Page 41 of Your Play to Call

Tripp dramatically finishes the chorus with some freestyle singing, and it has me in a fit of laughter, missing some keys at the end of the song. I clap for him as he stands to bow.

“Wow! You knew where to come in and everything.”

“Well, that’s because it’s on my warmup playlist. I listen to it almost every day. I’ve also sang it at a team karaoke night.”

I can’t explain it, but it’s like he’s giving me the greatest compliment. Does it get better than hearing your song is on someone’s playlist? The thought of him singing my songs, in public, in I’m sure true Tripp fashion, brings me joy.

“You are something else,” I say as I stand up and wrap him in a hug. “Did you know this song is the reason it was The Skyline Tour?”

He gasps, “I knew it! Or I had my theories!” He puts his hands on my shoulders and lightly presses, so I can see his face.

Tripp in my studio, eyes wide and vibrant, voice enthusiastic and excited, is a memory I’ll keep a mental bookmark on for a long time.

Chapter 25

Tripp

I sink into thehotel bed and stare at the ceiling. Tomorrow is our season opener. Typically, I’d be wired, packed full of energy, itching to play the game I know and love.

Instead, I’m thinking about how quiet this room is. How it’s too put together. The white comforter tucked into the king bed, doesn’t have a

wrinkle on it. It screams “wash your hands” before getting too close. Empty bedside tables and a generic photo of a beach make me hurt for something familiar. It’s too sterile, like a hospital room but with a bigger bed.

Truth is, being on a new team is fucking tough. There are so many things with established fans and organizations you don’t realize you appreciate until it’s gone. The buzz I’m used to feels a million miles away, on a roster I don’t belong to anymore.

My heart hurts over my old team. It squeezes and pinches in my chest, all the while soaking in this quiet, too staged hotel room. I thought I had come to terms with the trade and what the rest of my career was going to look like. Guess not.

I reach my arms out. The California king bed, large enough to fit my entire body, feels like it could swallow me whole.

I wish Willow was here.

The thought is quick as sweat beads on my forehead. My heart feels like it stops and starts, erratically, with no rhyme or reason. Like it forgot how to beat. Why is the air so heavy? It’s like my lungs canbarely expand. My mouth is dry. Pins and needles creep from my shoulders down my whole body, right to my fingertips. I flex and stretch my hand, trying to ease the prickling.

The room tilts just enough for the familiar feeling to hit me like the cornerbacks are going to tomorrow.

Oh no. Not fucking now.

I’m about to have a panic attack. It’s been years but the feeling brings me back like it was yesterday. Just like riding a bike, I put my legs off the edge of the bed and put my head between my knees. I breathe in for five, hold for as long as I can, and breathe out for five. I visualize waves, rolling in, rolling out, with the pace of my breathing.

In.

Hold.

Out.

Eventually, the pin sensation leaves my hands. I don’t know how long I do the breathing exercise for, but I feel better. Not great but better.

It’s after 9 PM on the west coast, meaning it’s past midnight back home.

I need a distraction. Otherwise, I’m going to be like this all night.

The phone rings. And rings. Until Willow answers.

“Hello?” she answers, her voice dripping with sleep.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. You were sleeping.” I rub my hand over my face.

“It’s okay. Is everything okay?”