Page 6

CHAPTER SIX

JAKE

I’m still reeling from the events of the last few hours as I gaze at the passing morning traffic. Despite having relayed the whole sordid story several times over to Dan, I can hardly believe it myself. The bar. The handcuffs. And fucking Stella. Coming together to make the perfect shitstorm. Until Amelia swept in like my own British fairy godmother.

I was too caught up in the mess to appreciate it fully at the time, but now a reluctant smile tugs at my lips as I recall our exchange and how she schooled me like a sassy Mary Poppins. Do try to stay out of trouble.

I snicker at the memory. Women love me. And I love them right back. I love taking them to dinner, then taking them to bed. Love kissing and touching, figuring out what will make them moan and what’ll get them slick.

I know women. Being around them all my life, one picks up the key points amidst dissections of the ins and outs of every relationship, real life and on screen. The guys even call me the “Love Guru.” Fine. The title was self-appointed, but absolutely deserved since I helped Connor win his girlfriend back. He may have executed the play, but I drew it up.

I snort quietly at Amelia’s accusation of me being a porn star. Original, I’ll give her that.

I shift in my seat. Despite my appreciation for her timely intervention, there’s a wrinkle of concern. I wish I had a way to check on her, but all I can do is hope she was serious about finding somewhere safer to crash, because I can’t afford to worry, not right now when I have own mess to deal with.

Dan’s waiting for me in the parking lot when my Uber rolls into the staff lot of the Titans stadium in the Bronx. His rumpled gray suit looks like he picked it up off the floor. It’s early—only players and coaching staff are in for practice. He says nothing but buzzes with suppressed annoyance. At least he’s done ranting for now.

We head inside, and once we’re at the elevator banks, he hits the up button instead of the one that will take us to the field. Fuck. Less than a minute later, we arrive at the executive level and begin the endless march down death row. Trudging behind him, I’m literally the embodiment of a dead man walking, and each step is heavier than the last.

He halts a few feet from the entrance. He glares at me for a long moment before gesturing me inside.

Jessica Murray, the head of the Titans’ PR department, sits at a glass-topped desk in a blood-red suit. Behind her, Coach Sanders stands with his arms crossed and a menacing scowl fixed on his face.

Dan shuts the door with an ominous click that reverberates through my bones, then goes to stand with Coach. Their combined anger pulses through the air. But Jess? She’s her usual impassive self. The scariest of the trifecta.

A bead of sweat pools at the base of my neck, but I ignore it. I’m Jake fucking Cunningham, and I don’t lose my cool.

Wearing a tutu to practice on a dare? I’ll ask what color. Singing Bohemian Rhapsody in all the different voices at the top of my lungs during halftime? Hand over the mic. A hit on the field? Keep them coming. But Jessica Murray? She puts the fear of God in me.

“It’s not that bad,” I say, preemptively.

That draws a snort from Dan. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re chained up. Practically naked except for a fucking cuddly bear on your dick.” His voice rises on the last word, hitting a hysterical pitch.

I think it should’ve been a grizzly. “It’s Extreme Exposé. No one cares about what they say.”

“It’s Extreme Exposé, saying ‘Tied Down Titan: The Bear Necessities of a Football Star,’” Jessica states.

Her voice remains clear and dispassionate as she continues reading the full article off her tablet, each word making me clench my fists. “…keep watching this space for more about the touchdowns and teddy tales on the dual lives of Jake Cunningham,” she finishes, setting the device down and raising a brow at me.

I drop into the seat opposite her and rake a hand through my hair. “So, you’re saying I’m fucked?”

“Be grateful it hasn’t ended up on any of the porn sites.”

Small fucking favors. A fleeting image of a dark-haired, blue-eyed woman’s crazy assumptions springs to mind. Bet she’d be disappointed I didn’t prove her right.

“ESPN’s already running the story non-stop and even the New York Times has mentioned it.” Dan says.

Must be a slow news day.

Coach peers down at his phone. “Barely hours online, and the photo’s gotten millions of likes and reposts and comments. Who are these freaks who don’t sleep?” He flicks at the screen, his frown growing with every swipe.

The urge to rip it out of his hand and throw it against the wall is almost overwhelming, but the last thing I need is some mention of anger management issues tacked on to this shitshow.

