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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

JAKE

The remainder of practice sucks just as bad, and I’m sore as shit when it’s over. I need a night in after the last couple of days, so when the guys suggest drinks, I pass and head home.

The moment I step through my front door, I drop my gear and kick off my shoes, making a beeline for the kitchen. Hunger gnaws at me, but a quick look in the fridge reveals a wasteland of unappealing leftovers. So, I do what any self-respecting, stressed-out athlete does: I cave and order a pity-party pizza. It’s not exactly diet-approved during the season, but hey, today calls for it.

While waiting for my delivery, I hop into the shower, willing the scalding cascade to magic away the stress of the day. I try to focus on something else.

Of course, the first thing that pops into my head is Amelia in her interview outfit, all business and buttoned-up. Muscles elsewhere tense, and heat pools low in my abs. Fantastic. Brain, meet Body. Body, meet Betrayal.

I clamp my eyes shut, trying to scrub away the image of her.

No luck.

Instead, she’s here, naked, with water cascading down her back, her fingertips tracing down my skin. The fire intensifies as my imagination spirals into overdrive.

Before I can do something stupid like take care of my hard-on, the doorbell rings. I throw on comfy sweats. After autographing the receipt for the delivery guy, I collapse onto the couch, all set to savor my pepperoni prize. There’s a second of pure bliss as I bite down, the cheesy perfection almost enough to drown out everything else. Almost.

The apartment is eerily quiet, save for the sound of my chewing. Not a shocker. This is the penthouse of a Tribeca high-rise. But tonight, the silence is so thick I can hear myself think, and who the fuck wants to hear themselves think on a Friday night when the rest of the city is partying?

I flick on ESPN, then switch to Survivor reruns, hoping for mental immunity from thoughts of Amelia. But the island challenge turns treacherous as my mind casts her as a contestant rated way beyond prime time.

Did I doom myself by getting her that interview with the Titans? But I’m up to any test. Just need to think of the bigger prize. Nurture NYC. Super Bowl. Sanity.

After a while, I decide to call it a night. But sleep doesn’t come thanks to the erection I’m struggling to ignore. I toss and turn for a solid hour. I start with the sheep—fluffy, mind-numbing sheep. Then, I’m counting the tiles on the ceiling, conducting a detailed survey of my thread count, anything to knock myself out. Nothing’s cutting it.

In a moment of weakness, my hand begins a solo mission southward, but I clench my fist tight before it ventures past my abs. Out of sheer desperation, I consider seeing if the guys are still out. Might be an idiotic idea, considering what happened the last time I went looking for excitement. But better than imagining things I shouldn’t. But instead of opening the usual group chat, I’m pulling up another number.

This isn’t a booty call. It’s a brain cleanse. Maybe if I text her, I can eject her from my skull.

Me

So, you got the gig?

I already know the answer.

I wait. She’s probably asleep.

Sweets

Who is this?

Me

Your favorite adult entertainment star.

Sweets

Very funny. How did you get my number?

Me

My sister can be helpful. Sometimes. I needed to pass it along to Jessica.

Me

So, the job—got it?

Sweets

I did!

Her elation practically leaps off the screen. Pretty damned sure my grin mirrors the one she’s sporting right now.

Me

Congratulations.

Sweets

Thank you.

Me

What position?

Sweets

I’ll be helping Margie Cuenca.

Me

Cool. Marge’s great.

Sweets

She seems nice. She broke her leg recently, so I’ll be assisting as required.

Me

Well, at least you won’t be stuck with Jessica.

Sweets

She was rather intimidating.

I snort. Intimidating, my ass.

Me

She’s a monster.

Sweets

I kind of want to be her when I grow up.

My laughter echoes in the silent room, and then I’m eagerly typing out a response.

Me

Putting my hands over my ears and eyes now. Nah-nah-nah

There’s a pause in the conversation while I wait for telltale dots to form. Did she fall asleep?

Sweets

Jake…I meant to say thank you.

A slow, simmering warmth spreads through me at her simple message. I did a good thing, arranging the interview. Being around her isn’t going to turn my world upside down, is it?

I puff out a breath. Who am I kidding? Having her close will be like walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls while juggling flaming flamingos.

Me

You’re welcome.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, suddenly heavy. I’m usually Mr. Chatterbox, the guy who can fill any silence. Funny how, in a family where you have to fight to be heard, I’ve never struggled to find words. Until now.

Me

Did you do any touristy stuff after your interview?

