Page 100 of Not Just a Trick Play

Another fellow, maybe a rival, eyes him, then raises a hundred-dollar bill in the air. Before I can even process what’s happening, green-visored-grunter snatches it from his grip, swapping the cash for his headset and drags his squawking partner away. The newcomer turns to me, flashing a smug, victorious grin. My stomach twists, but I force a tight smile, doing my best to hide the sting.

I launch into my spiel aboutThe Cube, increasing my own volume over the questions and herding the group over to the first stop. Some reporters drop back, but my new “guests” are persistent, dogging us.

A voice breaks through. “Are you pregnant with Jake Cunningham’s child?”

That’s quickly followed by a hooting. “Bet it’s not for a lack of trying!” Snickers sound.

“…Arlington Hall, you could catch?—”

“When are you due?” This isn’t even from a press person, but from one of the curious onlookers, the same guy who was checking his phone earlier. I thought he was verifying the details, but now it’s obvious his interest is more in me than the sights.

“I…ah.” My feet glue themselves to the pavement, and I swear I can feel every eyeball on the tour laser-focused on my belly. I laugh hysterically internally. The only thing in there is a ball of despair, not a baby. I mutter another “No comment,” before quickly moving to the next stop, everyone trailingbehind as I rattle off facts about the Fillmore East and gesture dramatically at the lamppost outside.

We pass a sex shop on the way to Madonna’s first apartment, and one guy asks why I’m not pointing it out. “Supposed to be the best place for ball-gags!”

“Bet she’d look good with a ball gag on.” A snicker follows.

Why should it be any of their business if I’m a fan of ball gags or not?

Of course, that’s followed up with: “Have you or Jake ever shopped at a store like this before?” And then: “Are toys something you’re personally interested in, or was it all just for the prank?”

With each stop, my intended audience shrinks, replaced by a growing horde of reporters who seem to spring from the concrete.

By the time we reach Avenue A, only two couples remain. One woman keeps shooting irritated glances at the press and then pointed stares at me as though waiting for me to put a stop to it.I’m trying, lady. I really am.

But not to her standards because halfway through, she yanks off her headphones and marches up to me. “We’re leaving.” She nods to the group of vultures still eagerly snapping away. “We’ll get a refund.” It’s not a question. Dumbly, I nod. Because what else can I do?

At the end of the day, I’m perched on the edge of my bed, my gaze drifting to the RhythmRoutes sign. It’s a silent reminder of mounting pressures, but I push those thoughts aside as I wait for Jake’s face to pop up on my phone.

He’s seen the photos and the gossip that’s been posted and has been sending me comforting messages throughout the day. They boost my mood briefly, but then my mind spirals back into the chaos.

As promised, at exactly 7 p.m., the screen lights up, and there he is, still at the stadium, looking as weary as I feel. But he flashes the familiar smile that never fails to lift my spirits. “Hey, you.”

“I miss you.” The words tumble out before I can catch them.

“You okay?”

I manage a half-hearted shrug. “Not great. But I’m managing.” I muster up a brave front. “How do you handle all this madness?”

Jake scrubs a hand through his hair, but his voice is reassuring. “It’ll die down, Sweets. Trust me.”

His smile turns cocky. “And hey, after we win on Saturday, they’ll have something else to chatter about, and the focus will be back on me and my awesomeness.”

I give a small laugh at that. Off-screen, someone calls out to him, and he looks away for a second. “Be right there!” he hollers before turning back to me apologetically. “Sorry, Sweets. I only had a few minutes, but I wanted to hear your voice.”

“It’s fine. Take care.”

“Hang in there, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

Even after he hangs up, I keep staring at the screen. For those precious moments, I was transported away from all the craziness of the day, the weight of judgement, gossip, and cameras, and the nagging anxiety around money.

But now the reality of my situation sets back in. This is the new normal. A niggling thought worms its way through me. None of this, absolutely none of it, would have happened in Fordwich, where the biggest drama was a double booking. Oh yes, and the man you’re with, showing up with his pregnant fiancée.

Fine. So notthatmuch better. But at least it wouldn’t be in your face.

Tomorrow, I tell myself. It will be better tomorrow.

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