“His fans,” Jessica remarks. “An Etsy shop’s already cashing in on the frenzy, offering mugs with that photo for pre-order. I hear business is booming.”

Coach snorts. “Great, now our fans can enjoy their coffee with a view of your morning wood.”

Dan’s eyes take on a scheming glint. “Maybe we should demand a cut. Or produce some of our own.”

A fresh wave of irritation washes over me, and I spear him with a glare. He doesn’t need twenty percent of my fuckup.

“Do you want to explain to Noah why his beloved football team is hawking kink cups?” Jessica responds, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “I mean, he’s always looking to diversify, so who knows? He might even thank Jake.”

I frown. Noah Winters, billionaire owner of the Titans, and occasional poker adversary. We like to think we’re his favorite business—that’s saying a lot, given he probably has a hundred ventures.

“Fine, then let’s sue. It’s revenge porn. Defamation of character,” Dan says.

“I’ve already spoken to our lawyers,” Jessica responds.

“I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal. Hell, I’ve been in underwear commercials before,” I point out, a little more defensively now.

“Calvin Klein ads are practically a rite of passage. Players in handcuffs? Not so much.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not that bad,” I insist. The next player with a DUI or a steroid scandal, and this will be ancient history.

She shrugs. “It wouldn’t be. This is New York City. Everyone’s got their thing. I don’t give a damn what you do in private, but anything that affects the team? Then I care.”

“I still don’t get it,” I mutter petulantly.

“There’s more.”

Something in her tone fills me with dread.

“The board of Nurture NYC called. They’ve asked us to suspend prep on the end-of-season charity gala we host for them.”

“What? Why?” I bolt to my feet.

“They have concerns the close association with the team will do more harm than good to their mission.”

Jessica’s words hit hard, and my chest tightens. Nurture NYC.

I lobbied for the Titans to become a major sponsor right after my rookie year. But the connection runs deeper—the charity isn’t just another obligation, it’s part of my heritage. Dad was raised in the Nurture NYC foster care system. His experiences there transformed him; his journey from a beneficiary of their kindness to its staunchest supporter is a story that has shaped all our lives.

When he died, Mom took on his cause, serving on the board until she was sure it was in good hands, stepping down to spend more time with the grandkids a couple of months ago.

I can’t even begin to imagine her disappointment and embarrassment if she was still involved and then had to pull the plug on the gala thanks to her son’s antics, and am glad to be spared that.

I glance down at my lap. Shame coats my skin at the knowledge that I may have damaged Dad’s legacy and harmed the cause Mom’s dedicated so much of her life to.

“But the gala—we need all the funding we can get.”

Jessica raises a brow, unbothered. “The funds won’t be a problem if you suck up to Noah.”

I wince at the suggestion. Sure, he could cover the gala’s financial targets in seconds, presumably taking a chunk out of my pay to make a point. And that’s fine by me. “It’s not just about cash. We need to raise awareness. Keep up the momentum. Money alone isn’t enough. The charity needs the publicity.”

“Not your kind of publicity.”

That shuts me up quick and I squirm under her piercing gaze. It’s like she has a line into my soul and can suck my spirit out at whim. A dementor.

“If there’s a lawsuit, this is this is going to stay in the news,” I say slowly.

“Most likely.”

“Maybe we should hold off on legal action. Won’t this blow over?” I ask in a mumble. My head aches.

Jessica leans back in her seat. “Possibly. Possibly not. Either way, I don’t like leaving things to chance. We’re suing.”

“Is there no other way?” Desperation creeps into my plea. “Jess, please. Do what you want to me, but let’s not risk hurting Nurture NYC further.”

She examines me, her gaze softening for the first time since I showed up.

Finally, she exhales. “Okay, we’ll scale back to cease-and-desists for the moment, see if the board reconsiders. We can highlight all the other positive work the team does. In the meantime, you,” she pauses, locking on me, “need to keep a low profile. Less time in the limelight, fewer press conferences, and we’ll minimize your appearances in promotions. Right now, the only press we want is good press. If we go down this road, I need you on your absolute best behavior.”

“You got it,” I promise, my jaw set.

“The woman Dan said freed you—do we have to worry about a story coming out of her?”

My heartbeat kicks up. Aloud, I respond, “No.” But I’m mentally crossing my fingers I’m right. Fuck. Maybe I should have gotten Amelia’s number?

