Page 121 of Your Play to Call

“Me either because I can’t believe Coach let us call that play.” Tripp laughs, one that reaches his eyes and his bones. He puts his head in the crook of my neck and kisses up and down.

“I love you so much. Having you here on this field, confetti in your hair, is a fucking dream I didn’t know I had.” He kisses me in between words.

“I love you to the cove and back,” I say with a wink. “Think you’ll be named MVP for the second year in a row?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the only prize I need,” Tripp says while dipping me for a dramatic kiss.

Cameras flash and click, and we hearawwwwcoming from people in the background.

This is the moment. The one where I know, no matter whether we win, lose, or draw, on our own, we’re always winners together.

Epilogue

Tripp

3 months later

The sea of cellphones always catches me off guard, no matter how many times I see it. After clearing security, it’s nothing but lenses from any and every angle—not paparazzi but Willow’s fans instead.

With a maximum occupancy of only 800 people, tonight’s venue is special. Excitement and pure joy rolls off every person as I walk by.All for Willow. My dream girl. Believe me, I totally get it.

As I make my way to my spot, near the side of the stage, I stop as people ask for selfies. It’s easy to say yes when they’re so damn kind and thankful to be there. The Upstate Cosmos fans are incredible but there’s something next level when it comes to Willow’s loyal fanbase.

“Hold up, Tripp!” Zack yells. I turn back—he’s taking his own photos with groups of fans. He’s been begging me to bring him to a concert and this is the first one that aligned with our schedules.

Ever since Zack nailed the trick play to win the Super Bowl, he’s become a household name. It’s not that people didn’t know him before but now it’s like a switch, from “some” to “almost all”. Rumor has it there’s a jump in kids wanting to play his position—long snapper—instead of the traditional quarter back or wide receiver. That’s pretty fucking cool.

He’s one of the good ones. I love seeing him get the attention and recognition he deserves. Except for now, when he’s slowing us down. And letting someone whisper in his ear?

I squint, make sure I’m seeing things correctly. Zack has always been a magnet for this type of attention. A short blonde, wearing an Upstate Cosmos shirt, laughs as he says something to her. “Zack, you coming?” I ask.

The blonde, hands Zack her phone and he types something in, probably his number. She pouts as he waves and turns back to me.

“Do you know her?” It wouldn’t be the first time Zack arranged to meet someone while we were out.

“Not yet,” he raises his eyebrows. “But hoping to later.” He shakes my shoulder with his hand, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. I’ve never been one to casually hookup with anyone, so maybe I just don’t get it, but Zack has had quite the roster ever since we won the Super Bowl.

According to him, he carries multiple condoms with him at all times. At least he’s being safe.

Stage lights flicker, indicating there’s only a few minutes before the show starts, before they land on Willow’s piano—her two guitars next to it. My stomach flips, the butterflies making their pre-show appearance.

Tonight is Willow’s tenth tour date, and I know what to expect logistically, but it’s like my brain can’t comprehend some of the details.

How I’ll never need a concert ticket, because I have a reserved spot, at every venue. How the tour sold out in a single day. How people show up wearing Cosmos gear and they’re excited to see me even though I’m just a fan like everyone else.

How she’s mine.

I’m so fucking proud of her. The new album, “A Love Letter to The Coast”, is at the top of the charts, going on week six. The accomplishment is even sweeter since it’s under her own label: True Blue Records.

She wanted to keep the tour timeline the same, which meant breaking things off with her original label and diving into this side of the business much sooner than was probably recommended.

“Wow, she looks good,” Zack says, his voice trailing off.

I follow his eyes and see an enthusiastic Emilie waving. She’s off to the side of the stage—where our seats are. “Don’t you dare,” I say, my finger pointing at him.

“I would never…” he says, with a smirk, one that tells me not to believe a thing he just said.

“Cutting it close,” Emilie yells, pointing at a fake watch on her wrist.

---