Page 40 of Your Play to Call
He puts the bag on the kitchen island, pulling out cookies and a pint of something.
“What’s all that?”
“These are my favorite cookies, oatmeal scotchies, and before you make fun of me, I don’t care. And thiswasa pint of ice-cream. A poor choice for the long drive and then the delayed entry.” His voice is light and carefree.
“I’m sorry.”
“Tell you what… if you want to make it up to me, you can show me your studio.”
I reach for his hand to lead him down to the basement. His hand in mine immediately makes me want his hands everywhere.
“This is so cool,” Tripp says as he looks around. He sits down at the piano and starts playing “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. I sit down next to him, our legs touching.
“Very nice,” I say as he wraps up the song.
“Play me something,” he says. “Please.”
“Ugh, I don’t know,” I chew on the inside of my cheek, embarrassed that he even asked. “I don’t usually play live for people I know.” His mouth drops.
“Global superstar Willow doesn’t like to play for people she knows?”
“No, not really. I usually bring in recorded cuts to my label. I don’t think I’ve ever played in front of them in a small setting.” I tuck the same strand of hair behind my ear.
“Even the greats get nervous. Means you got something to lose.” He squeezes my knee.
“That’s sweet. Who said that?”
“My mom. I used to get so nervous before college games that I’d throw up. Just the ones where I was going to start.” He laughs and puts his hands through his dark hair.
“Do you still do that? Throw up before games?”
“No. I saw a sports psychologist, and that’s one of the first things we worked on.”
The sports psychologist doesn’t surprise me. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, early on, is Tripp does anything and everything to take care of himself.
He takes his finger and taps a few of the keys.
“What’s your favorite song?” I ask him.
He jokingly covers his eyes. “Don’t make me pick.”
“Just pick a favorite. I’llprobablyplay it. You can sing.” I lean into his side with a playful nudge, trying to mask my internal alarms screaming “don’t do it”.
Tripp breathes in slow and deep, completely exhaling before he says, “Let’s do… City Lights Say.”
A smile creeps over my face since he picked one of my favorites. I place my fingers over the keys and start to play. Even though it’s one I recorded with the full band, I love this song on piano—it feels right. This is the type of feeling I’m after for my next album.
Right before the lyrics are supposed to come in, I sneak a look at Tripp. His eyes are closed and he’s nodding along to the beat. I don’t have to tell him to come in because he starts singing at the exact right time.
Hearing someone else sing my music is always an experience, but this 6’2” NFL player takes the cake. His voice isn’t half-bad, and he knows all the words.
They were out for blood
And all I had was grace
The city lights tell tales and lies
Just like you, the skyline was all about the chase