Page 95 of Not Just a Trick Play

I lean down, give him a quick peck on his nose. “Time to get up.” I roll off the bed and pluck his T-shirt from the tangledsheets, and slip it over my head. It’s a comfy tent that smells of him.

He hits snooze for a few more minutes, before his phone goes off again. He grabs it and squints at the screen. Groaning, he sits up and stretches languidly. “Ugh. Coach wants us in extra early. I gotta get to the stadium.” He gets to his feet. “This week’s going to be brutal. I’m sorry, probably won’t see you much,” he says apologetically. “Practice will be insane, and then we fly out Thursday.”

“That’s perfectly all right,” I reassure him. “You need to focus. Besides, I’ll be busy too. The entire week’s booked solid, plus I have the Gotham Guides tour to prep for,” I say, even though a part of me already misses all this time together.

I fold his tuxedo and put it in his duffel while he gets ready to leave. He’s clothed now, in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans that makes me want to undress him all over again.

I trail him to the door, where he gives me one last lingering kiss. He pulls back, a hopeful expression on his face. “You sure I can’t convince you to come watch me kick some Sabretooth ass?”

My heart twinges in regret. “I wish I could, but the meeting with Gotham Guides vetting team is really important. I can’t exactly tell them, ‘Sorry, my boyfriend has a game. Can we reschedule?’ Even if I caught a flight right after the tour, I’d never make it.”

“I know. Figured it was worth another go. But I get it, Sweets. And don’t worry. You’re gonna crush it.”

“I promise to watch and cheer from here,” I assure him brightly. “And when it’s time for the Super Bowl, I’ll be there, front and center.”

I’m still on a happy high as I skip toward St. Mark’s, my trolley bag bouncing behind me. As the square comes into view,I notice a bustling crowd already assembled at my usual meeting spot.

Surely, they’re not all here for RhythmRoutes?

No matter, the more the merrier. I can adapt—maybe invite those without headsets to gather around for a closer listen or offer a subsequent tour at a discount to those willing to wait?

As I approach, a chirpy “Look, there she is!” cuts through the square’s hum.

My pulse stutters—this sort of fanfare is new. To confirm I’m the “she” they’re referring to, and not the contortionist behind me pretzeling herself into impossible shapes, I hoist my RhythmRoutes sign high. “Who’s here for the 10 AM tour?” I call, my voice riding the chilly breeze.

The crowd that surges forward seems better suited to a concert than my humble music walkabout. I tick names off against my list of registrants and start handing out headsets.

Most people eagerly snap them up. But one woman in a chiffon mini dress and thigh-high boots, more fitting for a fashion show than a December walking tour, steps back. “I’m good,” she declares, eyeing the headset like I’ve offered her a live eel. Her brows scrunch as she examines me. “You’re Amelia Stevens?”

I’m not entirely sure how I feel about her emphasis on “you’re,” but denying my identity in light of it would be overkill. Yes, I’m Amelia Stevens. No, I don’t normally wear a ball gown while giving tours.

I nod and offer her the headset once more. “You’ll miss the music segments without this.”

Apparently, it’s no great loss. “No, thanks. I don’t want to ruin the hair,” she fluffs out her blonde curls. Then, quick as a cat, she slings an arm around me. “But let’s take a selfie? My followers will adore this!” She snaps it before I can protest.

“Followers?” I blink.

“Yeah, I’m Sierra Fielding ofFootball Fashionista. You might’ve heard of me?” She beams.

I shake my head.

“Glamour meets gridiron?” she prods.

Still nothing from me.

“From the stands to the streets?” she tries once more, her smile faltering.

I nod dumbly. That seems to do the trick, and Sierra’s all chipper again. “Your gown on Saturday night was a hit. Ten footballs on my style scorecard! Some say it was all you, but then Jake Cunningham on anyone’s arm elevates the look.”

She inspects me anew as if I’m failing her now. Well, we can’t all dress to impress all the time, and I’m perfectly respectable in my tour-guide garb of jeans, trainers, my RhythmRoutes T-shirt and lanyard.

Then, from the throng, “So, you and Jake Cunningham—are you an item-item, or just a publicity stunt?” a girl asks, her voice a mix of nosy and envy.

I blink. Do I not look like girlfriend material? Tamping down a flutter of irritation, I say, “We are indeed an item.”

She seems skeptical, but on the off chance I’m telling the truth, she has me pose with my arms up by my ears, meant to mimic goalposts. I’m unconvinced, but the wild intensity in her eyes suggests it’s wiser to play along.

A few tour-goers shuffle restlessly. Nearby, a child pulls napkins from a food cart dispenser and launches them at pigeons—his parents seemingly unbothered by his antics. Meanwhile, others in the group wait impatiently as I distribute the rest of the headsets.

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