Page 96 of Not Just a Trick Play

Once everyone’s kitted out, it’s go time. “Good morning, music lovers!” I call out. “Welcome to RhythmRoutes, where we dig deep into the musical soul of New York.”

I begin with the usual spiel of the East Village and point out the old Astor Place Opera House and the riots that took place there.

Some people seem into what I’m saying, but more than a few are visibly distracted, their gazes flicking between the colorful murals painted on the historic building and me. While I don’t always have fans on this tour, there isn’t usually this level of disinterest. I try to mix up the music, so there’s something for everyone, but keep catching sneaky phone lenses directed my way, accompanied by giggles.

I muster up a smile, turning to the next landmark “…and this is Madonna’s first apartment,” I say, cuing up one of my favorite tracks to give life to the story. A girl in a Titans sweatshirt sidles over, eyes all sparkle and gossip.

“Do you see yourself using Jake’s fame to kick start your own music career?”

I almost snort. Me? A musician? “No,” I reply curtly, eager to keep things on track.

People fidget. We’ve been loitering longer than warranted.

“And here we have the Fillmore—” I begin anew, only for a phone to be thrust in my face, red recording button going.

“Pardon me?” Stepping back, I maintain my cool. “Sir, all the content is available via the headsets. Something wrong with yours?”

“Quick sound bite for my podcast? People wanna know—what do you think the Titans’ chances are against the Sabretooths?”

“Umm…go Titans?” I offer, recognizing the edge in my voice, the one that slips in when I’m trying not to be annoyed, but it’s creeping in anyway.

Meanwhile, the true fans in the crowd grow increasingly restless, their expressions souring like old milk.

“Hey,” says a girl in a vintage band shirt, “Could we maybe get back to the tour? We’re here for the music.”

Right she is. And with that, I refocus. Sometimes you just need to tune out the noise and crank up the soundtrack.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

JAKE

I burstthrough the defensive line, leaving them scrambling yet again as I snatch Logan’s perfectly thrown pass out of the air.

Sprinting toward the end zone, I spot an opening and race for it. Four yards from touchdown, a piercing whistle breaks through the ruckus, halting the action.

Seriously? I was on the cusp of nailing a play that would have set the crowd roaring—well, if there had been one.

But no, instead of applause, it’s Coach’s voice booming across the field, “Cunningham. Jessica Murray wants to see you. Now.” He’s so succinct it’s impressive. Note to self: brevity equals bad news.

As I go upstairs, I’m ticking off the checklist of potential disasters. Plays? Flawless. Gala? Could’ve put James Bond to shame with my charm. We raised more money than any year past.

Maybe she’s calling me in to congratulate me? Not her usual MO, but stranger things have happened.

The office is a fridge, but Jessica’s stare? Arctic.

There’s no hello. No how-do-you-do. Just the screech of her spinning her iPad and skating it across the glass desk to me. I brace myself, half-expecting to see my football career’s obituary.

But no, it’s a keyframe on the screen, grainy, black and white, and from a different angle, butin a room that’s etched in my brain for all the wrong reasons. I’m on the bed.

Something about the image is off, and I can’t pinpoint what.

My stomach churns. I thought we were done with that bullshit. Looks as if the media frenzy is getting a sequel.

It’s fine. I can deal. The gala’s over, and after we beat the Sabretooths, this will be history.

I sink into the chair across from her. My heart’s thumping like it does when I’m lining up on the 4th and goal.

“Hit play.”

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