No, it’s better I didn’t. It’ll be fine. She won’t be a problem. She had no idea who I was. Plus, she’s new to the city, and I’m not arrogant enough to believe every person in town knows me, even though I tend to be surrounded by people who do—birds of a feather are the same kind of bird and shit.

Jessica narrows her gaze at me. “If you say so. In the meantime, I’ll issue a statement claiming you were brought there under false pretenses and did not consent to the photograph.” She leans in, her voice firm, “Don’t speak to anyone about the details. We want to put a lid on this fast.”

“I won’t say a word.”

Clearly not impressed, she glances down at her watch. I’ve been dismissed.

The moment I stride into the locker room, all chatter grinds to a screeching halt, as if I’ve interrupted some top-secret meeting.

“What’s going on?” I glance around, though I suspect I already know. A few stifled snickers fill the air.

And then I see it. A gigantic photo on the whiteboard where the coaches scratch out plays, captured for posterity under the harsh fluorescent light and anchored in place with Titans magnets. Someone found a Teddy-The-Titan plush toy, and it’s strapped to the image with a belt. Blown up, I resemble a startled owlet, eyes wide, mouth slack in surprise.

Hmmm. At least I wasn’t drooling. Small mercies.

“Auditioning for Survivor: Kinky Island , huh?” Logan Barnes, team quarterback, says. Then the whole place erupts into cackles and hoots.

“You’d win hands down. Or is it up?” My other so-called friend, Connor Hall, piles on.

“Big talk about being a Survivor super-fan, Jake. And yet, you couldn’t even hack the first challenge.” Milo calls.

“The tribe has spoken. You’re out.”

The laughing continues. If they’d put as much energy into practice, we’d win every goddamned Super Bowl.

I roll my eyes. “I know, I know, you’re all in awe of my stunning good looks.” Oh, the joys of daily life with assholes and wannabe comedians.

Armaan Diego, our longtime linebacker, leans against the metal doors, making them groan under the weight of his muscled bulk. He glances at the picture again, then peers at me. “You know, with a little golden bikini and dumplings in your hair?—”

“Whatever you say, Jabba.” I pat his big belly as I walk past him on the way to my locker.

“Fuck, man, don’t ruin Star Wars for me,” Milo cuts in, shielding his ears with his hands. “Though I kinda think he looks like an Ewok now.”

“Good thing we love our Teddy!” Connor calls.

The guys roar. Some laugh so hard they have to swipe tears from their cheeks. I can’t help but smile a little at their teasing. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t dish out the same shit if someone else was in my position.

“Just you watch, wait until they have Survivor: Urban Jungle . You’ll all be begging to join my alliance,” I respond. “I have skills you can only dream of.”

Hunter Pryce, our new cornerback, shakes his head. “I think I’ll take my chances on the other side.”

I barely restrain myself from sticking my tongue out.

Once I’ve reached my locker, I shrug off my jacket and toss it on the bench behind me. A clang sounds as it makes contact.

I turn, spying the flash of pink peeking out of the pocket the same time Connor does, but he snatches up the cuffs before I can stop him. He examines them, fingering the key jammed in the keyhole, making deep “hmm-ing” noises. After a moment, his lips twist into a smirk. “ This is what kept you locked up?”

I flush.

He chuckles as he fiddles with them a bit more. A second later, he’s bent over, clutching his stomach, howling.

“What?” I growl.

“This?” The bastard finally collects himself. He straightens, grin still wide. Mr. Zorro-wannabe swings the handcuffs around like a lasso, the motion so fast that the other ring blurs into a pink hurricane, sending bits of fur flying.

“Yes, it’s the real deal.”

Connor sniggers, catching the spinning side abruptly, and makes a show of running his fingers over the remaining fuzz in front of my face. He jiggles something on each cuff, and they spring open with a soft ‘plink.’

I stare, openmouthed, while the guys guffaw around me.

“How’d you do that?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Connor drops his voice in a dramatic whisper, casting furtive glances over his shoulder like he’s in a spy movie. A bad one.

The asshole gets a glare for his efforts, but then he takes pity on me and demonstrates the release catch, smirking all the while. I grab the handcuffs and toss them into my locker, slamming the door shut on the harsh jangle that echoes as they hit the back.