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CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
AMELIA
Saturday unfurls with the kind of perfection that only happens in movies or to people with significantly less complicated lives than mine.
The weather? Flawless. My mood? Cautiously optimistic. Finally, finally Lady Luck is throwing me a crumb.
I’m primed to charm the knickers off Gotham Guides. I’ve planned today’s tour down to the last cobblestone. They are about to get a front-row seat to my dream, and I’m buzzing with enough nervous energy to power the city.
To dodge any straggling reporters, I’ve proposed an alternate meeting spot, a couple blocks away from St. Mark’s and am gratified to have the whole place to myself when I arrive early. This type of silence is rare. Just me and a duo of pigeons who size me up with beady eyes—a perfectly civilized audience, as far as I’m concerned.
The Gotham Guides team arrives shortly after. I’ve chatted with Emily, the head of partnerships and my point-person.
She introduces me to Julian, whose hawkish gaze sweeps over my setup, my logo, my headsets, and I second-guess every choice I’ve made. I wonder how much of the gossip he’s already heard.
Marissa, the other rep, sports a smile that’s a touch more welcoming, suggesting she’s at least open to being charmed.
“I’m delighted to meet you all,” I beam, trying to find the balance between professional and personable as I hand out the headsets.
I’ve triple-checked everything—no technical difficulties on my watch.
Once everyone’s equipped, I haul in a deep breath and launch into my script. “Welcome to RhythmRoutes, where every step is a story.”
My voice is steady as I continue. “I’m excited to share this spot—these two tenement buildings are the basis for Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti cover, one of the most intricate in rock history.”
I hold up the precious record. “The jacket has cut-out windows, with internal sleeves that can be swapped for different scenes. One spells out the album cover in red letters, and another has famous faces—Lee Harvey Oswald, Pope Leo XIII, and Buzz Aldrin among them.”
I quickly gauge my audience, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. So far, so good. Now for the juicy part. “Take a closer look at the building and compare it to the cover. Notice anything? The album version is missing the entire fourth floor. Some say it was a design choice to fit the square format, but rumor has it that Jimmy Page’s drug dealer lived on that level. To ease Page’s anxiety, they left it out. Fact or fiction? You decide!”
I sneak a glance at the Gotham Guides team. Emily looks thoughtful. Marissa’s still smiling, at least. Julian…stoic as ever. No reaction is better than a bad one, right?
I swallow and signal the group to follow me, but before we can take a step, commotion erupts. I may have chosen a different starting point for the tour, but we’ve been found.
“Amelia, were you fired from the Titans because of your involvement in the scandal with Jake Cunningham?”
“Some sources suggest you were hired specifically to cover up the incident. Can you comment on that?”
Both questions land at the same time, as if the reporters are in parallel dimensions, oblivious to each other.
Panic bleeds into my already simmering unease. I ignore them, marching ahead to the next point of interest. “And here is Holiday Cocktail Lounge. They say this bar was the inspiration for Madonna’s hit ‘Holiday.’” I raise my voice to be heard and hurriedly move on.
Bloggers and people in Titans gear pop up at every stop, gathering behind us like a swarm I can’t shake off. “Amelia, shouldn’t you be playing cheerleader at Jake Cunningham’s big game?”
That question isn’t so bad. I ignore it, hoping he’ll lose interest. But my lack of a “no-comment” fuels more questions about Jake’s game-day rituals and insinuating my little tour is nothing but a sideshow to his main event.
Trying to maintain my composure, I pivot away from one microphone, only for another thrust at me. It’s a never-ending game of whack-a-mole. Each stop transforms into an interrogation.
“Amelia, is it true that your tours are only successful because of your relationship with Jake Cunningham?”
That shot hurt, and I wince. From the corner of my eye, I catch the Gotham Guides trio exchanging looks that scream “Is this for real?” or “What have we walked into?”
With a forced calm I don’t feel, I muster a “No comment,” and herd the group along, only to face another barrage.
The interruptions are relentless. Each historical anecdote I offer is met with a torrent of questions directed at me, the Gotham Guides team, and even unsuspecting bystanders.
I overhear Julian muttering to Marissa, “I didn’t sign up for a reality show called The Real Tour Guides of New York .” That almost cracks my professional facade, but I don’t let my smile waver.
The death blow arrives at what should have been the tour’s highlight. As I’m about to dive into the history of Joey Ramone’s Place, a microphone is shoved in Emily’s face. “Is Gotham Guides planning to cash in on the celeb-obsessed culture with tours like Amelia’s?”
