6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Tripp

Learning your team chose not to protect you in an expansion draft blows. It's even worse when your name gets picked, on national television, and you know it's time to pack your bags and relocate. After winning a Super Bowl, being named the MVP, you sort of think your spot is cemented into the roster.

Guess not.

The Seattle Serpents had the chance to "protect" me from the expansion draft which would keep my name out of the pool of players available to be picked. They chose to take the risk and include my name. Lucky me, I was the first one picked.

Fuck me.

Here I am: wide receiver for the Upstate Cosmos. Cosmos like stars and space. Not the flower. Upstate, not like true upstate New York, but on the outskirts of the city, and idiotically close enough to still be crippled by city traffic. Just what the NFL needs, another team in New York.

The Serpents' general manager and coaching staff said they were sad to see me go. I believed them. Still, they were the only NFL team I've known, and it fucking stung. It's a business, which I get, but it's also piss-poor luck.

I could've done without the whole "this is a good move for you" framing. They made it seem like since I had such a successful year, I'd have the opportunity for a massive long-term deal with the Cosmos .

Here's what I know: I'm a thirty-year-old wide receiver. There's never a guarantee about how many years someone has left to play, but I know I'd be lucky to get a few more. Football has always been my identity—not just the thing I did, but the thing I am. Knowing I can't play forever has been creeping into my brain and it scares the shit out of me.

Plus, after getting a taste of winning, as a critical part of the team, it's like everything clicked—how much I depend on the sport.

When I got drafted to the new team, the panic attacks came roaring back. I hate the unknown, and this new team plus what happens after football both fall in that category. I've seen a sports psychologist on and off throughout my life and made sure to get a good recommendation for one in New York.

Not only is this a new team for me but it's literally new for everyone. There's no previous roster, established relationships with coaching staff, or existing fan base. It's like we've been plucked and jammed together for some weird sports experiment. There's nothing wrong with the guys here but it's just fucking weird.

The locker rooms and training facilities are shiny-new, but the culture is non-existent. I didn't love my previous team because we figured out how to win, but because we were friends. Everyone had everyone else‘s backs. It was more than football, and we had a fucking blast.

Needless to say, moving across the country to a brand-new franchise made for a crazy off-season. Plus, the Champagne stunt definitely made its rounds—I built up a touch of a wild card reputation. Some people love it, some people hate it, and I have no idea how to feel about the strong reactions and opinions. I pretended to be drunk, spraying paparazzi with Champagne, only so Willow could get to her car. She needed some help. I helped .

During my first meeting with the Cosmos front office, the general manager asked me to keep the Champagne events to a minimum, unless we're winning a Super Bowl.

I've always been a little spontaneous. That's no secret. The only difference is the stunt was on a bigger stage and people sort of knew who I was this time.

Now, the press follows me incessantly, whether I'm going for a run, doing dinner with friends, or trying to get groceries. I don't think I'm that exciting, but sure, go ahead and watch me pick out kale for my juicer.

Before being named Super Bowl MVP, people may have known who I was, but not everyone. And no one cared enough to say anything, that's for sure.

My mom moves into her new apartment today and my heart squeezes with relief. She'll finally be in the same city as me. I'm browsing bouquets from a farmers market stand a few blocks from my apartment, picking one out for my mom's new place. I breathe in and the sweet smell of lilacs reminds me of her.

I can feel someone lurking. They pull something out of their pocket. Not unusual. People ask me to sign stuff all the time.

"Tripp?" The voice is quiet and comes from a man I'm guessing is probably fifty years old.

"Didn't know people could recognize me out of the pads." It's the same joke I'm prepared with whenever I'm approached. "Want me to sign something?"

"No, nothing like that. Just wanted to give you this." He hands me a card—information for Alcoholics Anonymous. My jaw drops and my eyes feel like they don't fit my face. By the time I look back up at him, he's already turned and on his way .

Put this on the list for potential public interactions. I've had everything from screaming, crying, and awkward selfies. Don't forget about the occasional, "Why did you leave the Seattle Serpents?" coated with anger, like it was my choice.

I also get invited to a lot of shit. Like tonight, I got roped into going to an awards show. Not usually my sort of vibe, but some of my old teammates will be there, and it seems like it could be fun.

I settle on an arrangement of flowers and get back to my apartment.

Before I get in the shower, I turn on music that plays throughout my entire penthouse. A song by Willow is on.

Willow .

What I'd do to just spend some time with her. The rumor mill says she went through a nasty breakup and is off the grid. She wrapped up a massive tour and sort of disappeared into thin air. And not just any tour, but the most successful and lucrative tour of any artist. Ever.

You can't blame someone for wanting to take a break.

I step into the shower and start singing along—no shame in knowing these lyrics.