Page 72 of Not Just a Trick Play

Deliverance. “I’ll go.”

Swiveling back to Rani, I force a smile. “Umm… I’ll just get those details sorted.” And with that, I make my hasty escape.

Rain batters me,a literal tongue-lashing for all last night’s poor decisions, leaving me a soggy biscuit in my drenched clothing with hair plastered to my scalp. Seriously, what did I announce to the world beyond the tours? And how am I supposed to come up with a plan I can share? Damn, and I’ve roped other people into this somehow, like Rani’s cousin.

What else did I forget about last night? I could have promised a kidney away or decided to name my first-born after a Wi-Fi password. Agreed to go on a reality TV show for competitive cheese sculpting. Pledged to speak only in Shakespearean verse for a month. I’m under what’s supposed to be a shaded area, trying to protect the AV camera, but the rain’s coming sideways.

My eyes land on Jake. The only man I suspect can fill in the blanks. And I need those details filled ASAP.The real question is how to approach him without raising suspicion.

I glance at the other players. Unless they already know I left with Jake, then there’s no use being sneaky. I look up at the pouring rain. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll drown before we have to rehash last night’s mess.

At least I’m not the only miserable sod out here. The rest of the coaching staff at the edge of the field wear identical expressions of gloom. Only the head coach seems unaffected by the weather, fully focused on the players running drills.

Perhaps I can pull off a tour or two? It’s not as if I haven’t thought about it—dreamed up routes and tidbits to share, stories I already tell myself when I pass certain spots.

In between taking photos of the team, I tap a couple of ideas on my phone. Getting more excited with each moment. Who was that woman from last night…and do we like her? She definitely seemed to be someone in control, brimming with possibility.

I picture ringing Gran, telling her I’m making my American adventure permanent. All of a sudden, it doesn’t sound so crazy.

A whistle cuts through my thoughts, jolting me out of my reverie.

The players head toward the sidelines, where their coaches stand, armed with clipboards and tablets. Some slump onto benches, clearly spent. Others, Jake included, accept water bottles being passed around.

I watch, dry-mouthed, as he whips off his helmet. He tosses his head to get the sweat and rain-slicked locks off his face and comes off looking like a shampoo commercial. I experimentally try shaking my own hair, but I just end up with a mouthful of wet strands.

He tips the bottle into his mouth, and I stand mesmerized. As if he can sense me, he turns in my direction, and a sudden warmth dashes away the chill for a moment.

Seconds later, he jogs over. A full-body shiver runs through me as he draws close. “I was wondering if you were going to make it in today.” His grin dissolves into a frown. “You’re cold,” he says accusingly, noting the goosebumps running up my skin.

He reaches for my arms and rubs them, up and down, oblivious to the looks coming our way. I slap his hands away.

“It’s fine.” I draw back. “I’m all right.”

I’m freezing.

A crease appears between his brows, then eases. “Sixty-nine, sixty-nine, sixty-nine. My locker number and combo.”

“How predictable.” My attempt at a smile falls flat. It’s too bloody cold, and my teeth chatter.

He must see my expression. “It’s so obvious, no one would think of it.” When I shiver again, his face goes serious. “There’s a raincoat in there. Be a good girl, and go grab it.”

I open my mouth, about to argue, but someone on the field shouts his name.

“Gotta run, Sweets.” He brings my fingertips to his lips. He turns and heads back to the formation, leaving my jaw hanging.

I sneak into the locker room, even though there is no need. Security isn’t on standby during closed practices.

My nose wrinkles at the stench that greets me when I enter. Eau de toes. Lovely.

I take quick steps with only a handful of the fluorescent lights to guide my way through the short tunnel, ignoring the cold tightness in my chest at being in this enclosed space.

The passage opens to a U-shaped cluster of tall, dark green lockers, each with air vents at the top and bottom, flanking low benches. Now, time to spot the digits. Sixty-nine, sixty-nine, sixty-nine.There.

I hurry over. Combination locks are built into the metal. I line up the numbers and the latch releases with a satisfying click.

Two photos are stuck to the inside of the door. The first one shows all seven Cunninghams, smiling wide, with Jeanine in the center of her brood. A pang of envy hits me at their closeness. Underneath is a shot of the Titans from their last Super Bowl win, taped to the locker with large googly-eyes.

I pivot to the locker’s innards. Three neat sections make up the narrow confines. My lips twitch at the party pack of Twizzlers on the short top shelf. The middle spot is the tallest, with a couple of suits, the ones they wear to and from games and a few casual pieces on hangers over a rod. Trainers sit in the lowest compartment.

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