Page 30 of Not Just a Trick Play

Suddenly, a smack between my shoulder blades sends me staggering into reality. “Yo!”

I catch my balance and whip around to Milo’s grinning mug. “What the fuck?”

Ignoring my irritation, his eyes flicker from me up to where Amelia is chatting with Sara and back again. “Nice ass, new girl?” And now I want to punch him.

“Watch it,” I snap, my voice cold and firm right as Connor and Logan jog up.

The guys look taken aback, and I don’t blame them—normally I don’t let female drama rile me up, nor am I sharp with my teammates off the field.

“She’s my sister’s friend. And a new employee.”

“You got her the job?”

“I made an intro,” I say, hoping to shut down the interrogation. “That’s it.” Favor returned. Good karma restored. My work is done. Now back to business—as in football and scratching my head over Nurture NYC.

Connor whistles. “You asked Jessica for a favor? You ready to surrender your first born or something?”

Hunter snickers, chiming in, “What are you, her fairy godfather?”

Thankfully, the whistle blows, signaling that we’re up. Coach calls out the next play he wants to see. I’m here, I’m focused, totally laser sharp. The snap. Ball in the air. My hands fly up.Yes. Yes. Almost got it. Argh. Fuck.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

JAKE

The remainderof practice sucks just as bad, and I’m sore as shit when it’s over. I need a night in after the last couple of days, so when the guys suggest drinks, I pass and head home.

The moment I step through my front door, I drop my gear and kick off my shoes, making a beeline for the kitchen. Hunger gnaws at me, but a quick look in the fridge reveals a wasteland of unappealing leftovers. So, I do what any self-respecting, stressed-out athlete does: I cave and order a pity-party pizza. It’s not exactly diet-approved during the season, but hey, today calls for it.

While waiting for my delivery, I hop into the shower, willing the scalding cascade to magic away the stress of the day. I try to focus on something else.

Of course, the first thing that pops into my head is Amelia in her interview outfit, all business and buttoned-up. Muscles elsewhere tense, and heat pools low in my abs. Fantastic. Brain, meet Body. Body, meet Betrayal.

I clamp my eyes shut, trying to scrub away the image of her.

No luck.

Instead, she’s here, naked, with water cascading down her back, her fingertips tracing down my skin. The fire intensifies as my imagination spirals into overdrive.

Before I can do something stupid like take care of my hard-on, the doorbell rings. I throw on comfy sweats. After autographing the receipt for the delivery guy, I collapse onto the couch, all set to savor my pepperoni prize. There’s a second of pure bliss as I bite down, the cheesy perfection almost enough to drown out everything else. Almost.

The apartment is eerily quiet, save for the sound of my chewing. Not a shocker. This is the penthouse of a Tribeca high-rise. But tonight, the silence is so thick I can hear myself think, and who the fuck wants to hear themselves think on a Friday night when the rest of the city is partying?

I flick on ESPN, then switch toSurvivorreruns, hoping for mental immunity from thoughts of Amelia. But the island challenge turns treacherous as my mind casts her as a contestant rated way beyond prime time.

Did I doom myself by getting her that interview with the Titans? But I’m up to any test. Just need to think of the bigger prize. Nurture NYC. Super Bowl. Sanity.

After a while, I decide to call it a night. But sleep doesn’t come thanks to the erection I’m struggling to ignore. I toss and turn for a solid hour. I start with the sheep—fluffy, mind-numbing sheep. Then, I’m counting the tiles on the ceiling, conducting a detailed survey of my thread count, anything to knock myself out. Nothing’s cutting it.

In a moment of weakness, my hand begins a solo mission southward, but I clench my fist tight before it ventures past my abs. Out of sheer desperation, I consider seeing if the guys are still out. Might be an idiotic idea, considering what happened the last time I went looking for excitement. But better thanimagining things I shouldn’t. But instead of opening the usual group chat, I’m pulling up another number.

This isn’t a booty call. It’s a brain cleanse. Maybe if I text her, I can eject her from my skull.

Me

So, you got the gig?

I already know the answer.

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