Small talk, this is what I’ve been reduced to. Seriously, what’s next? Chatting about the weather?

Sweets

Yes, I walked through Central Park and Columbus Circle.

Me

Wasn’t too cold?

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Me

More tomorrow?

Sweets

Yes. I’ve got plans in the morning.

My brows pinch together. Plans? What plans? And with who? Not that it’s any of my business. I crack my neck. But I refuse to pry and take it as my cue to let her go, though every fiber in me revolts.

Me

You’re going to be a zombie if you don’t get some sleep.

I expect her to agree, for our digital back-and-forth to tuck itself in for the night. I turn on my side, preparing for another futile attempt at some Zs. Our conversation has done zilch to help with the hard-on situation raging under the sheets.

Sweets

I’m getting ready to go out.

That has me bolting upright, my drowsy haze evaporating. Is she serious? She can’t be walking around on her own at this time of the night. I mean, it’s safe. Very safe. But she’s from small-town England. Who knows what kind of trouble she’ll stumble into?

Maybe more just like you?

Exactly what I’m afraid of.

Me

It’s midnight.

Sweets

In the city that never sleeps.

Before I even finish reading her message, I’ve sprung out of bed and hauling on my jeans from earlier, tugging them on single-handedly as my fingers fly across the keyboard.

Me

What if you get attacked by giant roaches?

I snatch the first sweater from the neatly folded pile in my closet, grab the jacket I’d thrown over the chair by the door, thankful to find a Yankees cap sticking out of one pocket.

Sweets

I’ll be fine. I can look after myself, remember? Besides, I’m sure I can handle a roach or two.

Fuck it. What’s a little more self-inflicted torture?

Me

Stay put. I’m coming to get you. And I’m bringing roach repellant.

Only in the subterranean gloom of my building’s parking does it hit me—keys are upstairs. Uber claims a driver is three minutes from me—a quick fix. Amelia won’t stick around forever, and I can’t risk her slipping away.

In twenty, I exit the car to find her waiting a few steps above me, framed by the hotel’s sliding doors.

The sight of her sends a jolt straight to my chest, my heart pounding as if I’ve sprinted every block here, instead of rolling up in a trusty Toyota Camry.

A flirty gray skirt flutters around her knees, and the edges of her denim jacket flaps open over a purple top that highlights the elegance of her collarbones. And that’s when I know I’m in real trouble, because who the fuck thinks of sexy collarbones?

Her makeup is more dramatic than I’ve seen before, her lashes darker, highlighting shimmery lids. The deep pink that stains her lips ignites a sudden primal urge to see that color on my cock.

My hands clench and unclench, desperate to touch but knowing I can’t. My pulse quickens, each beat echoing in me like a drum as my skin prickles with anticipation.

Awareness crackles between us. I’m at a loss for words. “ I want to yank off that jacket and lick your neck ” probably wouldn’t be welcome. Or wise.

Before I can spit something out to lighten the mood, she beats me to it. “You’re making quite the habit of popping up at the most unusual times,” she quips, crossing her arms, a glimmer of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“It’s a gift,” I respond, relieved the words I finally choke out sound playful.

A slight breeze flirts with her hair, and she gathers the lapels of her jacket, pulling them together. The dim light catches the coppery buttons, and my attention. Jesus, her tits. I barely suppress a groan as another wave of heat surges through me.

Ripping my gaze away, I adjust my baseball cap lower over my eyes and slip on a pair of dark glasses—a standard feature in all my pockets—as a group of bro-types in T-shirts printed with the Houston Hawks logo passes us. We’ll be playing them in a couple of weeks.

Amelia watches me fiddle as she descends the stairs. “I can’t decide if you’re trying to go incognito or not. Really, sunglasses at this time of night? Not able to deal with the shimmer of the city lights?” she teases, her British lilt wrapping around her words. “Doesn’t that just scream, ‘Look at me, I’m famous?’”

I shrug. “Reverse psychology. Dress like a star, and everyone figures it’s too obvious to be true. They look right past you.”

Her brow arches in eloquent doubt. “And such logic works?”

“New Yorkers are too consumed by their own lives to care,” I say with a confident nod. “And let’s face it, in the sea of actual celebrities here, I’m just another fish. A very handsome fish, but still.”

The edge of her mouth lifts in a smirk that’s slowly becoming my weakness. It takes every bit of my self-control to resist the urge to adjust my jeans. “So tell me, where are we headed?” I inquire, my voice sounding more like a rusty door hinge. So much for being a smooth operator.

