Page 60 of Not Just a Trick Play

The arrangement works spectacularly. We see each other at the stadium, of course. Most of the time, I’m able to pass off our interactions as Skybox Supports business, of which there’s plenty. But I’m Ms. Professional whenever he stops by to chat. If you don’t count that incident under the bleachers. Or in the women’s bathroom. Or against the door of the second storage room, safely out of the security camera’s view. Not so professional then.

I haven’t been to his place, but he has the entry codes to my flat, and when we’re not at work, he sees himself in. We never leave the stadium together. Usually, he’ll have me to go ahead. He’s suggested I wait on a street corner a few blocks down from the exit, and he’d pick me up. The moment I heard “street corner” and “pick up,” I declined.

After that first night at my hotel, he’s been good about leaving after the sex. Not so rude that he rolls out without so much as a by-your-leave because he does hold me for a while after. I like those moments. More than once, I’ve fallen asleep, even though I don’t think these naps ever last more than a few minutes. I try to force myself to stay awake, but it’s impossible.My head nestles under his chin, his arm loops around my waist. One hard thigh comes between mine, and I’m out in a blink. He’s always gone when I wake up.

A few other things have resolved themselves. After some digging, it turns out the Salacious Stella of the handcuffing fame was the host’s niece and had access to the Airbnb. I received a full refund and, to my surprise, was also offered another batch of baked goods. I took the money. I refused the muffins.

And then there’s the Halloween hoopla. Decorations have popped up all over the place. Even Teddy the Titan’s swapped his usual gold jersey for a Dracula get-up—cape, fangs, and all.

I’ve never given much thought to the holiday except to stock up on sweets to distribute at the inn and drape a few cobwebs over the reception desk, but in New York, it’s a thing. A big thing. Big enough to rival Christmas because every faith, creed, and health nut can dress up (according to Jake’s logic, at least).

Besides the parade and trick-or-treating, parties are springing up like teacups at a village fête. Milo and Hunter are hosting a bash, and the whole Skybox Supports team is on the guest list.

I tried playing the “I’ve got nothing to wear” card and ended up being hit with a barrage of low-effort costume ideas, everything from wrapping myself in a sheet like a bargain-bin ghost to attaching a bunch of spice jars to a belt and calling myself a Spice Girl. Eventually, I caved and agreed to having Connor’s girlfriend, well known for her up cycling business, whip something up for me.

Yvonne and I snatch every opportunity to hang out amidst her kaleidoscope of odd jobs. I’ve happily accompanied her to the Halloween Dog Parade, and she’s been a loyal companion at countless concerts across all five boroughs—even allowing me to drag her to so-called “wilds” of New Jersey. In return, sheroped me into a late-night karaoke league where she proceeded to laugh her arse off at my pitch-challenged vocals.

I’ve also gotten to know her family better, tagging along for babysitting duty where her sisters half-jokingly (I hope) warned me not to let her transform their children into mini anarchists. They’ve gently advised that I refrain from letting her talk me into a side hustle as a professional cuddler. Guilt roots itself into my chest, and every time we meet is another brick on my conscience as I secretly carry on with her brother.

I continue to dodge Yvonne’s matchmaking efforts and ignoring cheeky dating advice that ranges from “No anal on the first date” and “Never trust a man who doesn’t like dogs” to “If he won’t go down, don’t keep him around.” No issues with that last one.

Finally, there’s Gran, whose doubtful pauses seem to stretch with every new flimsy excuse I find for extending my stay.

In the whirlwind of it all, Jake’s idea keeps looping in my head. Musical tours. Temptation buzzes in me whenever I think of it. I’ve scoured the internet and found similar options, but nothing that matches what I keep imagining. But given the current state of my chaotic life… I sigh.

Another Skybox Supports event wraps up, and dare I say I may be getting the hang of these things? Today’s performance? Shockingly, not entirely a train wreck. In fact, I might go as far as to suggest I had fun. At a football game. A sequence of words, I Amelia Stevens, never anticipated would cross my lips.

It hasn’t been without its challenges. At present, I’m stewing in my own sweat, swaddled from top to toes in layers upon layers of bandages that were “aged” in tea. What a tragic waste. Little slits were cut out for my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth—because you know, breathing. A tattered, black and white striped shirt and a cap that’s seen better days complete my transformation to Mummy Referee.

A young chap, somehow misled by my costume, concluded I was some kind of sports authority and asked me to explain a “play action pass.”

I fumbled through my sentences, conscious of the vigilant forces tuned in to my every word. Thank heavens, he didn’t broach the topic of extra points—that lesson had come with a very adult-only demonstration.

“Touchdown,” Jake’s voice is harsh in my ear. I’m still on my hands and knees, trembling from my orgasm, and his hand is around me, cupping my breast. “What say we try for the two-point conversion,” he growls against my shoulder, the scruff of his chin abrading my skin in the most delicious manner.

I didn’t quite grasp what he meant, but Jake’s nothing if not a determined educator. After tweaking my nipple, his fingers glide down my belly to toy with my clit, making me tingle. He descends farther, but instead of slipping into me, he ghosts past my lower lips.

“That’s the fake,” he whispers. Before I can process the ruse, his other hand skims up between the cheeks of my arse. “And this,” he purrs, “is the unexpected pass.” My grip tightens on the sheets, heart racing as he circles the rim, not entering, just hinting at the possibility.

He drops a kiss right above the crease. “There,” his tone is all smug satisfaction. “Isn’t that worth a whole extra star of its own?”

That recollection has me passing the rest of the game in a full-body flush, exacerbated by my mummy ensemble. Thankfully, the players are finishing up with our guests, signing jerseys and taking selfies.

I’ve just distributed the last of the Titan Teddys, peeling back a few strips of the bandages covering my face to coax a littlegirl out from behind her chaperone to take it, when an all-too-familiar clacking of heels halts by me.

“You did well today.” The words are spoken with candid sincerity. I spin around, half-expecting a heat-induced hallucination. But no, before me stands Jessica Murray, impeccable in a purple suit. While not in costume, she’s every bit a modern-day Maleficent.

“Thank you,” I manage to say.

She nods regally. As she leaves, I catch Jake’s shocked stare which likely mirrors my own. His mouth curls up into a grin that has my core clenching. His eyes glint and he mouths, “Later,” before turning to sign a jersey for a lingering sponsor.

After the final stragglers depart, I exhale a long sigh of relief and begin to pack up the leftover swag. The cleaning crew is already bustling about, eager to tidy up after the day’s extended events.

As I lift a box, Jake swoops in to snag it from me. “I’ve got it.”

I shoot him a frown, peppering him with silent commands.Put it down. Now. Slowly. Or face my wrath.

Only when Connor takes a bag of jerseys from Rani do I allow the mental missives to soften to a grudging,Yes, you can be a gentleman now. Please and thank you.

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