Her features twist as if she’s just bitten into a lemon.
By the time we limp to the conclusion at CBGB’s, the damage is done. The Gotham Guides team, polite but frosty, deliver their verdict in the chaos of flashing cameras and shouts.
Emily peels off her headset and passes it to me, her gaze skirting mine. “Thank you for your effort, Amelia,” she says, her tone measured and cool. “But we require a more…distraction-free experience.”
“I…see…”
With a sympathetic tilt of her head, she adds, “Perhaps in the future, with some refinements? When things are more…under control?”
It’s a gentle rejection, kinder than I deserve. And the truth is, I can’t even promise that the chaos will die down—this might very well be my new normal.
The Gotham Guides team retreats, taking with them the last embers of my dream. The press, sensing no more drama, backs off. The ensuing silence is deafening, echoing louder than all their questions combined.
The headsets are anvils in my hands, a tangible measure of defeat. And as tears threaten, I think of the irony. Today was supposed to be the first day of my new life. Instead, here I am, with hardly an option to return to the old one.
I drop the equipment at home, the urge to collapse into bed strong.
But restlessness wins out. I’m too wound up to stay put, too tangled in my thoughts of what went wrong.
I head back outside and walk.
And keep walking.
The city swirls by in a monochrome blur, its usual delights dulled and distant as I wander aimlessly. The world is speeding by while I’m paused, stuck in a slow-motion replay of today’s mishaps.
The shrill ring of my phone alarm slices through my daze—the game. I’m miles from where I started.
I slip into a Midtown sports bar like a shadow. Without ESPN at home, this public setting is my reluctant viewing arena.
The place is a hive of cheers and chatter, awash with Titans jerseys. I stick out, still in my RhythmRoutes uniform.
As I approach the counter, a stool miraculously frees up—the first stroke of luck I’ve had all day. I clamber onto it, right in front of a large telly. I ask for mineral water. The bartender raises an eyebrow but says nothing. On a whim, I add an order of chicken wings. That should help me blend in. They sit untouched.
Around me, Titans fans buzz in excitement, dissecting the season’s highs and lows. The TV booms with the voices of commentators analyzing the vying teams’ records, their predictions punctuated by vibrant clips of players in action.
Every inch of the room vibrates with the energy of the crowd, their collective pulse racing as the clock ticks down to 6 p.m.
As the hour strikes, the bar erupts—a symphony of clinking glasses and shouted chants. On screen, the Titans burst onto the field, a riot of color and muscle.
There’s Jake, number sixty-nine. a vision of power and grace, the star running back.
As the National Anthem echoes through the air, the camera lingers on him for a moment before widening to include the entire team. Still, my focus is on him alone.
Memories bubble in. That cheeky grin as I unlocked his handcuffs. Peering up as he tied my shoe like a real-life Prince Charming, and then completely outdoing that image by showing up as Willy Wonka on Halloween.
He’s beautiful and kind and amazing. Watching him now, on the brink of another victory while I’m grappling with my own setback, is bittersweet.
I’m so proud to see him on the cusp of triumph, but it only highlights my own failures further, and I’m reminded of how different our lives are.
The game kicks off, pulling my attention to the present.
First Quarter: The Titans make a strong start. Touchdown. Field Goal. Up by ten.
Second Quarter: The intensity ramps up. Jake narrowly stays in bounds as he races down the sideline and dives into the corner of the end zone for another touchdown. The extra kick goes off the post. Not good. The bar buzzes with growing excitement and nervous energy.
Third Quarter: The Sabretooths push back hard. They complete a long drive for a touchdown and extra point. Then immediately score again off an interception. The kick is good. The Titan’s lead is cut to two.
Fourth quarter: Ninety seconds to go, the Titans are up by two. Logan hands the ball off to Jake, and in an instant, he’s a blur of sheer determination. He dodges a tackle, spins past another defender, sprinting down the field as the crowd’s roar swells to a crescendo.
Out of nowhere, a mountain of a man in Sabretooth red appears.
He slams into Jake. The impact is crushing, sending his head bouncing against the turf.
My heart lurches into my throat, lodging itself there as his helmet skids to a stop a few feet away.
The whistle blows. Logan and Hunter rush to Jake’s side, helping him stagger upright. Medical staff run out into the field.
“…doesn’t look good. Cunningham’s heading straight for the blue tent…” The commentator’s voice cuts through the haze of my shock.
