Page 99 of Not Just a Trick Play

“It’s going to be rough,” I admit, feeling sick to my stomach. “And fuck, I’d do anything to keep you from having to go through this. I promise things’ll be okay. I’m here for you.” Fighting to contain my composure, I continue. “I talked to Jessica. Just say ‘no comment’ if anyone asks you anything. It’ll blow over.”

She hands the phone back, her hand trembling. “No comment,” she echoes. And I feel like all I’ve done is offer her a Nerf gun to ward off an impending alien invasion.

“We’ll get through this,” I assure her, lacing our fingers together.

“Yes. Of course.”

But the doubt in her voice stabs at me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’ve dragged her into this mess.

I tell her not to worry. That things will be okay. I’m not sure if either of us believes it. I have to hold on to her until we both find a way out.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

AMELIA

I braced myself.Truly I did. But nothing could have prepared me for the day.

When I round the corner to my usual meeting spot, a crowd—larger than my typical group of twenty—mill about. Not too dire at first glance. Most people seem disinterested, some tapping away on their phones. Others are caught up in idle chatter. Yet, a few rogue figures stand out, armed with cameras too hefty for casual snapshots.

Before I can announce myself, it’s blood in the water. Cameras and smartphones are shoved into my face so aggressively that I stagger back. “Amelia Stevens! Was that whole handcuffs stunt scripted?”

Whatever semblance of respectful distance the media maintained at the gala and the irritating hanger-oners of yesterday? Gone. This is a no holds barred barrage of questions.

“Were other players involved?”

“Were you fired from the Titans?”

“How long have you and Jake been seeing each other?”

I manage the most polished smile I can muster, edging back to carve out a bit of breathing room.

Amidst this frenzy, several bemused faces—likely my actual tour attendees—look on, their expressions a blend of curiosity and mild alarm. One chap alternates between checking his phone and squinting at me, clearly second-guessing whether he’s in the right spot at all.

Stay calm. Breathe. This whirlwind of attention comes with the territory when you’re dating a superstar athlete. No need to get my knickers in a twist.

I manage a weak “No comment.”

“Answer the question!”

Gritting my teeth, I turn to the few souls not brandishing recording devices. “Here for RhythmRoutes East Village?”

A smattering of nods and a couple of timid yeses sound. A mum clutches her son’s shoulder, anxiously looking around, while he seems more intrigued by the chaos than concerned.

Two giggling twenty-somethings look on, amused by the spectacle. Nearby, a pair of Asian tourists hover with cameras hanging from their necks that could rival the professional ones.

An elderly woman, her face tanned to a crisp and sporting a bright blue visor, beams triumphantly at her partner, wearing the green counterpart. “Told you this was the place to be! Way better than those boring bus tours,” she gloats. He grunts and gives me a skeptical once-over.

While chaos swirls around me, I check off names against my list and distribute headsets.

“Hi, I’m Amelia Stevens, and welcome to Rhy?—”

A mic is thrust in my face. “When did you get into the BDSM lifestyle?”

Anxious mum frantically shields her child’s ears, but the kid wriggles free, his eyes lighting up at this unexpected lesson in the birds, bees, and bondage.

Is this even allowed? Should I call the police? I weigh my options but decide to confront the ill-mannered lout. “I’m sorry, this tour is exclusively for registered attendees.”

“I paid!” the mic-wielding man shoots back, waving his phone displaying the confirmation email and thrusting out his other hand. I reluctantly pass him a headset.

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