Page 11 of Not Just a Trick Play

Landed in NY. All is well.

I press send, a feeble attempt to ease the sting of my sudden departure.

She’s never understood my need to travel, always seen my itchy feet as a sort of family betrayal, blaming the wanderlust aberration in my gene pool solely on my father. He was a guest at the inn when Mum was a teen, probably seeking to overcome a hymen issue of her own.They were practically children when they tied the knot, only to untie it not long after. Dad, ever the dreamer, never stayed in one place. He was a comet, blazing in and out of my life between shows.

Mum, meanwhile, seemed stuck in the past, forever trying to claw back the time she lost to a brief marriage and frustrations of being a young mother.

Then came George, her attempt at a do-over. He wasn’t keen on raising her half-American by-blow (his words), and she wanted no reminder of her youthful mistake. At nine, she shipped me off to Dad in the States. Unfortunately, eight months later I was back in England with Gran, who’s looked after me since.

I roll onto my back, waiting for sleep or a reply, whichever comes first, and the night’s escapades replay in my mind. The unexpected welcome gift that awaited me. The first time a man’s mouth got anywhere close to my nether regions. A taste of BDSM. And all before unpacking. Go me.

As the city buzzes awake, my eyes flutter shut, and I’m swept away into a slumber filled with dancing Kinder Eggs stuffed full of naked men and handcuffs, surrounded by a parade of yellow taxis. There’s not a bartender in sight.

CHAPTER SIX

JAKE

I’m still reelingfrom the events of the last few hours as I gaze at the passing morning traffic. Despite having relayed the whole sordid story several times over to Dan, I can hardly believe it myself. The bar. The handcuffs. And fucking Stella. Coming together to make the perfect shitstorm. Until Amelia swept in like my own British fairy godmother.

I was too caught up in the mess to appreciate it fully at the time, but now a reluctant smile tugs at my lips as I recall our exchange and how she schooled me like a sassy Mary Poppins.Do try to stay out of trouble.

I snicker at the memory. Women love me. And I love them right back. I love taking them to dinner, then taking them to bed. Love kissing and touching, figuring out what will make them moan and what’ll get them slick.

I know women. Being around them all my life, one picks up the key points amidst dissections of the ins and outs of every relationship, real life and on screen. The guys even call me the “Love Guru.” Fine. The title was self-appointed, but absolutely deserved since I helped Connor win his girlfriend back. He may have executed the play, but I drew it up.

I snort quietly at Amelia’s accusation of me being a porn star. Original, I’ll give her that.

I shift in my seat. Despite my appreciation for her timely intervention, there’s a wrinkle of concern. I wish I had a way to check on her, but all I can do is hope she was serious about finding somewhere safer to crash, because I can’t afford to worry, not right now when I have own mess to deal with.

Dan’s waitingfor me in the parking lot when my Uber rolls into the staff lot of the Titans stadium in the Bronx. His rumpled gray suit looks like he picked it up off the floor. It’s early—only players and coaching staff are in for practice. He says nothing but buzzes with suppressed annoyance. At least he’s done ranting for now.

We head inside, and once we’re at the elevator banks, he hits the up button instead of the one that will take us to the field. Fuck. Less than a minute later, we arrive at the executive level and begin the endless march down death row. Trudging behind him, I’m literally the embodiment of a dead man walking, and each step is heavier than the last.

He halts a few feet from the entrance. He glares at me for a long moment before gesturing me inside.

Jessica Murray, the head of the Titans’ PR department, sits at a glass-topped desk in a blood-red suit. Behind her, Coach Sanders stands with his arms crossed and a menacing scowl fixed on his face.

Dan shuts the door with an ominous click that reverberates through my bones, then goes to stand with Coach. Their combined anger pulses through the air. But Jess? She’s her usual impassive self. The scariest of the trifecta.

A bead of sweat pools at the base of my neck, but I ignore it. I’m Jake fucking Cunningham, and I don’t lose my cool.

Wearing a tutu to practice on a dare? I’ll ask what color. Singing Bohemian Rhapsody in all the different voices at the top of my lungs during halftime? Hand over the mic. A hit on the field? Keep them coming. But Jessica Murray? She puts the fear of God in me.

“It’s not that bad,” I say, preemptively.

That draws a snort from Dan. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re chained up. Practically naked except for a fucking cuddly bear on your dick.” His voice rises on the last word, hitting a hysterical pitch.

I think it should’ve been a grizzly. “It’s Extreme Exposé. No one cares about what they say.”

“It’s Extreme Exposé, saying ‘Tied Down Titan: The Bear Necessities of a Football Star,’” Jessica states.

Her voice remains clear and dispassionate as she continues reading the full article off her tablet, each word making me clench my fists. “…keep watching this space for more about the touchdowns and teddy tales on the dual lives of Jake Cunningham,” she finishes, setting the device down and raising a brow at me.

I drop into the seat opposite her and rake a hand through my hair. “So, you’re saying I’m fucked?”

“Be grateful it hasn’t ended up on any of the porn sites.”

Small fucking favors. A fleeting image of a dark-haired, blue-eyed woman’s crazy assumptions springs to mind. Bet she’d be disappointed I didn’t prove her right.

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