Amelia mentions a bar famous for its live music. And even more infamous for being a hookup haven. So, no. Hard no. I pause.

She stops. “You have a better plan?”

“I do.” I gesture to the street behind us. Not my first choice—that would be to take her upstairs, flip the “Do Not Disturb” sign on her door, and get naughty under the blankets.

She eyes me doubtfully.

“Trust me. Chop, chop.” I take off down the block.

“Chop, chop, he says,” Amelia grumbles under her breath as she hurries to catch up, causing me to suppress a chuckle, before turning south on MacDougal, into the heart of NYU territory.

It’s Friday, and the city’s buzzing. People spill out into the street from bars and restaurants, comedy clubs and tattoo parlors, and I place my hand at the base of her spine, steering her away from the rowdiest. Mostly, we walk in silence, catching random snippets of conversations that drift our way. A college-aged guy threatens to self-combust if there’s another pop quiz on quantum mechanics, earning groans from his friends at his punny joke. Some dude’s munching on a taco, raving about its unholy yet miraculous fusion of al pastor with durian.

Then, a couple, presumably a woman and her boyfriend, wander our way, engrossed in a heated debate. “I’m telling you, restraints can be a great addition to any relationship. Bondage’s like the extreme trust exercise,” she pitches, a determined gleam in her eyes.

Her proclamation hangs in the air as Amelia and I turn to each other simultaneously. The corner of her mouth quivers, and she bites her lower lip. I toss her a look of mock terror as the pair passes, silently mouthing “Don’t do it, kid” while miming a slashing motion across my throat, sending her into another fit of giggles.

The sound of it sends a ripple of satisfaction through me, and I soak it in. Making the poised and proper Amelia crack is a heady feeling. It’s a rush, an ego boost of the best kind. Yep. Still got it.

A smug grin that pulls at my mouth. As we round the corner onto Bleecker, I start to say, “Check out—” That’s as far as I get before my senses go haywire, a creepy-crawly coldness snaking up my neck.

Instinct kicks in, and I grab Amelia, yanking her to me. She slides me a startled look, mirroring the adrenaline zipping through me as she scans our surroundings with alarm. “What’s wrong?” she demands.

“Rat!” I blurt, right as the culprit re-emerges from the shadows, darting straight into our path. It stops a few feet in front of us, almost as if it scents my agitation.

I remind myself that the cat-sized fucker’s nothing but a glorified hamster. But when it makes a move in our direction, I jerk again, and before I can help it, I’m dashing across the street, Amelia in tow, glancing over my shoulder repeatedly to make sure the creature hasn’t followed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I pant as I stumble to a stop, still shuddering once we’re safely on the other side.

Amelia pulls away and stares at me in disbelief as realization sets in. “Good heavens, all this fuss over a rat?” She shakes her head. “And here I thought you were bringing roach repellent.”

Indignant, I snap back, “Rats and roaches aren’t allies! You can’t blanket bomb them with the same spray!”

I’m still catching my breath, staring at her. City sounds recede to a mere murmur, leaving only our labored breaths echoing in the silence. Then, all at once, Amelia laughs. Not just a giggle, or a chuckle, or some dignified titter, but full-bodied cackles that erupt from deep within.

I stand, spellbound, as she throws her head back and completely surrenders to the moment. I watch in wonder as her normally poised and polite demeanor dissolves into pure, unfiltered joy that leaves me breathless, utterly hooked on her.

Slowly, shoulders still shaking, Amelia attempts to collect herself, straightening as she wipes a tear from her eye. “Aww, is the big bad footballer afraid of rats?” She grins, and I’m lost all over again.

“Don’t rat shame me!” I protest, but I’m barely able to bite back a snicker of my own.

“I would never.” But then she bursts into giggles once more. With a theatrical sigh of resignation, I offer her my arm, and she hooks hers through it. We resume our journey, weaving through the busy streets, and I find myself beaming, her laughter still ringing in my ears.

At last, we reach our destination. Amelia’s eyes widen at the weather-beaten sign and the signature blue canopy. “Oh my god, wait. This is…” she trails off.

“The Bitter End,” I confirm, the picture of nonchalance, though inside I’m doing a victory lap—thank you, Google, for the assist. “We were in the neighborhood.” The place is a legend, wrapped up in the music lore that only New York can offer.

Amelia whirls around, and the incandescent wonder on her face feels like a standing ovation. I’ve scored game-winning touchdowns under the blaze of bright stadium lights before, but this? This is something else entirely.