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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

AMELIA

Overnight, my life’s taken over by the Skybox Sponsorship and becomes a series of meetings and deadlines and branding collateral as we drum up publicity for the campaign.

It’s a living, breathing marketing machine, and I’m a cog along for the ride, playing catch-up as I try to learn the intricacies of a sport resembling a toddler’s interpretation of rugby.

This, I reckon, is how Americans must feel when trying to decipher the mysteries of cricket. It’s like cramming for the world’s oddest exam but not able to absorb a thing which leaves me slightly terrified of being sacked my first week. Though I hope not before I get paid because thanks to Terri’s friend’s roommate’s brother’s decision to spend a semester in Croatia, I’m now the proud resident of a fourth-floor flat in the Financial District through the new year.

I’m also tasked with preparing talking points on Nurture NYC, an assignment that thankfully seems less arcane, and assigned the running of a new dedicated social media account for the sponsorship and populating it with shots of the players interspersed with information about the foundation.

This, at least, justifies the daily swooning sessions, although I do try to keep it all business. Still, it’s difficult to suppress the odd churning in my stomach whenever a colleague singles out Jake.

Instead of their fawning cementing my resolve to focus on the importance of the here and now of my job, my brain’s concocting gut-wrenching scenes of him boosting his one-star status with another woman straightaway, rather than holding out for that vague “not forever” possibility he left dangling—the one I didn’t dismiss. Not that it matters if he does move on. I should, too. Yvonne’s right. There’s a plethora of choices in New York. I have no need to fixate on one. Like she said, the best way to get over someone is to get on top of someone else. Many someone elses.

As if that wasn’t enough, messages from Gran await—obliquely asking when I’ll be returning—that I fob off. Eventually, though, the weight of family duty has me trudging through a backlog of notifications before switching to the inn’s social media accounts.

Thumbing through the inn’s Instagram feels as if I’m flipping through an old photo album—comforting and suffocating all at once. It would be easy to return, slip back into the well-worn routine of a life that never quite fit the way I wanted it to.

That temptation lasts exactly until I scroll into it. Ben and Margo. Big giant stupid ring. On the front lawn of my family’s inn. I grit my teeth, kill the app, and a cue up a YouTube video titled “Ten Things You Need to Know About Football.”

In no time, game day arrives, and the colossal stadium comes to life. Hours before the main event, people trickle in. First appearing in the massive parking lot to engage in tailgating—a truly American custom that involves drinking warm beer from the boot of a car—fans make their way through the concourse and concession stands, before filling the rows upon rows of seats.

My nerves are on edge as I meticulously inspect the sponsorship suite, making sure everything is in order before the guests show up.

We arranged the enormous space in three levels with floor to ceiling windows that overlook the broad side of the field. The topmost level, closest to the doors, is for the buffet and bar. A step down is for mingling. The lowest tier has a couple of rows of comfortable seats with open areas on either side.

I confer with the waitstaff, ticking off items on my to-do list, one by one.

Food and drinks? Check.

Swag bags crammed full of goodies for the sponsors and children? Check.

Information pamphlets on Nurture NYC? Check.

Life-sized, overly muscular Teddy the Titan cardboard cutout for obligatory photo ops? Ridiculous, yet check.

The thermostat reads seventy degrees Fahrenheit. Google translates this to a more logical twenty-two Celsius. Acceptable.

A half hour before the game is scheduled, the room fills up with the internal team and other guests. Jessica chats with a few of the VIPs while Margie oversees Terry, Rani, and me as we welcome representatives from Nurture NYC and their charges—a lively group of ten children, ranging from tiny tots to almost-teenagers. The air buzzes with their energy, a cacophony of giggles and questions bouncing off the walls.

Two gorgeous men join us, in suits that could have come bespoke off of Jermyn Street.

Rani, with the down-low on everyone who’s anyone, whispers that they’re tight with the Titans’ owner. The one with the brooding expression and dark hair that probably has its own fan club is Zach Forrester, of the Forrester & Sons empire—think Harrods, but with a New York swagger.

