Page 5 of Your Play to Call
“And your Super Bowl most valuable player is…” The commissioner pauses again just as my head coach makes eye contact with me and winks. “Tripp Owens!”
My mom’s face is the only thing I see. Her hand covers her mouth as she jumps up and down. Hands clap me on the back. Coach makes his way over to me, reaches out a hand, and shakes mine before pulling me in for a hug. I can’t hear anything he says. The crowd. My teammates. Clicks of cameras. Everyone trying to get closer.
I don’t know how it happened but I’m the MVP.
Fuck.
Adrenaline and bliss wash over me. It’s like I’m twelve years old, watching my favorite player win a Super Bowl, nose almost touching the TV screen. Except, this time, it’s me.
The locker room isin complete chaos. The field was almost like a shock to the system, and now, letting it soak in, the locker room is crazier. It’s bottles of Champagne and goggles—no one likes to get blasted in the eyes with bubbly. Teammates and coaching staff scream, clap each other on the back, and there are even some chest bumps. Music blares from somewhere as we dance in a circle. A laugh bursts from my chest when Coach gets in the middle.
A security guard asks if we mind an interruption. None of us object because we don’t give a fuck. It doesn’t matter who walks through that door with the high we’re on.
She steps into the locker-room, cautious, knowing there’s a Champagne party happening. A pair of goggles dangles from her hand.
Willow is wearing a Seattle Serpents jersey, black leggings—which hug all of her curves, and white sneakers. It’s simple but ridiculously attractive. In a room full of mostly professional athletes she looks short,but I’m guessing she’s around 5’4’’. When she turns to talk to someone, I see her name on the back of the jersey.
Fuck. She looks good.
“Hey!” she says, louder than I expected. “Super Bowl champs!” she shouts and starts clapping. The rest of the locker room follows suit and claps along, hooting and hollering.
“Just wanted to say amazing job. I didn’t get to watch the first half but sounds like the second half is where it was at anyways.” The guys don’t even let her finish before they’re yelling, hitting hands with teammates, and letting another wave of excitement wash over the room.
It’s hard for me to look anywhere else. Her hair, pinned back from her face, and rich like chocolate, is short enough that it doesn’t touch her shoulders. Her cheeks are pink, and it doesn’t look like she’s wearing any makeup. Fresh faced, her features glow. Fucking gorgeous.
We line up and take a photo with her. She stands in the middle of our team huddle, arms around the guys next to her like she knows all of us. I wish I was next to her.
“I don’t want to take up any more of your time but congrats and have some fun tonight!” Everyone yells as she waves and leaves the locker room.
I stand there smiling. In awe. Like an idiot. I’m the Super Bowl MVP, and I’m star struck.
After about another hourin the locker room, the guys are packing up to head to the airport. It sounds like we’re going to Vegas because according to my Coach, that’s where you go after you “win a fucking championship”.
I can’t believe this is my life.
I forgot something in my locker so I’m one of the last ones to leave the stadium. I'm about to head out when I see Willow at the end of the hallway. She’s on the phone, pacing back and forth.
Gone is the cool and collected woman in a rowdy locker room. Her chin is folded into her chest, and she’s twirling her dark hair nervously.
Three security guards stand near the doors, peering out the window. They seem unsure of the next step. I can hear the maniacal shuffle of the paparazzi from here.
Willow’s voice is short and low while she paces, staring at the floor. I don’t catch much of her conversation, but I do hear, “Dex, I know how you feel about me being here without my standard team, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. If you let me hang up, I could try to figure this out.”
She pulls the phone from her ear. It appears that Dex, whoever that is, hung up on her. Tucking the short dark strands behind her ears she clasps her hands in front of her chest, still pacing. “Miss... ugh… Willow. What do you want to do?” one of the guards asks her, instilling zero confidence.
“I can’t believe how bad you are at this,” a woman wearing a black pantsuit snaps.
Before I know what I’m doing, I interject myself into a situation I have nothing to do with. Sounds like me—impulsive as fuck.
“What seems to be the issue?” I ask. Willow’s eyes snap to mine, and I see a moment of clarity when she realizes I’m one of the players.
“I’m trying to get to my car, but the paparazzi have blocked every single door. It keeps getting worse the longer I wait.”
Immediately, I go into problem-solving mode.
“Is the car still safe? Like, if you got there, it’d be fine?” I don’t step into the line of sight of the window. I’m not as popular as Willow, but I don’t need to make it worse.
“Yes. My driver says no one is there. It’s around the corner.”
