8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Tripp

I can't believe this is happening.

Willow walks to the booth and it's like my eyes have finally adjusted. The dress she's wearing is inky black and has some sort of glitter effect in the fabric—moving like rippling water on her body. The back is so low it demands that you glance all the way down where the fabric meets the top of her lower back.

I wonder what it'd be like to take my knuckles from the nape of her neck down to the end of that dress.

Rein it in, Tripp.

While I wait for our drinks, I pretend not to freak out. Not because I was talking with Willow, but because she's currently waiting for me to bring drinks over, in a dark corner of a dimly lit room. Because she knew exactly who I was. What team I played for. Because of the way she smiled at me on the red carpet, even if it was just for a second.

I knew, right then, I'd be making an after-party appearance. Thank God my buddies called it a night. I can't remember the last time they skipped one of these.

It's like the stars have aligned.

This is a perfect example of something I should "soak in"—my psychologist's favorite phrase. The goal is to be more mindful of experiences and moments like this since there will be a time when there are no award shows or after parties to attend .

With a knowing look, the bartender sets our drinks in front of me, like he's telling me "good luck". When my hands tremble just enough for him to see it as I reach for the glasses, he mimics taking a deep breath. I immediately take his advice.

Tripp, you're such a sucker.

I carry our drinks, careful not to spill because that would be fucking embarrassing. Willow sits, hands in her lap, in an odd corner booth. We're sort of next to each other and across at the same time. I set our drinks down and sit.

"Cheers," she says while clinking her wine with my Old Fashioned. I take a long sip, welcoming the burn of the bourbon.

"I never got a chance to thank you," she says, eyes peering down at her wine before she looks up. "You didn't have to help me, and you did. Thank you." Her voice is level and sincere.

"Come on, it was nothing. Just took the party outside." I shrug my shoulders and lean back.

She takes a sip of her wine, her pink lips bright against the clear glass. "Right. I have to say, that was one of the most unique distractions I've seen."

"I'll take that as a compliment." I feel my cheeks getting warm. Luckily, it's dark in here. It'd be nice if I could get a grip. "Is it always like that? The press?" I reach for anything to divert my thoughts.

"Yes. It's not always that wild but it does seem like anytime I go anywhere someone is trying to get a picture of me. Doesn't matter what I'm doing," she says matter-of-factly. "My boyfriend hated it."

"Hated?" I ask, like I don't fucking know that I read about the breakup for months. Not willingly, it was just everywhere.

"Yes. Now ex-boyfriend," she confirms, like I knew she would. "It was a lot for him. It felt like I was a lot for him..." She takes a long drink of her wine. "I don't know why I said that." She looks intently at her fingers wrapped around the long-stemmed wine glass.

I choose not to dwell on the last comment since it doesn't feel like she wants to keep talking about it. I pivot.

"Ironically, no one really cared who I was before the Champagne incident. You sort of put me on the map," I joke, trying to bring up the mood.

Willow laughs. A quick type of laugh which is a bit loud at first, but it's genuine. "I think it was the championship. I'm betting the 129 yards and two touchdowns helped." She peers at me over her wine glass.

She knows my stat line. Recited it like it was something she typically talks about.

Fuck .

Her hair is longer than the last time I saw her. She always seemed to have this shorter haircut, always above her shoulders, but it's grown out. If, for some reason, any of my friends could listen in on my thoughts right now, I'd be getting so much shit. How is it that this woman's haircut is burned in my memory?

While I'm stuck in my head trying to keep track of all Willow's details, someone practically falls into our booth. They land awkwardly next to and partially on top of Willow, nudging her closer to me. It's instinct when my arm reaches around, lightly grabbing her side, feeling her rib cage under the soft fabric of the dress. Her arm holding the wine reaches across me and spills a little on my suit.

A small price to pay for this woman practically being in my lap. We both realize how close we are and pay no attention to the drunk man who just fell into her. I'm holding my breath. My eyes trail to her lips and back again. She's leaning in.

And then her glass of wine splashes me in the face.