Page 98 of Not Just a Trick Play

“Same instructions. She just needs to say no comment.” A pause. “And to steer clear of teddy bears.” She shakes her head. “That’s a statement I never thought I would make.”

I nod, the weight of the situation settling on my shoulders. The playoffs, this team, Nurture NYC—there is plenty at stake, and yet, in that moment, my world seemed to narrow down to the worry about Amelia.

“Anything else?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want more bad news.

“That’s it. You’re good to go,” she dismisses me, but there’s nothing good about this.

The second I’m out of the office, I sprint to my locker, snatch my phone out of it, and hit the call button for Amelia so hard I nearly send it flying.

I pace in tight circles in the cramped space, my nerves on high alert. No answer. Shit, of course—she’s in the middle of her tour.

Gut in knots, I message her to get in touch as soon as she can.

I make my way back to the field with lumbering steps and a heavy heart. The guys slide me curious glances, which I ignore.

I keep screwing up. When I fumble, yet again, Connor shoots me a look that’s one part concern, one part curiosity, but I brush it off. There are more important things to deal with—like how to break the news to Amelia. And I have a feeling a truckload of Twizzlers wouldn’t do anything to soften the blow. Because nothing says “I’m sorry for the media storm about to explode” quite like red licorice.

The minute I’m done, I rush to Amelia’s place, letting myself in. She’s not home yet. I pace back and forth, my nerves jangling.

The click of the door signals her arrival, and her eyebrows arch in that adorable way when she spots me. “Jake? I thought you were swamped with practice this week?”

I force a smile. “Not too busy to get the scoop on your tours.” I’m desperate to know everything went smoothly before I have to shatter things.

She hangs up her coat and turns to me, her brows furrowing. “It was…strange.”

Strange is not what I want to hear. Strange is my new nightmare. “Oh?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual even while clenching my hands at my sides.

“There were people there more interested in taking photos of me, of all things. Lots of questions about you, too.”

“Not press?” I probe.

“I don’t think so. An influencer. Some sports podcaster. A couple of fans.”

She must see the worry flicker across my face, as she quickly adds, “I’m sure it will die down by tomorrow. I’m not all that interesting.”

I pull her for a hug, breathing in the scent of her hair. “You’re the most interesting thing to me, Sweets,” I murmur against her forehead, my declaration thick with truth. I press a kiss to her brow, a silent apology for the chaos about to land in her lap. Because things aren’t about to get better.

“Flatterer.” She chuckles against my chest, the vibrations tickling my ribs.

I heave out a sigh so laden with doom it could sink a ship, and her smile fades as she steps back to search my face. “What’s wrong?”

I swallow hard, and then the words burst out. “There-are-videos-and-photos-and-you-are-in-them-and-I’m-sorry.”

She just blinks. Once. Twice.

Slowly, I hand her my phone, the damning clip and pictures queued up, ready to turn our lives upside down. Our fingers brush as she takes it, and it feels like I’m passing over a grenade without a pin.

Her eyes flick over the images, and I watch the play of emotions over her face—surprise, confusion, and a dawning fear that she hastily tries to mask. “People will think this? That I was involved?”

“No!” Although they will.

Amelia keeps scrolling. “Don’t look at the comments,” I warn, a protective edge to my tone.

“Is this going to affect the playoffs? The charity. You? I can’t believe this is happening while you have to focus?” Her voice cracks.

That she’s worried about me pains me more. “Forget about all that. The foundation will be fine. The playoffs…they’ll be fine too. Might even sell more stuffed animals.”

“And me…?” Her words come out small, vulnerable.

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