Page 106 of Not Just a Trick Play

“We’ll be back with just over a minute left in the fourth quarter.”

I fumble for my phone, calling Jake first, though I know it’s futile. I try everyone else—Yvonne, his other sisters, his mom, even Jessica. No one answers.

The game snaps into focus again. “The Titans have the ball on the Sabretooth’s twenty-yard line, a minute seventeen seconds left, and still up by two,” the commentator breaks through my fog of worry. “No word yet on Cunningham’s condition.”

Panic sends me scrolling through social media, desperate for any update, searching all the hashtags I can think of—#WhatsUpWithJake? #UnfairHit. Even #JAM. I swipe frantically, but it’s just a storm of speculation.

I barely register the TV anymore, drowning in the buzz of my phone.

Every play, pass, yard gained or lost is a backdrop to the real drama unfolding in my palm. Ping after ping, comments roll in. “How’s Jake?” “That hit was dirty!”

But then the posts shift.

Someone captures Jake’s family in the stands. Six women side-by-side, all in gold and white jerseys emblazoned with “Cunningham 69,” their expressions uniformly stoic.

Then, an animated question mark pops between Heidi and Beatrice with “#Where’sAmelia?” plastered underneath. All of a sudden, it’s a meme of its own and spreading like wildfire.

The game barrels on. Logan hands the ball off. It’s on the ground. Everyone screams “Fumble!” A Sabretooth scoops it up and runs it down for a touchdown.

The clock hits zero. A collective silence fills the bar, heavy with disappointment and the bitter taste of what-ifs.

“There you have it, folks. The Titans are out,” the commentator says. “It’s the Sabretooths one step closer to the Super Bowl this year.” The camera sweeps over the stadium, capturing dejected fans, a few still brandishing their gold and white flags.

The broadcast cuts to the owner’s box, focusing on a familiar face, expression unreadable. The TV blares on, “There’s Noah Winters, billionaire behind the Titans. Rumor has it he’s been eyeing a hockey franchise. Could this loss steer him toward the ice?” The screen switches to the field where post-game rituals are in progress.

I exhale in relief when Jake appears in the fray. They get him for a second on camera. “How hard was it to watch that last play?”

He responds with grace, “I have nothing but respect for my team and the Sabretooths.” He excuses himself to congratulate a Sabretooth player, giving him a hearty thump on the back—but I know he’s hurting.

“And there you have it—Jake Cunningham.” The feed switches to a montage of Jake’s season highlights. “He’s been the Titans’ shining star,” one voice notes, before the otherinterjects, “but tonight, his streak ran out,” as the footage loops rewinds to the moment of Jake’s brutal fall.

The bar thins out, some fans trudging to the exit while others linger to drown their sorrows and speculate about next season.

I pocket my phone and step into the biting wind, just another in the sea of people heading for the subway. I send Jake one last message before descending into the subway’s depths, watching the signal bars on my mobile flicker and die, one by one, severing my link to the world above.

Cold mixes with numb in me, and I tug my coat tighter around me. There’s a charity Santa on the platform. I drop a dollar in. Somebody’s got to need it more than I do.

When I resurface, my phone comes alive with a vengeance.

I skim past all the notifications and texts to a missed call from Jake. My fists relax, the strain easing from my knuckles. I waste no time calling him back and he picks up on the second ring.

His voice is a balm. “Heya, Sweets,” as if the world’s perfectly fine. But it’s loud on his side making it difficult to hear him amidst the cacophony of his surroundings.

“Are you all right?” I clutch my phone as if I were holding on to him.

He laughs, though it’s tinged with disappointment. “Yeah. I got a hard head. You know that.”

“You scared me half to death,” I whisper. Somehow tears are in my throat.

“Nothing to worry about. I swear.”

I want to continue, to pour out how much his close call shook me. Scold him for giving me such a scare, tell him how relieved I am he’s okay, and make him promise to never do that again. But as I gather my thoughts to speak, the background noise on his end swells.

“Sorry, we’re on the bus heading to the airport.” There’s a heavy pause, and very softly he adds, “I’ll talk to you as soon as I get home?”

That’s my signal, isn’t it? “Yes. Of course. I’m just glad you’re okay.” The words leave my mouth, tasting of mixed emotions. We’ll have that longer conversation later. For now, knowing he’s safe is all that matters. “I suppose it’s time to let you go.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

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