Page 54 of Not Just a Trick Play

Corrine is speaking again, “And right here, George Washington took the oath that made him the first president of the United States,” but her voice is barely piercing through the buzz. The group has fragmented into clusters: women on one side, mostly observing the men forming the ever-expanding Jake Cunningham fan club, and a few stragglers like me.

I spot a man fumbling with his phone, trying to take a selfie with the imposing statue. “Need a hand with that?” I offer.

“Would you? That would be amazing, thanks!”

He hands me his device with a relieved smile. After I capture a few well-angled shots, Corrine’s now on the Bill of Rights.

“So, tourist, history buff, or looking to partner up?” I ask, leaning casually against the cool stone of the historic building.

“A little of all three, I guess,” he admits, taking his phone back and pocketing it. “Actually, it’s my first day off in weeks. I’ve been swamped with work—law firm life in Long Island.”

“Oh, I understand. I just started a new position myself, and honestly, I’m drowning. Should be glued to some tutorial videos, but here I am,” I confess, sharing my plight. “My friend insisted I needed sunlight more than screen time.”

He chuckles, his laughter warm and genuine. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jake notice our interaction, but I pay him no mind.

My companion adds, “Nothing wrong with playing hooky for a day. Sometimes, you’ve got to step away to see things clearer, right?”

Just as I’m warming to the idea of a potential tour buddy if not a romantic partner, disaster strikes in the form of Jake Cunningham, doing his best impression of a peacock at mating season. He’s loudly narrating yesterday’s game, complete with grand gestures and booming bravado.

“…and there I was, fourth and goal. Seventeen seconds left. Coach decides to go for it, and I think, ‘This is it. This is the moment…’”

My new acquaintance’s attention drifts, hooking onto the drama. “Is that…Jake Cunningham?” he murmurs, awe coloring his tone.

“Yeah, that’s him,” I reply flatly. Another one lost to Jake’s siren’s call.

“Oh, wow, I heard someone say his name, but I didn’t really…” His voice trails off as he watches Jake describe dodging linebackers as if they were slow-moving toddlers.

“I guess he’s hard to miss today,” I quip.

He gives me a sheepish grin, torn but ultimately swayed by the gravitational pull of celebrity. “Maybe I could…” he mutters, already inching toward the growing crowd.

“Go ahead. Catch that story—it’ll be something to tell,” I say with a resigned smile.

I wave him off to go to bask in the glow of Jake’s celestial presence. So much for my womanly wiles.

Corrine’s on the move again. Four or five of us follow her. The rest are locked in on Jake.

That’s when I spot another woman, also abandoned, giving me a “can you believe this?” look. She sidles up beside me, her stylish bob bouncing as we meander down Pine Street, observing the Pied Piper of starstruck, slightly pervy, armchair quarterbacks energetically mime a football play, transforming a casual anecdote into an epic reenactment.

“Gah. I thought flirting would be easier. At this rate, I might as well invest in an automatic friend, even though I’d rather have a hands-on job,” she laments.

I laugh at her words.

As another hapless bloke succumbs to Jake’s gravitational pull, she sighs dreamily. “But the man is so gorgeous, it’s kind of hard to blame them.”

She has a point, and truth be told, I’m glad the men have edged out the women who were flocking to Jake earlier.

The lady who’d smiled at me when I’d been trying to distract Brad, joins our little gallery of the spurned. “She’s not wrong,” she chuckles, eyeing Jake. “Now that’s a bull I wouldn’t mind taking by the…horns.”

Jake’s theatrics continue, something about “fourth down and glory on the line” echoing down the street, prompting her to turn to me. “I really liked what you said earlier about the bull and those protests. Makes you realize there’s more to Wall Street than money.”

“Absolutely,” I agree as we stroll. “Familiar with Rage Against the Machine?” Both women nod.

My enthusiasm builds. “Well, back in 1999, they made the music video for ‘Sleep Now in the Fire,’ close to where we assembled. They were only supposed to shoot on the steps of the New York Stock Exchange but ended up causing such a ruckus, trading stopped for the day.”

I drop my voice, and people gather in. “Rumor has it that when the director was hauled off by the NYPD, he yelled, ‘no matter what happens, don’t stop playing!’”

Somehow, my audience has expanded. Anybody who hasn’t latched on to Jake has joined me.

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