Tripp nods.
“You know,” the officer goes on, “I always thought when I met a famous ballplayer, it would be under different circumstances.” He’s shaking his head. “Guess I’ve seen it all.”* * *Tripp: I can’t stop thinking about that sock between your legs.
Me: That’s all you have to say? I’m still traumatized from this afternoon. Trauma-TIZED.
Tripp: You didn’t find any of that exciting?
Me: Um NO. Not even a little bit. Did YOU?
Tripp: Yes. My life has been pretty goddamn boring up until the last few weeks.
Me: The only thing that could have made today any worse would be finding out that cop sold his vest-cam footage to the tabloids. Can you imagine how much that would go for?
Tripp: Lol. Plenty I imagine.
Tripp: Hey, how’s that gym sock?
Me: **gags** The sock was sweaty and gross!!!
Tripp: I’m never washing it.
Me: Are you saying…you want THE SOCK BACK???
Tripp: Yes.
Me: That is SO. GROSS. Why did you have to tell me that? **gags again but this time into a brown paper bag**
Me: Too late, I threw it in the trash.
Tripp: You threw my sock away!??? Why the hell would you do that—it was a perfectly good sock!
Me: It was covered in come!
Tripp: **cum
Me: Oh my god, stop it right now.
Tripp: I was going to wear those to my next game! They’re my good luck socks now. Are you still at work? I’m coming over to dig through your trash.
Me: Don’t you dare!
Tripp: Too late, I’m already in my car on my way over.
Me: You are not…
Tripp: Prove I’m not.
Me: Wait. It’s the middle of the afternoon—shouldn’t you be at practice?
Tripp: Yes, but I stuffed my phone down the front of my pants so I could flirt with you. Don’t tell anyone.
Tripp: In fact, I should have you sign an NDA so you don’t sell my flirting to the tabloids.
Me: You mean if the police officer hasn’t done it first.
Tripp: Please, do you think we’re the first people he’s busted fucking on the side of the road? Betcha it happens a few times a week, but like, usually with prostitutes.
Me: Yes, I felt SO embarrassed.
Tripp: You don’t actually think he thought you were a hooker, do you?
Me: Maybe just a little…
Tripp: Chandler. Babe. He had your driver’s license and everyone in the city of Chicago knows who the Westbrooke family is.
Me: Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better! **cries**
Tripp: You’re cute when you think you’re getting arrested. You should have seen your face when he asked if the sex was consensual.
Me: We can’t all just casually lean against the vehicle like we’re waiting for a tow truck, TRIPP.
Tripp: LOL that is not how I looked.
Me: Yeah—ya did. Just chilling, no big deal. Don’t think I didn’t catch you nodding at the man jogging with his dog.
Tripp: I’M FRIENDLY—what did you expect me to do?
Me: NO, YOU ARE NOT. You are actually not at all friendly.
Tripp: LOL
Me: Circling back around to the non-disclosure—honestly, I would sign one if you wanted me to.
Tripp: I don’t want you to, I was only kidding.
Me: But real quick, say something juicy just so I can take a screenshot and use it as blackmail material.
Tripp: Something juicy.
Me: Wow. You’re a comedian now, too!
Tripp: I can be funny when I want to be. My brother usually always has to hog the attention.
Me: Aww, you poor, poor baby.
Tripp: It’s about time someone felt sorry for me.
Me: I DO NOT FEEL SORRY FOR YOU.
Tripp: Um, why are you yelling?
Tripp: Hey, I ended up grabbing you and my family a box for Saturday—you’re still coming right?
Me: Yup. I’m ironing my Blues jersey as we speak.
Tripp: Oh yeah? Whose number is on the back?
Me: I don’t know, I think number 12? It says Butler.
Tripp: You’re dead to me, goodbye.
Me: Not even a kiss on the cheek before you go?
Tripp: I said good day, sir!Twenty-OneChandlerI wasn’t lying when I told Tripp my Blues jersey has the name Butler on the back—but that’s only because I had to borrow it from my friend Jennifer, who I went to college with and who lives in the city, too.
They’re expensive!
I wasn’t raised to be a football fan growing up. I was raised to be loyal to the Chicago Steam, the family dynasty and all that bull crap.
The jersey is for a woman (not a man), fitted and cute with the jeans I threw on and tucked into boots. I’m not sure how much makeup to put on, or how to style my hair, considering I’m watching the game with Mr. and Mrs. Wallace.
I’m so nervous I can barely eat, waiting curbside for the cab to pick me up and take me to the stadium so I can meet them there.
Ticket in purse.
Warm winter coat.
Stadium-approved purse.
Check, check, check.
I hit the lights of the townhouse before heading out and locking up, taking the steps jauntily with more enthusiasm than I feel.