Page 45 of Not Just a Trick Play

“Not all. Don’t underestimate the value of a good dick pic. Some of them have their charms.”

“My ears. I do not need to be hearing this,” I cut in. I prefer to pretend all my sisters are virgins, and all the nieces and nephews are the products of immaculate conceptions.

“Discussing dicks is the best way to spend a day,” Yvonne counters. “In fact, there can never be too many cocks in any given location. How better than to pass one’s time than in a space full of men and their prized possessions? You should know, you practically live in a locker room. I mean, are you sure you're not getting paid extra to check out dicks all day?”

“No one pays me to ogle,” I retort.

“Too bad.” She shrugs indifferently. “Well, if you'd like to help me determine which specimens are worthy of our attention, I'm positive we can come up with appropriate compensation.”

“Great, let me go update my job description,” I respond sarcastically. “NFL player and dick pic inspector on the side.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

AMELIA

The brunch debaclecontinued with more outlandish matchmaking suggestions from Yvonne, which had my insides knotting in dread. But she immediately made up for it by inviting me to an impromptu concert she’d learned about (it was terrible), and then spent all Sunday helping me look for sublets.

Jake, on the other hand, took off soon after paying the enormous bill, and I haven’t heard a word from him since. Not that I expected to. Particularly not after that spectacular foot-in-mouth episode where I insulted his bedroom skills. We both know I was lying, still itwasrather rude of me. Now the dilemma: do I reach out to him with an apology and tell him he was a five-star performer after all? Or do I ignore the whole incident and pray our paths never cross again?

Unfortunately, hiding isn’t an option because it’s Monday morning. The same Monday morning as my first day of work. Athisplace of work. So, unless I suddenly combust, I’m doomed to run into him at some point.

That means wrestling my poise, my control, and oh, that inconvenient surge of lust into some semblance of professionalism. I’m not sleeping with him again. Workplace temptations are a hard no. And while the idea of a little “what if”rerun tickles my brain, I shove it aside and make my way to the Titans stadium. I have more pressing things to worry about—like American football.

Sara from reception helps me get my paperwork and a temporary ID sorted, hands me a tablet and a phone, then escorts me to my department.

My boss is the no-nonsense Margie Cuenca, who runs special sponsorships. I’ll be helping with social media content—taking photos and such, though mostly I’ll act as her gofer. Doesn’t seem as if she needs the extra pair of legs since she has no issues getting about between crutches and a mechanized wheelchair that resembles the Batmobile.

After greeting me, she rattles off introductions. In addition to her seasoned deputies are two other women, Rani and Terri, and I’m seated with them in the sprawling open-plan office.

At lunchtime, they lead me to a break room, much larger than the one I originally filched my Twizzlers from. I get in line behind Rani at the salad bar while Terri opts for a pizza on the opposite side. No cash exchanges hands here—over the pasta station, a sign cheekily declares, “Free lunch: not a myth after all.”

People mingle as they crowd around various food stations—sandwiches and burgers, a dumpling destination, and sushi counter among the offerings. Most are in either office attire or wearing more casual Titans-themed sportswear. “I don’t see any players…” My eyes dart about, half-expecting Jake to swagger in at any moment.

Rani responds, “Nah. They have their own fancy facilities closer to the field—spas, pools, swanky gym.”

She drops her voice. “But word on the street is that their cafeteria’s shit. Grilled chicken, grilled vegetables.” Her features twist into a grimace. “Grilled disappointment. Yeah, no.” She picks up an Oreo packet and holds it out. “Cookie?”

“Thank you.” And thank goodness I won’t be bumping into Jake.

The morning is a blur of meet-and-greets, a crash course in who’s who and what’s where, all courtesy of Rani’s turbo-charged tour. HR, legal, security, PR, Crisis Communication (which has its own arm under PR). More people seem to work here than entire countries.

At promptly 2: 55 p.m., her smartwatch beeps. “It’s time. Come on!” she announces, snagging my wrist and hustling me outside to the bleachers, cold and crisp in the fall air. “And this,” she proclaims grandly as she flops into a seat, fluttering her fingers at the grand expanse below, “is where we go for our rest, relaxation, and afternoon rewards.” We’re not alone. I recognize a few faces from lunch in the crowd—almost all women.

The field’s a patchwork of football couture: Some players sprint about in snug white tights that leave little to the imagination, others are in lighter attire. A man in shoulder pads that screamsGladiatorsends balls through a giant yellow fork with missing center tines. His teammates watch from the sidelines, completely oblivious (or at least acting like it) to their in-house fanbase.

The biggest draw is the skin show—shirtless specimens doing push-ups and stretches, setting off a full-scale heatwave that has zero to do with the actual weather.

Unwittingly, my eyes narrow on one such individual, lingering on the broad tanned pecs down to abs that could double as a cheese grater, to edges of a deep V that disappear into tight pants. Memories of our night together make a vivid comeback, sending an increasingly familiar warmth straight to places that should definitely not be making their opinions known right now. I grit my teeth in annoyance. Since when am I into sweat and testosterone?

A whistle slices through my R-rated recollections, and Jake’s head swings around. Our eyes lock. A split-second eternity takes place before I snap my gaze to the ground. Too late—my cheeks blazing their own trail, burning bright for all to see.

“Oh my god, Jake Cunningham was checking you out!” Rani bursts out, attention flitting from him to me.

“Er, no. I know his sister,” I mumble, swiveling to the other end of the field, pretending to be engrossed in whatever they’re doing below. It looks like an intense game of “Let’s Crash Into Each Other” is underway, and I cringe as they collide. I truly, truly don’t understand the appeal. “Is he one of the more popular ones?” I ask without meaning to.

“Totally.” Rani loads up a gossip site on her phone and flashes the screen at me. The very first post is an all-too-familiar pose of Jake, handcuffs and all. She hands it to me, and I swipe through. Amidst photos of him at various games, one thing clearly comes through—Jake Cunningham certainly likes the ladies.

My stomach churns as I’m confronted with picture after picture. He doesn’t appear to have a type. There are thin girls and curvy girls, petite women and gazelle-like models. He’s been with ladies of all colors. Blondes to brunettes and everything in between, including a blue-haired punk rocker. Asian to ambiguous, blushing apricot complexions to rich, dark skin. The thing they all have in common? The expression of a woman well-satisfied.

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