Page 14 of Not Just a Trick Play

The guys roar. Some laugh so hard they have to swipe tears from their cheeks. I can’t help but smile a little at their teasing. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t dish out the same shit if someone else was in my position.

“Just you watch, wait until they haveSurvivor: Urban Jungle. You’ll all be begging to join my alliance,” I respond. “I have skills you can only dream of.”

Hunter Pryce, our new cornerback, shakes his head. “I think I’ll take my chances on the other side.”

I barely restrain myself from sticking my tongue out.

Once I’ve reached my locker, I shrug off my jacket and toss it on the bench behind me. A clang sounds as it makes contact.

I turn, spying the flash of pink peeking out of the pocket the same time Connor does, but he snatches up the cuffs before I can stop him. He examines them, fingering the key jammed in the keyhole, making deep “hmm-ing” noises. After a moment, his lips twist into a smirk. “Thisis what kept you locked up?”

I flush.

He chuckles as he fiddles with them a bit more. A second later, he’s bent over, clutching his stomach, howling.

“What?” I growl.

“This?” The bastard finally collects himself. He straightens, grin still wide. Mr. Zorro-wannabe swings the handcuffs around like a lasso, the motion so fast that the other ring blurs into a pink hurricane, sending bits of fur flying.

“Yes, it’s the real deal.”

Connor sniggers, catching the spinning side abruptly, and makes a show of running his fingers over the remaining fuzz in front of my face. He jiggles something on each cuff, and they spring open with a soft ‘plink.’

I stare, openmouthed, while the guys guffaw around me.

“How’d you do that?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Connor drops his voice in a dramatic whisper, casting furtive glances over his shoulder like he’s in a spy movie. A bad one.

The asshole gets a glare for his efforts, but then he takes pity on me and demonstrates the release catch, smirking all the while. I grab the handcuffs and toss them into my locker, slamming the door shut on the harsh jangle that echoes as they hit the back.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AMELIA

“Money on My Mind”plays through my earbuds, compliments of Sam Smith, and I tip my head up at the murky afternoon sky. Message received, loud and clear: Universe=100, Amelia=0.

When I pictured starting my New York adventure, I didn’t think it would begin with me spending all day in my pricey hotel room sending out CVs. But enough’s enough. Time for a break. I consult my map app and follow the route to Washington Square Park, a few blocks away.

NYU buildings surround the greens. A children’s playground is tucked into a corner. Across the large arch is the start of 5th Avenue. Impressive.

I snap a handful of selfies with the empty circular fountain as my backdrop. Skateboarders zip around the sunken basin while a man in a white jumpsuit carrying a frame over his face shouts, “I was framed, I didn’t do it.” I sigh. I didn’t cheat or get myself handcuffed to a bed either, mate, but I guess we’re both paying for the actions of other blokes.

When my eyes land on the food vendors, I’m reminded I missed lunch. A couple of carts are busier than others, but I’m not about to wait an hour for a plateful of South Indian dosas, scrumptious as they seem. I settle for the cheapest option andpart with some of my precious dollars for an overpriced pretzel and a tea before heading for the closest empty seat.

One sip of the Oolong, and I promptly regret its purchase. Mental note: never self-soothe with tea from a New York coffee cart. Especially when the vendor himself hesitates as he hands over a cup of hot water and a sorry-looking tea bag.

A chestnut-haired woman in a sage jacket at the opposite end of my bench lounges with a phone in one hand and three leashes in the other. Two of her charges are quiet. A regal German Shepherd, who doesn’t spare me a glance, and beside it, a furry creature of indeterminate origins. I tilt my head. From this angle, the dog’s messy, curly coat of gold and brown almost reminds me of Ben. I wonder if it’s part Cocker Spaniel or maybe a particularly unattractive poodle.

The third is a Yorkie in a black and white polka dot collar, pulling at its lead to get to a nearby squirrel who’s dashed into the middle of the path to retrieve a stray acorn. Polka Dog barks at the squirrel. It remains unfazed, staring back as if daring him to pounce. Huh. Even squirrels have attitude in New York.

I take a bite of my pretzel and suppress a moan at its salty goodness. The tea here may be subpar, but the baked goods are amazing.

Polka Dog’s ears prickle, and sensing better treats ahead, it surrenders the acorn to the squirrel and trots over to me, wagging its tail. It stops about two feet away, eyeing me as if to make sure it has my full attention, then rolls over twice, concluding its performance with a high “woof” before trotting to my side and nudging at my calf, looking at me with puppy eyes, clearly expecting a reward.

No doubt the animal is deserving, so I tear off a piece of the pretzel.

I’m about to hand it over but catch myself. With my luck, it’s probably on some super special New York City doggie diet that only allows it a treat every third Tuesday.

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