Page 10 of Your Play to Call

Dexter would never entertain the idea of going to the after-party, and that wasifhe even accompanied me to the event. When my tablemates ask if I’m going to join them, my cheeks flush a bit when I say yes. I’m excited to do something I haven’t done in what feels like years.

Emilie joins me and I can tell she is absolutely beside herself. She smooths her dark red hair in the car and fixes her lipstick. This is the first real event I have brought her to, given the whole season of hiding away. I can tell she’s trying to keep it together, and I love her for it.

We get a few steps inside the after-party before I see a band I know Emilie loves. I practically know all their music considering how much she plays it at my place. When I introduce her, I laugh as her mouth is doing everything it can to not be on the floor. I throw a wink her way.

I giggle when I hear someone ask where she’s from. She looks down at her hands, wondering if she does the hand thing to pay homage to her home state of Michigan.

I feel like the air is different here; it’s exciting and refreshing. I think I’ve missed events like this. I look around and take in the room but don’t get farther than the bar when I see him. Tripp. Smirking at me in all that dark-gray-suit glory. Ironically, he’s all alone.

I make a split-second decision before my brain can talk me out of it. As I approach the bar, it’s hard not to stare at his smile. It’s contagious. I feel my own lips pulling up. My legs strut, and I tip my chin up.

“We were never formally introduced,” he says while putting out his hand. “I’m—”

“Tripp. Tripp Owens,” I interrupt, putting my hand in his. “Super Bowl MVP. Recently traded to the bright and shiny-new Upstate Cosmos.” With each word, his stare gets a little more intense. But in a good way. He bites his lip and tilts his head as he listens and shakes my hand.

He. Bites. His. Lip. I am a puddle on the floor.

“Wow. Not even going to try and lie. I fucking love that you know who I am.” He laughs to himself as he runs a hand through his hair, which looks almost black in the dim light. “My turn.” He shakes his shoulders and pretends to crack his neck. “You’re Willow. Ten albums. Possibly the driving force behind cassettes making a comeback. The first artist to sell out every NFL stadium during a single tour.” His hands are on his hips as he takes me in.

His eyes on me make my skin prick and burn. I realize I’m holding my breath.

“Want to know a secret?” he asks, leaning into me, close enough that his voice is barely above a whisper. I move in, closing the rest of the distance. “I was fucking pissed I missed your halftime show. Well, I did catch the end of the last song.” His voice is low, and I can hear the smirk in the way he speaks.

I remember the clip of him dancing out of the tunnel—he knew some of my tour choreography. It made me laugh but I was mostly envious of him. How he was unapologetically himself even during one of the most important games of his career. Clearly, doing what he wanted on what’s arguably the biggest stage he’ll ever touch.

“You seemed to be having your own fun, you know, winning a championship and all.”

“You’re right. I was. And it was a fucking blast.”

Instead of doing the thing where he awkwardly plays down the accomplishment, he soaks in the compliment. I love it.

“What can I get you to drink?”

“Sauvignon blanc, please.”

“Want to find a spot?” His voice is smooth like velvet as he gestures to the array of sitting areas around the after-party. This is one of the safest places in the sense of being able to have real conversations. No camerasallowed. Of course, there will be people lined up when everyone makes their exit, but for now, we’re all safe.

This gorgeous man, who put himself in a precarious position to help me out, seems like a worthwhile way to spend my time this evening. Didn’t see this coming.

I grin at him before I turn and walk towards a booth in the corner. I wonder if he’s watching me. The venue is all dark fabrics, velvet, and the lights are dim. As I sink into the booth, my heart catches me off guard.

Quick. For the first time in months.

Honest excitement.

There’s no part of my brain trying to come up with a way to win a fight. Or begging someone to go out or stay out a little longer. And if we were out, Dexter would be so concerned about how we were going to end up getting out of there.

My brain feels quiet. The only thing I feel is my heart beat picking up.

And it feels good.

Chapter 8

Tripp

I can’t believe thisis happening.

Willow walks to the booth and it’s like my eyes have finally adjusted. The dress she’s wearing is inky black and has some sort of glitter effect in the fabric—moving like rippling water on her body. The back is so low it demands that you glance all the way down where the fabric meets the top of her lower back.