tresses and wind my fingers through the silk?

The questions and clicks crescendo, and a voice loud and distinct enough cuts through the clamor. “Jake! Who’s your date?”

Flashing a grin as wide as the Hudson, I shout back, “Amelia Stevens, my girlfriend!” At that declaration, the paps go into overdrive. Amelia, poised yet palpably nervous, offers a hesitant wave to the crowd.

I plunge us into the sea of flashes, my arm around her waist a statement as much as a support. We carve a path through themedia frenzy, pausing for the necessary photos—a dance of flash and focus.

“A kiss for the camera!” one reporter yells, while another hollers, “Stay still, you two!” Their calls are a relentless chorus.

“Amelia! This way, baby!” a photographer with a lens the size of a cannon fires.

Beyond the initial pandemonium, frosted booths are set up for longer interviews, offering a momentary refuge from the chaos.

Logan and Becs are right in the one before us, both glowing. A man in a red suit shoves a mic in their face. “So, when’s the big day?”

Logan grins, clasping Becs’s hand tight. “Sooner than you think.”

Adjacent to them, Connor, Ella, Milo, and Hunter chat with a well-known entertainment personality. Connor’s animatedly talking about the Titans-Sabretooths game next week. Milo is wildly gesticulating. Based on Hunter’s growing frown, I’m guessing they’re discussing his latest diet or something else equally embarrassing.

While we wait for our turn, Amelia’s lashes flutter shut, and her chest rises and falls with the deliberation usually reserved for someone about to blow out candles on a cake that’s just a tad too close to a smoke detector. I watch her for another moment. “Hold on, are you counting your breaths?”

Her chin dips in the barest of nods, eyes still sealed like she’s mentally prepping to walk a tightrope rather than the red carpet.

As I draw Amelia closer, the subtle scent of her perfume wraps around us, an intimate jasmine bubble amidst the flashbulbs and fanfare. “You’re doing great, you know? It’s just a little longer.” She opens her eyes and smiles weakly. A twinge of guilt strums through me for dragging her into this whirlpoolof fame with me, but she’s handling it like a pro. With a gentle squeeze, I wordlessly pledge to keep her anchored, to show her she’s not just a part of my world—she’s the heart of it.

When our turn comes to enter the first booth, another reporter zeroes in on us, her dress so tight it’s practically gilded sausage casing.

“Jake, we’ve seen you with a lot of ladies over the years, but never with a girlfriend. How long have you been together? How did you meet?”

Winking at Amelia, I keep things coy. “Let’s just say I wascaptivatedthe moment I saw her.”

Her cheeks flush, but the reporter remains as clueless as a goldfish. “Oh?”

“Amelia’s special, unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Speaking of unique, have you heard about her business, RhythmRoutes NYC?” I say, seamlessly weaving in a plug.

At the mention, Amelia’s smile flickers.

“RhythmRoutes?” the reporter echoes, a note of intrigue in her tone.

“It’s incredible! She’s curating tours of NYC’s music history. It’s amazing. You’re definitely going to want to follow her. She’s doing great.”

“Jake,” she hisses as soon as we’re out of earshot. “Now’s not the time.”

I know she’ll be a success and is all about making it happen on her own, which I totally respect. But a little help never hurt anyone, right? Still, the last thing I want is to spoil our evening. “Okay, okay,” I relent. Yet, after a brief pause and a playful glance at the avid onlookers, I raise my voice a smidge, just to mess with her. “Maybe we should get everyone following #JAM instead?”

She shakes her head, huffing, as another journalist beckons us over.

“Jake! How do you feel about facing the Sabretooths next week?”

“We’re gonna crush ’em,” I answer with a grin. “But let’s hit pause on the sports talk. This evening’s about something bigger than touchdowns. It’s about the incredible work Nurture NYC does. We’re talking life-changing stuff. That’s the headline-worthy story.”

I rattle off details of the foundation’s most popular programs, and then we move to a style blogger who asks whom I’m wearing. I strike a pose that’s half James Bond, half runway model, showcasing my custom-made tux. “Oh, this old thing?” The reporter chuckles. I give her a conspiratorial look before sweeping Amelia into a twirl, reveling the giggle that bursts from her “But let’s talk about the real showstopper—my date.” The sparkle in her blue gaze outshines any spotlight.

We’re inches from the hotel when a familiar voice slices through the buzz—one that always seems to needle just a bit too deeply. It’s a “reporter” with a reputation for crossing lines, his smirk cocked and loaded. Bring it on, boy.

Except he turns to Amelia, that shark-smile full of bite. “After that photo of Jake in handcuffs made the rounds a few months ago. The public’s dying to know—did you introduce him to the BDSM scene?”

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