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CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

AMELIA

His kiss. Oh, it’s like drowning in a sea of molten chocolate—intoxicating, overwhelming, with a sweetness that seeps into every pore, threatening to undo me from the inside out.

When I think I might melt away, right there in my scandalously red heels, the harsh flash yanks me back into reality.

“Perfect. Keep it just like that!”

Jake’s reality. Recoiling, I almost stumble, but Jake grabs my upper arms to steady me.

Unbothered, the photographer continues, “Don’t be shy. One more kiss for the camera! Going in for a close-up this time!”

Rooted to the spot, I can only watch as the man closes in, snapping shot after shot. I’ve never been one for public displays of affection. Or any displays of affection, really, so my only recourse is to stand there, likely looking like a half-wit.

Jake, utterly unfazed, drops another kiss on my lips, as if the intrusion doesn’t bother him. And perhaps it doesn’t. He’s no stranger to this type of spectacle. A lump forms in my throat. And if I’m to be part of Jake’s world, this comes with the territory. Still, the thought of our tender moment turning into tomorrow’s headlines makes my stomach churn. I force the corners of my mouth to lift. Is the effort it takes apparent?

“So, how does it feel to be the couple of the night?”

“I…uh…” My gaze swings back to meet Jake’s.

His eyes are full of familiar humor. He winks at me. “Struck speechless,” he tells the reporter, his arm coming around me, his touch a line of comfort down my side. He lifts the knuckles of his other hand to his mouth, fingers curled in, then blows on his nails before rubbing them against his shirt, right by the buttons. “I got the skills.”

The man laughs. Thankfully, the chime for dinner sounds. In unison, the servers move to the dividers and, with a grand sweep, pull them back to reveal long banquet tables covered in white linen, with white tables, floral skyscrapers and, glinting silverware surrounding a dance floor, and beyond that, the stage. Ushers come through to direct us inside.

We reach our table, and I release a thankful breath of relief since we are seated with Jake’s family, a couple of players I know, and two sponsors I met during the Support NYC Events.

Over the first, second, and third courses, my composure returns in cautious increments. By the time we’ve polished off dessert, I’m genuinely enjoying myself, chatting with friends and marveling at the ease with which Jake mingles with guests who stop by our table, deftly extracting donation after donation with nothing but handshakes and smiles. When he turns to welcome the next approaching couple, I excuse myself and slip away to the loo.

As I make my way back, the emcee’s voice cuts through the buzz of the ballroom, calling for Jake. He bounds up the stage, and I tuck myself into a dim corner to watch. He’s a vision in that perfectly tailored tuxedo, his eyes dancing over the crowd with a charm that’s disarmingly personal. It hits me then—a deep, possessive warmth, mixed with the pinch-me disbelief that he’s actually here, with me. And completely mine.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his smooth, confident tone fills the room. “Wow, look at us, all dressed up and not a handcuff in sight—unless you’re into that sort of thing, of course, I’m not here to judge. Seeing so many friendly faces in the crowd is truly reassuring, especially since a few months back, some of you might have seen me in a…let’s call it a ‘less than flattering’ situation. Yes, I’m referring to the photos that took media exposure to a whole new level. You know, the shots that none of you googled.”

I’m gobsmacked he started off with that. The room buzzes with giggles and a smattering of whoops, yet underneath, a barely there groan filters through. Jessica?

With a deep inhalation, Jessica gathers her composure, her stance shifting to one of resigned determination, as if she’s already braced herself for the aftermath and ready to mitigate the fallout. I’m about to slip away when she pivots to face me, freezing me in place.

“Congratulations on RhythmRoutes,” she says, surprising me.

“Wait, you know?”

Jake’s laughter bubbles up from the stage, tickling the back of my ears. “…if there’s one thing those pictures proved, it’s that I’m a man who’s committed—sometimes to a bedpost, but committed, nonetheless. And tonight, my commitment is all about Nurture NYC.”

Jessica’s eyes flicker to the podium, then return to me. “I think all of New York would be hard-pressed not to know about you and Jake and RhythmRoutes.” Her tone is dry. “We monitor all the players’ social media, and you and your venture and hashtag JAM are trending.”

Trending?

The word ricochets around my head. Jake mentioned my tours only once. And JAM—who on earth let that out? While it’s flattering and somewhat mortifying to receive this unexpected spotlight, tonight should be focused on the Titans and Nurture NYC. “I’m so sorry.”

Jessica’s response is swift and businesslike. “There’s nothing to apologize for. It sounds like an exciting opportunity, and I’m sure we won’t be hearing the last of you.”

Jake continues, his voice clear and resonant, “…As many of you are aware, I have a personal connection to this cause. Because this mission? It hits home—literally. My late father was raised in the foster system here in New York. Imagine a little kid taking on the concrete jungle, where even the brightest lights can’t outshine the tough spots. But it was in homes like those backed by Nurture NYC that he found kindness. This foundation not only gave him a safe haven, but the individuals who work tirelessly for it showed him the meaning of generosity, and how to be the type of father who leaves a mark in the short time he had. The kind of dad I hope to be some day.” Emotion clogs my throat, my heart thudding against my chest, as his eyes unerringly finds me in the shadows.

