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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

AMELIA

When my alarm goes off, my first foggy thought is if corpse brides also go for bloody lingerie, and my second is a whimsical, if somewhat risqué, image of Oompa Loompas presenting me with a magic ticket to an endless chocolate fountain. It’s pouring outside.

My skin is clammy. I swallow convulsively, old booze sloshing in my veins to the beat of the marching band that’s taken over my head. Hangovers are the devil’s photo filters for bad life choices.

Every thud in my skull unveils yet another image in the non-curated slideshow aptly titled “Dear God, Why?” of last night’s antics. The costumes. The dancing. And then, the drinking. Oh heavens, the drinking. And something about rescuing a whale?

And then there was Jake.

My eyes flit about. Unless my booze-blitzed brain developed the ability to summon paracetamol, a glass of water, and a Jake-scented, Jake-sized indentation on the bed beside me, he spent the night.

Plus, there’s a vague recollection of him kissing me goodbye and saying something about practice in a voice rough with sleep.

Sex? I test my limbs gingerly, seeking the telltale tenderness between my thighs, the post-orgasmic oomph I’ve come to associate with Jake. Nothing. Instead, my body feels like it’s hosted a dance-off that was more jitterbug than sexy slow dance.

The man was short changed. Though my hazy recollections have me believing I did my best to ensure he didn’t go without, Mr. Superstar Football Player had to be a perfect gentleman, letting me make a fool out of myself, blathering on about blow jobs and Milky Ways before putting me to bed and supplying me with painkillers, which was rather lovely of him.

Groaning, I shove my face into the depths of my pillow. I’ll have to thank him for babysitting my sotted arse after apologizing profusely. I do a quick breath check. Yep, amends are definitely in order.

Cautiously, I rise and skirt around my bloody bridal gown, now draped incongruously over the back of the chair, and my insides lurch again. I toy with the idea of ringing in sick, because more fuzzy images lurk in the far corners of my brain of people watching me depart with Jake. I swallow. Still, everyone was drinking. I can’t imagine I was the only one who made questionable decisions. No point dithering. The real world beckons.

After attacking my post-Halloween sallow with a good layer of foundation and another motivational pep talk, I get to the office right as Terri’s in the middle of complaining about last night’s hookup being sub-par. Rani responds that hers wasn’t bad, except her date kept calling her “darling” all night in homage to her Edna Mode costume. Things took a turn, however, when he declared he didn’t want to put on a “super suit,” aka a condom. That’s when she had to show him the door—no gear, no go. The woman drank at least double what I did, but doesn’t look any worse for wear in a sharp pantsuit that channels Jessica.

“Morning, sunshine! I see you got home okay,” she chirps, catching sight of me.

Bollocks. She did see me leave with Jake. My eyes scan the room. Who else did? Am I going to lose my job because I acted unprofessionally? Just as I’m about to spin some kind of tale that might explain it away, Rani’s already off on a different track. “Got me details for your tours?”

“My tour—” Oh. Bloody. Hell. Those foggy memories? Crystal. Clear.

Before I can say more, she barrels ahead. “Did you settle on Verse Ventures or Song Striders? Not that it matters—I’ve registered both domains. Someone’s always ready to rip off a good idea. I also emailed my cousin. She’ll be happy to tag along on one of your tours sometime and help with photos for your site. She’s stoked, says it’ll be a killer addition to her portfolio.”

I’m still processing when the unmistakable hum of Marge’s wheelchair fills the room. “People, we need more shots of the players. Mud-slicked muscles always seem to get us the most eyeballs, and we have ads to sell and money to make.”

“Now?” Rani’s incredulous gaze flits to the window. It’s almost impossible to see the field for the rain.

Margie eyes her, unimpressed. “Unless you’re secretly melting material, I suggest someone gets out there.”

Deliverance. “I’ll go.”

Swiveling back to Rani, I force a smile. “Umm… I’ll just get those details sorted.” And with that, I make my hasty escape.

Rain batters me, a literal tongue-lashing for all last night’s poor decisions, leaving me a soggy biscuit in my drenched clothing with hair plastered to my scalp. Seriously, what did I announce to the world beyond the tours? And how am I supposed to come up with a plan I can share? Damn, and I’ve roped other people into this somehow, like Rani’s cousin.

What else did I forget about last night? I could have promised a kidney away or decided to name my first-born after a Wi-Fi password. Agreed to go on a reality TV show for competitive cheese sculpting. Pledged to speak only in Shakespearean verse for a month. I’m under what’s supposed to be a shaded area, trying to protect the AV camera, but the rain’s coming sideways.

My eyes land on Jake. The only man I suspect can fill in the blanks. And I need those details filled ASAP.The real question is how to approach him without raising suspicion.

I glance at the other players. Unless they already know I left with Jake, then there’s no use being sneaky. I look up at the pouring rain. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll drown before we have to rehash last night’s mess.

At least I’m not the only miserable sod out here. The rest of the coaching staff at the edge of the field wear identical expressions of gloom. Only the head coach seems unaffected by the weather, fully focused on the players running drills.