His companion, Luke Kingston, is effortlessly charming, with an easy smile and Kryptonite-green eyes that miss nothing. He exudes the kind of confidence that says he’s used to getting exactly what he wants.

Moments before kickoff, the energy in the room shifts, almost imperceptibly. People straighten, conversations taper off into silence. Noah Winters has arrived, and suddenly it’s as if the world’s swayed a little, gravitating toward him. He’s got this aura that commands attention—dark hair, eyes that don’t just pierce, they dissect. Magnetism oozes from his pores, luring bodies close even when caution would advise otherwise.

He nods at his friends before conferring with Jessica. Their exchange is brief—a simple “All set?” met with a confident “Was there any doubt?” It’s clear these two speak the same high-stakes language.

He gives a nod, sharp as the cut of his suit, and examines us. “Your latest minions?”

“My latest mentees,” she corrects smoothly. One by one, we’re introduced. When it’s my turn, I stand a little taller. “Noah, meet Amelia Stevens. She’ll be helping us for a few months.”

“Ah, yes. Jake’s handiwork.”

My polite, rehearsed greeting dies on my tongue. What does he know about me? But I’m saved from having to respond when two more men walk in and greet Noah, drawing his attention away from us.

As the game commences, I migrate to the suite’s quieter rear and covertly snag a handful of KitKats from the children’s snack area, eyes trained on the emerald expanse of the field below. The players, now specks of gold and white, move in an exhibit of organized chaos, their performance both precise and frenetic.

Noah, flanked by a few of the other sponsors, has staked out a spot by the window, all laser-focused on the unfolding action. They’re riveted by the match, allowing us a quick breather as the clock ticks on. Partway into the match, drinks are dwindling. I scan the room. It’s devoid of staff.

After wiping my hands on the edges of my skirt, I straighten my name badge, take a deep breath, and plunge into the fray. An argument is in progress. Something about a replay involving the quarterback’s performance in the last game. They must be talking about Logan Barnes? I’m still trying to get the players and their positions straight.

“Gentlemen, may I offer you refills?” I interject during a pause in the debate.

Zach requests one more whiskey, and Luke opts for another Heineken.

I’m two steps into my grand escape when I hear a “Hang on a second.”

I pivot, smile fixed in place, and Zach beckons me closer. As I re-approach, he says, “Amelia works for the team. Let’s see what she thinks.”

Oh, the horror.

A cold sweat breaks out, and I mentally shuffle through my catalog of responses. Keep it together. “By all means. Can I help you with anything?” Anything, I silently plead, from your choice of beverage to hypothetical murder plots, anything but the knotty intricacies of American football.

“We’re trying to settle a dispute—last game. That play at the end of the second quarter where they called Barnes for intentional grounding. Fair or BS?”

I paste on a grin that I hope doesn’t look as panicked as I feel. Although I’d sat through rerun after rerun of that game as part of my YouTube crash course, I’ve retained nothing beyond noticing Jake’s ability to weave past defenders who could double as refrigerators. Desperate, I scramble for any recollection of this “intentional grounding” business. “Um, well, I think it depends on the circumstances,” I prevaricate.

Noah, who’s been quiet, taking the backstage, arches an eyebrow. Bollocks, he’s overheard. “And what circumstances would those be?”

Blast it. “Intentional grounding, you say? I suppose that would be…when the quarterback purposefully…er…plants the ball into the ground, rather like…” I’m floundering, and the barely concealed grins confirm I’m botching this.

He tilts his head. “Based on your accent, may I presume you’re not too familiar with our superior version of football?”

Cocky git. Though I guess he can afford to be, given he owns the team.

“Well, on my side of the pond, football is rather different. We fancy a game played solely with the feet, where players wrangle a wonderfully round , black-and-white ball . It’s quite logical,” I say with a bit of cheek.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Jessica’s hawk-like gaze. Blast it, I’m about to get sacked. Quickly, I offer Noah a sheepish grin, adding, “But I assure you, I am thoroughly educating myself on the finer points of the sport. An avid fan in the making, promise.” I thump my chest for dramatic effect. A tad too hard.