Jessica almost offhandedly says, “We’ll be seeing you at the games now as a spectator instead of staff.”

That may have been a command, so I nod dumbly.

“I’ll make sure you have a pass to the WAGs section.”

Jake continues, “Dad was taught to take care of others, and to dare to live as if his dreams weren’t just fantasies, and in turn inspired us to do the same, and for that, my family and I owe them. Big.”

Jake clears his throat and lifts the glass of champagne a server passes him from the sidelines. “So, here’s to the dreamers, the doers, and especially to the dads—both the ones we were born to and the ones who step up to teach us the important stuff.”

In the center of the room, Jeanine dabs her eyes as she beams at her son. The rest of his family looks on, their pride equally evident.

Thoughts of my own father surface—would he be just as proud if he saw how I’ve spun his legacy into my new venture? The sharp pain of his absence slices through me, keen as ever.

“…So, as we enjoy tonight, remember, our job isn’t finished when the last light dims. No, it’s just beginning. We’re united in this, creating a world where the kids of today can be the protectors, the nurturers, the dream-makers of tomorrow. So, let’s keep those donations rolling in, and make tonight one we’ll look back on and say, ‘Now that was an evening that really tied us together!’”

The room explodes with applause, a wave of cheers sweeping through as everyone springs from their seats. Jake leaps down, barely landing before the crowd swells, a tsunami of congratulations crashing over him from all sides.

Photographers dive headlong into the sea of excitement, cameras clicking like mad. His family weaves through the throng, joining him for a series of group shots, laughing and posing with a familiarity that only comes from a deeply rooted love.

I fumble for my phone, desperate to capture this perfect chaos of affection.A lump forms in my throat as I watch them, their effortless connection sparking a pang of longing in me for a bond I’ve never even known. But before I can hide behind another photo, Jeanine spots me. “Amelia, honey, come join us,” she calls, as if she has a direct line to my heart.

Milo materializes out of thin air, swiping my phone with a flourish and nudging me forward. My eyes find Jake’s towering presence behind his mother. He gives me a nod and a crooked grin.

Heart pounding, I take a tentative step toward the Cunningham tableau. As if by magic, gaps appear, each one an unspoken offer of inclusion. I position myself beside Jeanine, Jake’s reassuring touch on my back a silent promise of support.

“Work it, ladies,” Milo croons. “Make loooovvvee to the camera!”

In the next moment, Heidi and Helena interlock elbows and each thrust a leg in the air in the classic Rockettes pose, while Yvonne channels her inner Madonna, arms framing her face in a perfect Vogue before winking at Milo.

I hold back a snicker as a soft growl sounds behind me when he grins back.

The twins pull me between them and add me to their routine. My attempt at a high kick falls short, but they’re quick to adjust their stance to match mine.

Carla and Beatrice frame the ensemble, clasping their hands together with forefingers pointing up, playfully blowing kissing off their “smoking guns,” like characters from Charlie’s Angels .

But it’s Jeanine who steals the spotlight. She pops her index finger into her mouth, her lips forming a sultry pout, her gaze smoldering.

“Woo-hoo, Mrs. Cunningham!” Logan’s shout cuts through the air, followed by a chorus of whistles and hoots rising above Christmas tunes playing in the background.

“How do you think I ended up with six kids?” She laughs wickedly.

“Mom!” Jake brings his hands to his ears, shaking his head.

Peals of laughter bounce off the walls, multiplying with each snapshot. The poses escalate from cheeky to downright scandalous, fueled by a steady stream of alcohol. As the beat picks up, the crowd gravitates toward the dance floor.

Jake grabs my hand and tugs at it.

“Oh, no.” I pull back. Memories of drunkenly dancing at Halloween flood back in painful detail, and I cringe at how foolish I must have looked. Here, now, the stakes are even higher—no costumes or masks to shield. I am totally vulnerable.

“Oh, yes. Trust me, Sweets. Just follow my lead.”

I arch a brow at him. “I’d hate to think of where that will get me.”

His grin broadens, all mischief and promise. “Good places only,” he pledges, his eyes sparkling.

His steadfast assurance wraps around me, a gentle but firm embrace that begins to dissolve my doubts, leaving a budding excitement in its wake.

Surrendering to the inevitable, I let him steer us to the center. At first, my steps are unsure, but bit by bit, he has me moving faster and faster, my confidence blooming with each step. Soon, he is twirling me around, the world blurring into a wheel of colors and light, and laughter spills from me as I reel from the joy of it all. Dancing with him, in the heart of the festivities, I stake my claim.

As the hours slip by, I whirl between partners, going from the playful antics with his sisters to the boisterous moves of his teammates to people I’d never met before tonight—yet I always end up spinning back into Jake’s embrace.

The beat shifts, slipping into a rhythm that’s all sultry undertones and velvet caresses, wrapping us in an intimate cocoon. Our movements slow, bodies swaying in perfect sync. When the music deepens, Jake dips me with a theatrical flourish.

Our gazes lock, and it’s as if the world fades away, leaving only the electric charge that crackles in the space between us. Then, as I hang in the air in his arms, he leans in, his lips finding mine. This time, I don’t care who sees.

Gently, he rights me, and even though my feet find the ground, I’m still soaring.