Page 92 of Not Just a Trick Play

Yvonne’s suppressing a yawn, but upon seeing us, she flashes him the signature Cunningham grin and gestures at the bar. In seconds, the poor sucker is almost tripping in his haste to do her bidding, too mesmerized to have registered the half-full glass still in her grasp.

The inevitable sister snatch-and-grab looms, and I’m not about to surrender Amelia for the rest of the evening. I take her hand, offering a silent invitation away from the football talk, and steer us toward the quiet of the terrace.

As we step out into the cooler air, a voice rings out, playful and loud. “Mistletoe!”

Our heads tilt back in unison, and damn if we aren’t perfectly framed by the doorway, the sprig poised above us like it’s waited all night for this exact moment.

Amelia’s eyes widen, a silent storm of “oh no” swirling in their depths as she meets my gaze.

I lift a brow, tossing a wordless “dare you” into the space between us.

Her lip catches between her teeth, that nervous habit that’s utterly endearing, before dipping her head the slightest bit.

Who am I to say no to tradition? I catch her by the hips and draw her close. “Time to smooch, Sweets.”

A giggle bubbles up from her, and after a quick glance at our few onlookers, she leans into me, her hands finding a home on my shoulders. Her upturned features are a canvas of soft vulnerability.

A familiar tenderness fills me, cracking something open within my chest. Whatever I already feel for Amelia seems to double, almost too big to handle, a crescendo that drowns out everyone else but her. I clear my throat as I cup her face,intending to ham it up, to make the kiss a light and laughing one.

But as our lips meet, the room, the noise, the world—it all blurs into the background. There’s only Amelia, only this moment, and it’s nothing short of perfect.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

AMELIA

His kiss.Oh, it’s like drowning in a sea of molten chocolate—intoxicating, overwhelming, with a sweetness that seeps into every pore, threatening to undo me from the inside out.

When I think I might melt away, right there in my scandalously red heels, the harsh flash yanks me back into reality.

“Perfect. Keep it just like that!”

Jake’s reality. Recoiling, I almost stumble, but Jake grabs my upper arms to steady me.

Unbothered, the photographer continues, “Don’t be shy. One more kiss for the camera! Going in for a close-up this time!”

Rooted to the spot, I can only watch as the man closes in, snapping shot after shot. I’ve never been one for public displays of affection. Or any displays of affection, really, so my only recourse is to stand there, likely looking like a half-wit.

Jake, utterly unfazed, drops another kiss on my lips, as if the intrusion doesn’t bother him. And perhaps it doesn’t. He’s no stranger to this type of spectacle. A lump forms in my throat. And if I’m to be part of Jake’s world, this comes with the territory. Still, the thought of our tender moment turninginto tomorrow’s headlines makes my stomach churn. I force the corners of my mouth to lift. Is the effort it takes apparent?

“So, how does it feel to be the couple of the night?”

“I…uh…” My gaze swings back to meet Jake’s.

His eyes are full of familiar humor. He winks at me. “Struck speechless,” he tells the reporter, his arm coming around me, his touch a line of comfort down my side. He lifts the knuckles of his other hand to his mouth, fingers curled in, then blows on his nails before rubbing them against his shirt, right by the buttons. “I got the skills.”

The man laughs. Thankfully, the chime for dinner sounds. In unison, the servers move to the dividers and, with a grand sweep, pull them back to reveal long banquet tables covered in white linen, with white tables, floral skyscrapers and, glinting silverware surrounding a dance floor, and beyond that, the stage. Ushers come through to direct us inside.

We reach our table, and I release a thankful breath of relief since we are seated with Jake’s family, a couple of players I know, and two sponsors I met during the Support NYC Events.

Over the first, second, and third courses, my composure returns in cautious increments. By the time we’ve polished off dessert, I’m genuinely enjoying myself, chatting with friends and marveling at the ease with which Jake mingles with guests who stop by our table, deftly extracting donation after donation with nothing but handshakes and smiles. When he turns to welcome the next approaching couple, I excuse myself and slip away to the loo.

As I make my way back, the emcee’s voice cuts through the buzz of the ballroom, calling for Jake. He bounds up the stage, and I tuck myself into a dim corner to watch. He’s a vision in that perfectly tailored tuxedo, his eyes dancing over the crowd with a charm that’s disarmingly personal. It hits me then—adeep, possessive warmth, mixed with the pinch-me disbelief that he’s actually here, with me. And completely mine.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his smooth, confident tone fills the room. “Wow, look at us, all dressed up and not a handcuff in sight—unless you’re into that sort of thing, of course, I’m not here to judge. Seeing so many friendly faces in the crowd is truly reassuring, especially since a few months back, some of you might have seen me in a…let’s call it a ‘less than flattering’ situation. Yes, I’m referring to the photos that took mediaexposureto a whole new level. You know, the shots that none of you googled.”

I’m gobsmacked he started off with that. The room buzzes with giggles and a smattering of whoops, yet underneath, a barely there groan filters through. Jessica?

With a deep inhalation, Jessica gathers her composure, her stance shifting to one of resigned determination, as if she’s already braced herself for the aftermath and ready to mitigate the fallout. I’m about to slip away when she pivots to face me, freezing me in place.

---