Page 107 of Not Just a Trick Play

JAKE

Dim overhead lightsbarely pierce through the gloom of the rear cabin on the flight home Sunday morning. Meanwhile, the harsh glow of Armaan’s phone burns insistently as he tortures himself with last night’s highlight—lowlight?—reel over and over like he’s a sucker for pain. Dude, we lost. The irony? I didn’t even have a concussion. Would the final play have gone differently if I’d been on the field?

My skull’s pounding, courtesy of all the earlier in-flight booze. Looking around, it’s clear we’re a collective portrait of regret and hangovers in human form.

I take a lungful of stale air, trying to dislodge the bitter taste of defeat. Losses happen, much as they sting. Still, there’s always next season. It’s not like I’ll never play again.

The seatbelt sign blinks on, and the pilot’s voice crackles through the speakers, announcing we’ll be landing shortly.

Thank fuck. All I want right now is to ditch this metal tube of recycled disappointment, flop into Amelia’s arms, and erase the monumental crapfest of the last few days. Damn, I’ve missed her. More than makes sense for such a short time apart.

I tap the armrest. Sure, the sex is a big plus (fingers crossed for that), but it’s more than that. I want to be there with her,right next to her, listening to her talk about her tours, or ramble about absolutely anything. Hell, she doesn’t even have to speak. I don’t, either. I just need to be with her, to touch her, to hold her. Wait a minute…am I having a moment here?

I sink deeper into my seat as the truth slowly unfurls in the white noise of the cabin. This isn’t your garden-variety missing someone. No, this is one of those massive, life-altering realizations.

Holy fuck, I’m in love with her.

The realization hits me, potent and surprising, like realizing you’ve been walking around with toilet paper stuck to your shoe, but in a good way.

The rush of admitting it, even to myself, perks me up. I let the words roll through my head, savoring each one. I love her. Damn, that feels great. And I can’t wait to say them out loud.

Me

Just landed. Be at yours soon.

But soon doesn’t come quick enough, some other billionaire’s jet is hogging the runway at Teterboro. My eyes flick to my wrist. A whole forty-three slow seconds since I last checked and we’re still circling.

Logan struts into our cabin and plants his hands on the backrests of the seats on either side of the aisle. “First order of business for the off-season, gentlemen—” Man’s in O-Captain-My-Captain mode, likely have dished out rah-rah speeches up front. “—is to forget about salads and protein shakes. I’m talking pizza, wings, the works.”

A ripple of laughter and agreement flows through the group, the prospect of unrestricted eating lighting up faces.

“I’m hitting every food truck from here to Queens,” Hunter declares, already rubbing his belly in anticipation.

Milo, ever ready to one-up shit, chimes in, “Well, I plan to eat my weight in sushi and poke bowls once I hit the beaches of Fiji.”

Logan’s got his number, though. “Do yourself a favor, and start carb-loading before poker night. You’re gonna wish for the extra padding when Noah comes for his revenge.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Still can’t believe you got lucky with a pair of twos.”

Milo jumps to his feet, feigning outrage. “Luck? That was pure skill, baby. He might own the team, but I’m king of the poker table. Bet you he’s been practicing in the mirror between closing deals.”

“You wish.” Collective snickers erupt at the absurd notion of Noah Winters licking his wounds.

“He doesn’t stand a chance,” Milo puffs up like a rooster.

“Maybe let him win. We owe him one for last night,” Connor=Fucker.

The mood dips momentarily at the reminder. “Yeah, you don’t want him going all in and putting the team on the line to offset the losses,” Hunter only half-jokes.

“Even better. I’ll win and own all your asses.” Milo’s retort snaps us out of the funk and into another round of ribbing. I can’t help but join in the laughter, their antics a welcome distraction. But, with each joke and jibe, my impatience balloons. Amelia’s just beyond the runway, and every second the plane’s wheels aren’t kissing the ground is a second too long. The only thing keeping my sanity in check is knowing this unexpected early off-season means unscheduled, unscripted, unlimited Amelia time.

Finally, the plane touches down. We spill out into the open, trading farewells in nods and backslaps. I do it all on autopilot, my thoughts on fast forward to the moment I see her.

Sliding into the first of the fleet of SUVs the team uses to transport us to and from the airport, I silently will the driver to have traffic-parting superpowers.

No such luck. Each stoplight is a red-eyed monster grinning at my eagerness, every bit of congestion a test of my patience.

When we finally pull up at Amelia’s place, I’m half-tempted to tuck and roll from the moving vehicle, but I settle for a hasty exit instead, tossing a hurried “Thanks!” over my shoulder as I make a beeline for her building.

The stairs are a blur under my feet, my stride eating up the distance two at a time.

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