Page 35 of Not Just a Trick Play

Amelia whirls around, and the incandescent wonder on her face feels like a standing ovation. I’ve scored game-winning touchdowns under the blaze of bright stadium lights before, but this? This is something else entirely.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

AMELIA

I’m allbut bouncing in my heels, buzzing with delight as I whip out my phone to capture shots of the building before whirling around to face Jake, unable to contain my grin. “Can you believe Joni Mitchell and James Taylor played here?”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but the boyish gleam of satisfaction has my heart somersaulting in place.

“Rumor has it that he bombed.” It’s a factoid I’m already aware of. I really could kiss him for bringing me here. Which wouldn’t be the thing to do. So, I take a deep breath and shift my attention to the board with tonight’s lineup. I don’t recognize either of the bands, but I take photos of the list, anyway.

“Wait! We need to remember this.” Jake grabs his own phone and catches me around my waist in one smooth movement, making me gasp. He draws me close with a hand while he takes a selfie of us with another. Not that there’s any chance I’ll forget tonight. No way.

He is solid against me, his scent a tantalizing mix of aftershave and crisp evening air. It’s hard not to notice how perfectly I fit under his muscled arm.

Then, he turns and faces me fully. And everything becomes a blur but his features, sharp and clear in the moment, and myheart bangs around in the cage of my ribs at the heated glint in his eyes.

The bouncer calling out that the next act’s about to start interrupts improper visions of tasting his lips.

“We should go inside,” I say, pulling away before I do something I shouldn’t.

I’m enveloped in a pulsing beat as soon as we enter. The dim pinkish hue that bathes the brick interior of the small space lends it a surreal glow.

Surreal. The very definition of the day, from this morning’s phone call to my presence now at a place I’d only ever dreamed of visiting.

The room is packed, but Jake’s warmth radiates against my spine. “Drink?” His voice is a murmur against my ear. The low rumble tickles against my skin and flares along my thighs. His hand finds my back, the spot between my shoulder blades. Also happens to be an erogenous zone of mine. I almost squeeze them together. For good posture. And if I can keep him imprisoned between my bones, well…that’s an added advantage, no?

I swallow and nod.

We head to the long wooden bar across the stage, its mirrored backdrop covered in a chaotic collage of cartoons, photos, and posters of past performances.

At the counter, Jake cages me in from behind. His breath teases the nape of my neck. Those shoulder blades of mine keep brushing against his chest, every touch a tease. I time our exhales to align, bringing us into closer contact. Around us, people revel, and I want to sink into the energy of it all, dance in the madness, sing as if no one’s judging, memorize each minute detail.

We order a couple of beers, and when the bartender returns with the bottles, Jake pays and takes them by their neckswith one hand while the other wraps around mine, that slight physical contact sending sparks dancing along my skin. He guides us through the jam-packed room to a spot against the back wall with a prime view, right as the band kicks off another rock tune, a cover of “Welcome to the Jungle.” Apt.

We clink our drinks together. I sip my beer, the tangy bitterness trickling down my throat but doing nothing to temper the heated rush surging within me because the room’s temperature isn’t the culprit here. Even in the darkness, I doubt I can casually press the bottle against my neck. Everything’s too hot, too tight.

I slip off my jacket and knot the sleeves around my hips, then lean against the wall. The rough wooden texture digging into my back is a cheap attempt to ground me as I try to lose myself to the music.

Usually, it’s enough to drown everything else out, but tonight it does little to detract from the man to my left. I’m ridiculously cognizant of how close we are. Our knuckles brush. It’s the barest of touches but still makes my every muscle tense. Agitation builds in my bloodstream. The thumping in my ears isn’t from the bass, coming from within my ribs instead. Biting my lip, I force my gaze back to the stage.

When the band starts playing “Man in the Box,” I can’t help but chuckle.

Jake leans over, brows creasing. “Who sings this?”

“Alice in Chains.” I grin.

“Huh.”

I give him a cheeky side eye. “I’m surprised you don’t know it, chains being your thing and all that.”

His laugh rings out, and I turn to face his grinning silhouette. His teeth flash, and his eyes gleam a brilliant green as they lock with mine. A shadow of stubble has my fingers tingling, as if they want to trace his jaw and feel the roughness.As he holds my gaze, his smile slowly fades, replaced by a charged air thick with sultry anticipation.

Jake is usually all motion and energy, so this rare stillness is shockingly intimate. But he doesn’t make a move, instead returning my stare, watching, wanting, waiting.

The moment extends into eternity, yet threatens to vanish in an instant. How is he even here? This deliberate choice of his to seek me out is both disconcerting and novel, leaving me in an effervescent bubble.

We were strangers two days ago, and we’ll be colleagues in two from now. But right here is a sliver of time out of the ordinary, screaming with opportunity I’d be a fool to let slip by. A chance too tempting to ignore, daring me to grab on tight before it slips through my fingers.

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