On screen, Jake’s collision loops endlessly, assaulting me from every angle. Close-ups. Wide shots. Each replay is a fresh stab of fear.
“We’ll be back with just over a minute left in the fourth quarter.”
I fumble for my phone, calling Jake first, though I know it’s futile. I try everyone else—Yvonne, his other sisters, his mom, even Jessica. No one answers.
The game snaps into focus again. “The Titans have the ball on the Sabretooth’s twenty-yard line, a minute seventeen seconds left, and still up by two,” the commentator breaks through my fog of worry. “No word yet on Cunningham’s condition.”
Panic sends me scrolling through social media, desperate for any update, searching all the hashtags I can think of—#WhatsUpWithJake? #UnfairHit. Even #JAM. I swipe frantically, but it’s just a storm of speculation.
I barely register the TV anymore, drowning in the buzz of my phone.
Every play, pass, yard gained or lost is a backdrop to the real drama unfolding in my palm. Ping after ping, comments roll in. “How’s Jake?” “That hit was dirty!”
But then the posts shift.
Someone captures Jake’s family in the stands. Six women side-by-side, all in gold and white jerseys emblazoned with “Cunningham 69,” their expressions uniformly stoic.
Then, an animated question mark pops between Heidi and Beatrice with “#Where’sAmelia?” plastered underneath. All of a sudden, it’s a meme of its own and spreading like wildfire.
The game barrels on. Logan hands the ball off. It’s on the ground. Everyone screams “Fumble!” A Sabretooth scoops it up and runs it down for a touchdown.
The clock hits zero. A collective silence fills the bar, heavy with disappointment and the bitter taste of what-ifs.
“There you have it, folks. The Titans are out,” the commentator says. “It’s the Sabretooths one step closer to the Super Bowl this year.” The camera sweeps over the stadium, capturing dejected fans, a few still brandishing their gold and white flags.
The broadcast cuts to the owner’s box, focusing on a familiar face, expression unreadable. The TV blares on, “There’s Noah Winters, billionaire behind the Titans. Rumor has it he’s been eyeing a hockey franchise. Could this loss steer him toward the ice?” The screen switches to the field where post-game rituals are in progress.
I exhale in relief when Jake appears in the fray. They get him for a second on camera. “How hard was it to watch that last play?”
He responds with grace, “I have nothing but respect for my team and the Sabretooths.” He excuses himself to congratulate a Sabretooth player, giving him a hearty thump on the back—but I know he’s hurting.
“And there you have it—Jake Cunningham.” The feed switches to a montage of Jake’s season highlights. “He’s been the Titans’ shining star,” one voice notes, before the other interjects, “but tonight, his streak ran out,” as the footage loops rewinds to the moment of Jake’s brutal fall.
The bar thins out, some fans trudging to the exit while others linger to drown their sorrows and speculate about next season.
I pocket my phone and step into the biting wind, just another in the sea of people heading for the subway. I send Jake one last message before descending into the subway’s depths, watching the signal bars on my mobile flicker and die, one by one, severing my link to the world above.
Cold mixes with numb in me, and I tug my coat tighter around me. There’s a charity Santa on the platform. I drop a dollar in. Somebody’s got to need it more than I do.
When I resurface, my phone comes alive with a vengeance.
I skim past all the notifications and texts to a missed call from Jake. My fists relax, the strain easing from my knuckles. I waste no time calling him back and he picks up on the second ring.
His voice is a balm. “Heya, Sweets,” as if the world’s perfectly fine. But it’s loud on his side making it difficult to hear him amidst the cacophony of his surroundings.
“Are you all right?” I clutch my phone as if I were holding on to him.
He laughs, though it’s tinged with disappointment. “Yeah. I got a hard head. You know that.”
“You scared me half to death,” I whisper. Somehow tears are in my throat.
“Nothing to worry about. I swear.”
I want to continue, to pour out how much his close call shook me. Scold him for giving me such a scare, tell him how relieved I am he’s okay, and make him promise to never do that again. But as I gather my thoughts to speak, the background noise on his end swells.
“Sorry, we’re on the bus heading to the airport.” There’s a heavy pause, and very softly he adds, “I’ll talk to you as soon as I get home?”
That’s my signal, isn’t it? “Yes. Of course. I’m just glad you’re okay.” The words leave my mouth, tasting of mixed emotions. We’ll have that longer conversation later. For now, knowing he’s safe is all that matters. “I suppose it’s time to let you go.”
Table of Contents
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