Page 4 of Your Play to Call
I’ve never told him but sometimes I’m jealous. I’d love it if I could play smaller venues and do things like invite fans on stage to sing with me. My label, and security team, would never go for it.
“Let me know when you get back to your hotel.Whereveryou’re staying,” Dexter says, getting in his jab at me for being left out.
“You got it. I'm just going to do a quick visit with the winning team, congratulate them, and then be on my way. I’ll text you.”
“Love.” Dexter says our parting greeting. I'm not sure how it started but it’s our thing.
“Love.” I end the call and put my phone face down on the vanity.
It stings that he didn’t recognize I just made one of my dreams come true. Something people only wish they could do.
“How didthatgo?” Claire asks while fixing her hair in my mirror. She looks like she walked right out of a corporate meeting in an onyx Valentino pantsuit.
“He’s worried, that’s all.” I know I'm minimizing his reaction. How much it hurt. How I'm holding back tears.
“Oh, the sting of fragile masculinity,” Claire says, wearing a saccharine grin.
Instead of spiraling about Dex’s reaction, or having Claire launch into a rant, I reach for the blank thank-you cards—including matching ‘W’ stickers to seal the envelopes—on the vanity. I grab my favorite pen, one that will not smear as I write left-handed, and take a deep breath. This is one of my favorite parts about my performance routine.
I make it a point to write out a few thank-you notes at each venue or event, and hand them out before I leave. It started when I played at a small local coffee shop with one of my friends playing guitar. A young fan gave me the note on my way out, and it’s something that has stuck with me. For ten years.
There’s just something special about a handwritten thank-you note.
While there’s nothing I can do about Dex right now, I can express my gratitude and hopefully make someone smile.
Chapter 4
Tripp
This is fucking incredible.I’m a Super Bowl Champion. I’ve never been “the guy” when it comes to winning big games. This season, this game specifically, I was key. Me. Tripp Owens. It wasn’t just me hyping up the guys on the sideline but making plays.
Black and green Seattle Serpent confetti falls on the field. The same field where I caught two touchdowns in the second half. We trailed the entire game, except for the last three minutes of the fourth quarter. I scored the touchdown that put us on top and it feels fucking great.
Un-fucking-real.
The field is now full of families—wives, girlfriends, kids, parents. Everyone is looking for their player. I’ve got my eyes looking for the only person I had a ticket for.
“Tripp!” Someone puts their hand on my shoulder, lightly turning me. I can tell by voice alone it’s my mom. Exactly who I was looking for.
I face her and envelop her in a massive hug. The woman whoconstantly drove me to practices, tutoring sessions, and never missed a college home game. I’ve never been the golden boy on any roster, but I always was on hers.
“I can’t believeyou.” She kisses both of my cheeks. “Two touchdowns! TWO." She is yelling and jumping up and down, holding my hands. “129 yards!” She wraps me up in hug.
All I can do is cry. It’s more than football at this point. It’s always been me and her ever since my dad left when I was a kid. He never looked back but neither did she. In this moment, I’m so fucking thankful she didn’t.
I set her down and she puts both of her hands on the sides of my face. “Tripp. You did it. Your team did it.” Tears trickle down her face. “I’m so proud of you!” she yells.
I hear the clicks of cameras around me and hope someone is capturing this moment. This is one I’ll want to relive repeatedly—celebrating with the person who always put me and my dreams first.
“Wedid it. I love you, Mom.” I hug her again, dipping down so I can put my head in the crook of her neck and shoulder. She squeezes as tight as she can. A few stray tears of excitement, gratitude, and adrenaline fall down my face.
Someone pulls me away to the makeshift stage where my coach, quarterback, and general manager gather. The rest of the team is close behind. Friends and family surround the stage; I find my mom right away. Someone hands me a Seattle Serpent Super Bowl Champion hat, and my mouth hangs open.
I’ve watched the Super Bowl every year for as long as I can remember. Logically, I know what happens next, but knowing and experiencing it are two wildly different things.
“Wouldn’t be a Super Bowl without an MVP,” the NFL commissioner says. It’s surreal being on the same stage as him. My brain can barely make sense of it.
He pauses as the crowd claps. I’m shoulder to shoulder with my guys, and this smile is fucking glued to my face at this point.