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CHAPTER TWELVE

AMELIA

Dodgier still when I wake to a cryptic phone call the next morning, informing me I’m expected at a Bronx location promptly at 1:00 p.m. for a meeting with a Ms. Murray.

I stare at the screen, debating whether this mysterious job opportunity is worth pursuing. As I sift through my emails, I find a few more rejections, nudging me to at least check it out.

Three hours, two subway changes, and a wrong turn that has me circling the same block twice later, I’m gawking at a gray behemoth that matches the address.

At first sight, it appears as if I’ve stumbled upon the Death Star. Or maybe a modern-day colosseum, which is rather concerning since I’m not sure what kind of position I’m here for. I was somewhat indiscriminate toward the end of my application-submitting-spree, which means I might have elected to wrestle lions or enlisted as a Storm Trooper. Career limiting (ending) choices, both.

However, the signs identify the monstrosity in front of me as the stadium for the New York Titans. A football team. American football, that is. Not that I’m any better suited for work related to the sport. My limited knowledge is career limiting in and of itself.

Adding to my dismay is a giant poster mounted to the side of the building featuring an oval-shaped ball—if you can call it that, since it looks more like a dinosaur egg.

The reptilian potato doesn’t bother me so much as the figure clutching it, who bears more than a passing resemblance to Jake Cunningham. Who is a football player. Unless his beaming smile implies he’s hawking toothpaste. Either is a possibility. Both make him a celebrity.

I groan. And I called him a porn star. But that was his own fault. No wonder he was talking about all the crazy celebrities in this city. He’s probably part of that circle.

I harrumph. Not that I could be blamed if the man didn’t correct me, let me go on rambling on, and having me think he lived with his mother. Though I suppose he could be living with her.

No matter, now’s not the time to dwell on it, but it’s hard to ignore the strange giddiness that adds to the cocktail in my belly as I enter, mixing with my nerves to create a confusing soup of outrage, anxiety, and a bizarre sense of anticipation.

At the reception desk, a bubbly woman who introduces herself as Sara takes my information then escorts me through the structure constructed around a massive field. She walks me past the concession stands and public loos to a bank of lifts. Despite my usual discomfort, the roomy interior makes the journey up tolerable.

In seconds, we’re in a corporate area with several glass-walled offices and conference rooms, informing me our destination overlooks the twenty-yard line. If there’s any proof the game is primitive, it’s the archaic use of the imperial system, long after the rest of the world has gone metric.

I nod, dumbstruck, as she points out framed photos of hall-of-famers and rattles off player stats as if they should mean something. A large stuffed fellow whose name I’m told is Teddy the Titan sits in a corner.

Every fact and figure out of her mouth has me tensing further. Goodness, am I expected to know things? I keep a fake smile on my face and nod, meanwhile making mental notes to find a good resource on American football. After all, I’m a brave and brazen lass with access to YouTube.

As we pass other sharply dressed employees, I’m grateful for the gray business suit from Marks however, we are prepared to make an exception, given the…inauspicious beginning of your relationship with Jake Cunningham, and offer you a temporary position for the remainder of the regular season. Provided you can do the work.”

And keep your mouth shut. I hear her unspoken command, loud and clear.

“All I need is a chance,” I promise. Beggars can’t be choosers, and I’ll take anything at this point.

“So, Ms. Stevens, how much do you know about football?”

I straighten, summoning every ounce of my British backbone. I may not have planned for this, but I’m determined not to squander the opportunity.

“Plenty.”