Page 93 of Not Just a Trick Play

“Congratulations on RhythmRoutes,” she says, surprising me.

“Wait, you know?”

Jake’s laughter bubbles up from the stage, tickling the back of my ears. “…if there’s one thing those pictures proved, it’s that I’m a man who’s committed—sometimes to a bedpost, but committed, nonetheless. And tonight, my commitment is all about Nurture NYC.”

Jessica’s eyes flicker to the podium, then return to me. “I think all of New York would be hard-pressed not to know about you and Jake and RhythmRoutes.” Her tone is dry. “We monitor all the players’ social media, and you and your venture and hashtag JAM are trending.”

Trending?

The word ricochets around my head. Jake mentioned my tours only once. And JAM—who on earth let that out? While it’s flattering and somewhat mortifying to receive this unexpected spotlight, tonight should be focused on the Titans and Nurture NYC. “I’m so sorry.”

Jessica’s response is swift and businesslike. “There’s nothing to apologize for. It sounds like an exciting opportunity, and I’m sure we won’t be hearing the last of you.”

Jake continues, his voice clear and resonant, “…As many of you are aware, I have a personal connection to this cause. Because this mission? It hits home—literally. My late father was raised in the foster system here in New York. Imagine a little kid taking on the concrete jungle, where even the brightest lights can’t outshine the tough spots. But it was in homes like those backed by Nurture NYC that he found kindness. This foundation not only gave him a safe haven, but the individuals who work tirelessly for it showed him the meaning of generosity, and how to be the type of father who leaves a mark in the short time he had. The kind of dad I hope to be some day.” Emotion clogs my throat, my heart thudding against my chest, as his eyes unerringly finds me in the shadows.

Jessica almost offhandedly says, “We’ll be seeing you at the games now as a spectator instead of staff.”

That may have been a command, so I nod dumbly.

“I’ll make sure you have a pass to the WAGs section.”

Jake continues, “Dad was taught to take care of others, and to dare to live as if his dreams weren’t just fantasies, and in turn inspired us to do the same, and for that, my family and I owe them. Big.”

Jake clears his throat and lifts the glass of champagne a server passes him from the sidelines. “So, here’s to the dreamers, the doers, and especially to the dads—both theones we were born to and the ones who step up to teach us the important stuff.”

In the center of the room, Jeanine dabs her eyes as she beams at her son. The rest of his family looks on, their pride equally evident.

Thoughts of my own father surface—would he be just as proud if he saw how I’ve spun his legacy into my new venture? The sharp pain of his absence slices through me, keen as ever.

“…So, as we enjoy tonight, remember, our job isn’t finished when the last light dims. No, it’s just beginning. We’re united in this, creating a world where the kids of today can be the protectors, the nurturers, the dream-makers of tomorrow. So, let’s keep those donations rolling in, and make tonight one we’ll look back on and say, ‘Now that was an evening that really tied us together!’”

The room explodes with applause, a wave of cheers sweeping through as everyone springs from their seats. Jake leaps down, barely landing before the crowd swells, a tsunami of congratulations crashing over him from all sides.

Photographers dive headlong into the sea of excitement, cameras clicking like mad. His family weaves through the throng, joining him for a series of group shots, laughing and posing with a familiarity that only comes from a deeply rooted love.

I fumble for my phone, desperate to capture this perfect chaos of affection.A lump forms in my throat as I watch them, their effortless connection sparking a pang of longing in me for a bond I’ve never even known. But before I can hide behind another photo, Jeanine spots me. “Amelia, honey, come join us,” she calls, as if she has a direct line to my heart.

Milo materializes out of thin air, swiping my phone with a flourish and nudging me forward. My eyes find Jake’s toweringpresence behind his mother. He gives me a nod and a crooked grin.

Heart pounding, I take a tentative step toward the Cunningham tableau. As if by magic, gaps appear, each one an unspoken offer of inclusion. I position myself beside Jeanine, Jake’s reassuring touch on my back a silent promise of support.

“Work it, ladies,” Milo croons. “Makeloooovvveeto the camera!”

In the next moment, Heidi and Helena interlock elbows and each thrust a leg in the air in the classic Rockettes pose, while Yvonne channels her inner Madonna, arms framing her face in a perfect Vogue before winking at Milo.

I hold back a snicker as a soft growl sounds behind me when he grins back.

The twins pull me between them and add me to their routine. My attempt at a high kick falls short, but they’re quick to adjust their stance to match mine.

Carla and Beatrice frame the ensemble, clasping their hands together with forefingers pointing up, playfully blowing kissing off their “smoking guns,” like characters fromCharlie’sAngels.

But it’s Jeanine who steals the spotlight. She pops her index finger into her mouth, her lips forming a sultry pout, her gaze smoldering.

“Woo-hoo, Mrs. Cunningham!” Logan’s shout cuts through the air, followed by a chorus of whistles and hoots rising above Christmas tunes playing in the background.

“How do you think I ended up with six kids?” She laughs wickedly.

“Mom!” Jake brings his hands to his ears, shaking his head.

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