Page 82 of Not Just a Trick Play

The silent disco tours are doing brilliantly, and while it’s not a moneymaker yet, I’m already dreaming up different ways to grow: music festival-themed experiences where guests get discounted tickets; exclusive birthday packages, where we visit record stores and curate the perfect soundtrack for the celebrant, earning me a cut; even a Madonna-inspired Hen Party tour for anyone embracing their “Like a Virgin” ethos.

In a moment of what I’m calling optimistic insanity, I spent what little I can spare on proper permits to formally establish the business. I’m betting on my future, even if it is a gamble.

And it seems to pay off because three days after filing the paperwork, an unexpected email lands in my inbox.

Subject: Partnership Opportunity: RhythmRoutes NYC Tours & Gotham Guides

Dear Amelia,

I hope this message finds you well. I’m Emily Thompson, Head of Partnerships for Gotham Guides. We’ve been closely following the rise of RhythmRoutes NYC, and we’re incredibly impressed with your innovative, music-based offerings.

We’d love to explore the possibility of collaborating to introduce something unique to the NYC tourism scene. The distinct themes and interactive elements of your tours align perfectly with our mission to provide clients with authentic and memorable New York adventures.

If you are open to discussing a potential partnership, we believe there’s potential for a mutually beneficial venture that would resonate with both our audiences.

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts.

Best regards,

Emily Thompson

Head of Partnerships, Gotham Guides

My mind reels—anestablished company like Gotham Guides has taken note of my business. After weeks of second-guessing myself, wondering if this whole idea was too niche or downright mad, it feels incredible to have someone else see the possibilities in it.

My fingers fly across the keyboard as I reply to Ms. Thomson, heart thudding. A few emails later, things get even more surreal—She dangles a possible investment in RhythmRoutes. Before long, we’re ironing out the logistics ofa private tour to give them a firsthand look at what I’ve been building.

Everything is falling into place, so the news that Terri’s cousin is returning earlier than expected and needs his sublet back doesn’t send me into a tizzy. Terri asks me if I want the contact information of a sharky real estate agent to help me find something else, and without a second thought, I say yes to that, too.

Amidst all this hustle, I’ve actually found myself enjoying football more than I ever expected. Being part of the Skybox Supports program and working with the Titans has been so fulfilling, I’m only now realizing how much I’ll miss it.

At the end of yet another winning game, I walk into the suite, balancing a box of swag. Jake’s on the opposite end, talking to some sponsor, completely unfazed by the tiny Batman clinging to his leg. God, my ovaries are practically writing him a handwritten proposal as he casually sips Gatorade, even as he rubs the kid’s head.

Maybe he senses my gaze because he turns and our eyes lock.

One moment he’s all smiles, the next, the jovial expression melts into a scowl. Did something happen with the sponsor?

He excuses himself and marches over, brows tight together. He takes hold of my arm and steers me away from the crowd.

“What the hell’s that?” he says, gesturing at my front as soon as we are out of earshot.

I blink. “What?” I glance down. Did I spill anything?

“Why are you in Barnes’s jersey?”

“Oh, I got assigned to Logan.” I shrug, but Jake doesn’t seem convinced. I point at Rani, who’s sporting his own number. “Rani’s in yours,” I add, helpfully.

A suspicious glint comes into his eyes, and I start, “Don’t make a sce?—”

In a sudden move, he spills his Gatorade onto my shirt.

I shriek, and conversations in the suite stop.

“Wardrobe malfunction,” he announces, unconcerned. “Oops,” he whispers to me, smirking as he grabs a jersey with his sixty-nine from the swag table and hustles me into a corner.

“Are you twelve?” I hiss, dabbing furiously at my drenched chest.

The top’s beyond saving. And so is this man, who—without an ounce of shame—goes, “Here, let me help you,” while already moving to strip it off me.

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