Page 78 of Not Just a Trick Play

“Here we have Johnny, Joey, Dee Dee, and Tommy Ramone standing against what was once that graffiti-covered wall. Take a closer look. Notice that Johnny is on his tiptoes? Being the shortest, he didn’t want the rest of the band towering over him, while Joey, at a whopping six-foot-six, is slouching in true punkstyle. This pose is one of the most imitated album covers of all time!”

My group immediately starts posing for selfies in the same stance, capturing the moment. Their enthusiasm fuels my growing confidence, and my initial nerves melt into a burgeoning thrill. Everything runs smoothly from then on.

We’re nearing the end of the tour, and I haven’t lost a single person. In fact, a few random tourists have even joined along the way, snapping photos of my sign, scanning the QR code, and asking for registration details between stops.

By the final stop, all my anxiety has evaporated, replaced by excitement. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, I prepare to wrap up. “I hope you can feel the pulse of punk rock history beneath your feet,” I say, pausing to let it sink in. “From its early days with the Ramones and Blondie, to later acts like Korn and Green Day, CBGB was more than a club—it was a revolution. Even though it closed in 2006, the spirit of punk lives on, immortalized in festivals and in the stories shared by fans like you.”

I glance around at the crowd. Some nod subtly, while others are focused, as if piecing together everything they’ve heard. A few have that spark of wonder in their eyes, as if they’re seeing the city from a fresh perspective. It’s a quiet but unmistakable interest, and a sense of satisfaction washes over me, knowing I’ve connected them to this part of New York’s history.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed your journey through the East Village and Lower East Side as much as I’ve loved guiding you. If you had a good time, I’d be thrilled if you could share RhythmRoutes NYC with your friends and family. And if you could spare a moment to leave me a Google review, it would mean the world to me and help others discover these fascinating stories.”

When I pause, my last words ringing in the air, something incredible happens. People clap. They actually clap! A college girl rushes up, saying she’s looking forward to filling in her roommates. An older gentleman tips his hat and remarks how he learned new information about the neighborhood he’s lived in for years.

As the crowd disperses, sending appreciative nods my way, I can’t wait to tell Jake that RhythmRoutes NYC isn’t just a tour; it’s an opening act to something brilliant.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

JAKE

I’mon top of the fucking world. We’re getting closer and closer to playoffs. Nurture NYC is pleased with Skybox Supports, and the money is rolling in.

Extreme Exposé cut us a fat check to keep the Titans’ lawyers at bay and swore Stella wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Since I doubt they’ve resorted to murder, I’m not spending a single second feeling guilty about it.

Best of all, I’m with Amelia. Even though we’re still sneaking around like a couple of lovesick ninjas, there’s this fresh, electric energy buzzing between us. It’s as if we’re on the brink of something amazing, something that looks like a future.

Instead of heading out after sex, I stay. We cook together and watch TV and fuck. And after fucking, we cuddle up and fall sleep, my big spoon to her little one.

The few times we do venture out, we stick to spots where I can keep a low profile. I’m ready to shout our relationship to the world, but Amelia’s twitchy about making things public because of her job with the Titans. I get it. After that crap with Pencil Dick, she’s a bit gun-shy. But seriously, it’s not like we’ll be a scandal. Amelia’s the personification of a good girl, and we’re as controversial as a pair of old slippers. No drama, no mess.Nobody’s going to bat an eye if we step out as the world’s most boring couple.

I’m counting down the days until the sneaking around stops because while I’m happy to fuck her in private, I’m even more excited to claim her in public.

Amelia’s tour business is gaining steam, too. I was able to arrange for her to buy headsets from an AV guy at the stadium, and things took off from there, exactly as I predicted. She’s already giving tours a few evenings after work and on the weekends.

I arrive at her place on a Friday night, buzzing to see her after a series of away games. New York welcomed me back with one of its famous weather whiplashes—today’s freezing, though it was warm enough for shorts only last week.

Letting myself into her apartment, I sing out, “Honey, I’m home!” as I kick off my shoes and drop my jacket.

Amelia’s curled up on the couch, her knees drawn up to her chest. Multiple collars surround her neck, making her resemble an onion.

Am I supposed to peel them back? Are we getting ready for the world’s longest game of strip poker? Count me in.

But then I feel the chill creeping through the room. “Jesus, why’s it so cold?”

“The radiator is having a hissy fit. I’ve rung the superintendent. They’ll be sending someone along.”

“When?”

“Shortly.”

Shortly, my ass. “Shortly” is super-speak for “lie.”

I flop down next to her and pull her close. Her lips are warm, but her fingertips are torture. She slides them under my shirt, making me jump and yelp. “God, Amelia, your fingers are freezing!”

She smiles at me devilishly, clearly pleased with herself. I shake my head and grab her hands, rubbing them between mine. Then, taking one for the team, press them against my cheeks.

“It’s not that bad,” she protests.

Debatable. I nod at the thermos on the coffee table. “Please tell me there’s booze in that.”

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