I’m mid-retreat when Jessica glides over to me. “Amelia. While your British enthusiasm adds a refreshing element, let’s not forget that as a representative of the Titans, you are an ambassador for the team and expected to know the game. I trust you’ll take this into consideration in time for the next event?”

Her velvet-coated words are not a suggestion—it’s a survival tip. And then she pirouettes away in those Louboutin heels, leaving me in a haze of Chanel No. 5.

Then, the stadium erupts, swallowing up my worries in an explosion of whoops and applause. The game’s over, and even though Noah’s grin of triumph is subtle, I breathe easier. Surely, in the bubble of victory, our awkward chat is as good as forgotten.

But, as an extra precaution, I slap on the charm as the celebratory mood engulfs the suite, chatting up sponsors, nodding and smiling, steering any conversations away from football and onto the noble cause that is Nurture NYC.

I dole out high fives to the kids and ferry about glasses of champagne and sparkling grape juice amidst the buzz of post-game chatter.

Even not knowing anything about the game, it’s impossible not to get swept up in the excitement. When Jake and Logan swagger in, their uniforms streaked with the sweat of success, the atmosphere hits fever pitch.

As I eye Jake, my lingering anxiety is replaced by an exhilaration that has nothing to do with the Titans or my job or the rush of the win. Victory is a good look on him.

Handshakes, backslaps, and bear hugs ensue. There’s animated talk about the game, dissecting the plays. Starry-eyed children stream forward for autographs and selfies with the players. Rani and I wrangle them into more orderly queues, promising each of them a moment with their heroes.

Bit by bit the event winds down. Sponsors make their exits with parting pledges of funds for Nurture NYC. Chaperones round up the youngsters, their energy spent in the whirlwind of the win, and lead them out. Once internal management leaves, the cleaning staff takes over.

Jake sidles up to me, a smirk playing on his lips. “So, Sweets, what did you think of your first taste of American football?” His voice is a low rumble along my spine, and he’s all testosterone and victory. He’s close enough that the grass stains on his uniform stand out, and I can smell his sweat mingling with his familiar scent. One would assume it would turn me off, but it only ramps up the heat in me.

My gaze inevitably drifts down to his broad chest before springing up. “Well, I’m thrilled you won. And that you managed to carry the ball into the…ending zone?” I stumble over the words, as out of depth as a fish in a tree.

He chuckles softly. “End zone.”

“That’s what I said,” I grumble. I’m drowning in frustration, sick to the teeth of my ignorance. Lowering my voice, I confess, “The game is illogical. None of it makes sense. I need to spend more time on YouTube ahead of the next event, or Jessica will have my head on a pike.” Another heavy sigh escapes me. There’s only a week to cram.

“I can teach you.” His offer floats between us, wrapped in an easy smile.

“You could?” I blink.

“Sure, nothing beats hands-on help. Though I do remember someone saying something about consulting a book.” He smirks.

Touché. I smother a little laugh at this.

His proposal is tempting. So tempting. And sweet, really, given how busy he is. But any time with him will chip at my resolve to keep things strictly professional.

“This week’s nuts with the away game in Wisconsin, but we could squeeze in a session on Friday after I land, around six?”

“Thank you for the offer. I can’t that day.”

“Hectic social life?”

“Yvonne’s booked us for a Stride and Seek after work.”

His brows furrow. “Stride and Seek?”

With a blush, I admit, “Some sort of walking tour designed for single people. Two birds with one stone—her words.”

His frown deepens. “Is this part of your ‘sextervention’?”

The heat in my cheeks intensifies. I shrug. “Seems like it.”

“You could say no, you know.” There’s reproach in his face.

I raise my brows. The bloke cuffed to a bed doesn’t think I should go on a stroll? Lovely. “It’s just a tour, Jake. No handcuffs involved.”