Perhaps I can pull off a tour or two? It’s not as if I haven’t thought about it—dreamed up routes and tidbits to share, stories I already tell myself when I pass certain spots.

In between taking photos of the team, I tap a couple of ideas on my phone. Getting more excited with each moment. Who was that woman from last night…and do we like her? She definitely seemed to be someone in control, brimming with possibility.

I picture ringing Gran, telling her I’m making my American adventure permanent. All of a sudden, it doesn’t sound so crazy.

A whistle cuts through my thoughts, jolting me out of my reverie.

The players head toward the sidelines, where their coaches stand, armed with clipboards and tablets. Some slump onto benches, clearly spent. Others, Jake included, accept water bottles being passed around.

I watch, dry-mouthed, as he whips off his helmet. He tosses his head to get the sweat and rain-slicked locks off his face and comes off looking like a shampoo commercial. I experimentally try shaking my own hair, but I just end up with a mouthful of wet strands.

He tips the bottle into his mouth, and I stand mesmerized. As if he can sense me, he turns in my direction, and a sudden warmth dashes away the chill for a moment.

Seconds later, he jogs over. A full-body shiver runs through me as he draws close. “I was wondering if you were going to make it in today.” His grin dissolves into a frown. “You’re cold,” he says accusingly, noting the goosebumps running up my skin.

He reaches for my arms and rubs them, up and down, oblivious to the looks coming our way. I slap his hands away.

“It’s fine.” I draw back. “I’m all right.”

I’m freezing.

A crease appears between his brows, then eases. “Sixty-nine, sixty-nine, sixty-nine. My locker number and combo.”

“How predictable.” My attempt at a smile falls flat. It’s too bloody cold, and my teeth chatter.

He must see my expression. “It’s so obvious, no one would think of it.” When I shiver again, his face goes serious. “There’s a raincoat in there. Be a good girl, and go grab it.”

I open my mouth, about to argue, but someone on the field shouts his name.

“Gotta run, Sweets.” He brings my fingertips to his lips. He turns and heads back to the formation, leaving my jaw hanging.

I sneak into the locker room, even though there is no need. Security isn’t on standby during closed practices.

My nose wrinkles at the stench that greets me when I enter. Eau de toes. Lovely.

I take quick steps with only a handful of the fluorescent lights to guide my way through the short tunnel, ignoring the cold tightness in my chest at being in this enclosed space.

The passage opens to a U-shaped cluster of tall, dark green lockers, each with air vents at the top and bottom, flanking low benches. Now, time to spot the digits. Sixty-nine, sixty-nine, sixty-nine. There.

I hurry over. Combination locks are built into the metal. I line up the numbers and the latch releases with a satisfying click.

Two photos are stuck to the inside of the door. The first one shows all seven Cunninghams, smiling wide, with Jeanine in the center of her brood. A pang of envy hits me at their closeness. Underneath is a shot of the Titans from their last Super Bowl win, taped to the locker with large googly-eyes.

I pivot to the locker’s innards. Three neat sections make up the narrow confines. My lips twitch at the party pack of Twizzlers on the short top shelf. The middle spot is the tallest, with a couple of suits, the ones they wear to and from games and a few casual pieces on hangers over a rod. Trainers sit in the lowest compartment.

As I reach for a raincoat, a flash of pink catches my eye. I bend for closer examination.

The handcuffs.

I bite my lip, casting a swift glance around to confirm I’m still alone. Quick as lightning, my fingers filch them out, wincing when metal drags against metal.

The cold, steel shackles are closed, but the key is wedged into the lock.

Flashback of that first madcap encounter flood in. Who would have guessed that my initial panic and determined “I’ll never see him again” would send me on this never-ending collision course with him? How did I go from seeing him as a charming distraction to someone I can’t imagine not having in my life?

My eyes drift back to the Twizzlers.

It was foolish to think I wouldn’t develop feelings. Because Jake Cunningham is irresistible. In bed and out of it. He spoils me with sweets, holds me when I’m scared out of my mind, and steadies me when I’ve had a drink too many. He’s taught me so much, all the while making it seem like I’m the clever one. He teases, he supports, he believes. From the moment we met, to just last night when he bragged about my idea to anyone who’d listen, looking at me the entire time as if I was capable of anything.

As if I was everything.

When I’m with Jake, reality takes on a different flavor—richer, fuller. Different, because he is different. He never treats me like less than I am, as if I were a convenience, or an unexpected consequence that he’s making do with.

Perhaps I’m reading too much into it, but something zings through me, a fizzy, sparkly concoction of rightness whenever I’m near him. One that I crave more of.

Because it is more. This isn’t the same fairy tale fantasy I built with Ben—those castles in the clouds I wasn’t even sure I wanted to inhabit. No, this is solid ground, New York concrete, and everything I want is spread out in front of me, waiting.

I just need to take the first step. Whether I’ll have company along the way? I’m ready to find out.