Page 34 of Not Just a Trick Play

Ripping my gaze away, I adjust my baseball cap lower over my eyes and slip on a pair of dark glasses—a standard feature in all my pockets—as a group of bro-types in T-shirts printed with the Houston Hawks logo passes us. We’ll be playing them in a couple of weeks.

Amelia watches me fiddle as she descends the stairs. “I can’t decide if you’retryingto go incognito or not. Really, sunglasses at this time of night? Not able to deal with the shimmer of the city lights?” she teases, her British lilt wrapping around her words. “Doesn’t that just scream, ‘Look at me, I’m famous?’”

I shrug. “Reverse psychology. Dress like a star, and everyone figures it’s too obvious to be true. They look right past you.”

Her brow arches in eloquent doubt. “And such logic works?”

“New Yorkers are too consumed by their own lives to care,” I say with a confident nod. “And let’s face it, in the sea of actual celebrities here, I’m just another fish. A very handsome fish, but still.”

The edge of her mouth lifts in a smirk that’s slowly becoming my weakness. It takes every bit of my self-control to resist the urge to adjust my jeans. “So tell me, where are we headed?” I inquire, my voice sounding more like a rusty door hinge. So much for being a smooth operator.

Amelia mentions a bar famous for its live music. And even more infamous for being a hookup haven. So, no. Hard no. I pause.

She stops. “You have a better plan?”

“I do.” I gesture to the street behind us. Not my first choice—that would be to take her upstairs, flip the “Do Not Disturb” sign on her door, and get naughty under the blankets.

She eyes me doubtfully.

“Trust me. Chop, chop.” I take off down the block.

“Chop, chop, he says,” Amelia grumbles under her breath as she hurries to catch up, causing me to suppress a chuckle, before turning south on MacDougal, into the heart of NYU territory.

It’s Friday, and the city’s buzzing. People spill out into the street from bars and restaurants, comedy clubs and tattoo parlors, and I place my hand at the base of her spine, steeringher away from the rowdiest. Mostly, we walk in silence, catching random snippets of conversations that drift our way. A college-aged guy threatens to self-combust if there’s another pop quiz on quantum mechanics, earning groans from his friends at his punny joke. Some dude’s munching on a taco, raving about its unholy yet miraculous fusion of al pastor with durian.

Then, a couple, presumably a woman and her boyfriend, wander our way, engrossed in a heated debate. “I’m telling you, restraints can be a great addition to any relationship. Bondage’s like the extreme trust exercise,” she pitches, a determined gleam in her eyes.

Her proclamation hangs in the air as Amelia and I turn to each other simultaneously. The corner of her mouth quivers, and she bites her lower lip. I toss her a look of mock terror as the pair passes, silently mouthing “Don’t do it, kid” while miming a slashing motion across my throat, sending her into another fit of giggles.

The sound of it sends a ripple of satisfaction through me, and I soak it in. Making the poised and proper Amelia crack is a heady feeling. It’s a rush, an ego boost of the best kind. Yep. Still got it.

A smug grin that pulls at my mouth. As we round the corner onto Bleecker, I start to say, “Check out—” That’s as far as I get before my senses go haywire, a creepy-crawly coldness snaking up my neck.

Instinct kicks in, and I grab Amelia, yanking her to me. She slides me a startled look, mirroring the adrenaline zipping through me as she scans our surroundings with alarm. “What’s wrong?” she demands.

“Rat!” I blurt, right as the culprit re-emerges from the shadows, darting straight into our path. It stops a few feet in front of us, almost as if it scents my agitation.

I remind myself that the cat-sized fucker’s nothing but a glorified hamster. But when it makes a move in our direction, I jerk again, and before I can help it, I’m dashing across the street, Amelia in tow, glancing over my shoulder repeatedly to make sure the creature hasn’t followed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I pant as I stumble to a stop, still shuddering once we’re safely on the other side.

Amelia pulls away and stares at me in disbelief as realization sets in. “Good heavens, all this fuss over a rat?” She shakes her head. “And here I thought you were bringing roach repellent.”

Indignant, I snap back, “Rats and roaches aren’t allies! You can’t blanket bomb them with the same spray!”

I’m still catching my breath, staring at her. City sounds recede to a mere murmur, leaving only our labored breaths echoing in the silence. Then, all at once, Amelia laughs. Not just a giggle, or a chuckle, or some dignified titter, but full-bodied cackles that erupt from deep within.

I stand, spellbound, as she throws her head back and completely surrenders to the moment. I watch in wonder as her normally poised and polite demeanor dissolves into pure, unfiltered joy that leaves me breathless, utterly hooked on her.

Slowly, shoulders still shaking, Amelia attempts to collect herself, straightening as she wipes a tear from her eye. “Aww, is the big bad footballer afraid of rats?” She grins, and I’m lost all over again.

“Don’t rat shame me!” I protest, but I’m barely able to bite back a snicker of my own.

“I would never.” But then she bursts into giggles once more. With a theatrical sigh of resignation, I offer her my arm, and she hooks hers through it. We resume our journey, weaving through the busy streets, and I find myself beaming, her laughter still ringing in my ears.

At last, we reach our destination. Amelia’s eyes widen at the weather-beaten sign and the signature blue canopy. “Oh my god, wait. This is…” she trails off.

“The Bitter End,” I confirm, the picture of nonchalance, though inside I’m doing a victory lap—thank you, Google, for the assist. “We were in the neighborhood.” The place is a legend, wrapped up in the music lore that only New York can offer.

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