“How long have you known Mr. Wallace?”
“A few weeks? Since my cousin’s wedding—she married his brother, Buzz Wallace. Um, Trace is his actual name, Buzz is his nickname,” I babble nervously, stopping before I blurt out that I currently have a sports sock stuffed between my legs to prevent cum from dripping down the inside of my thighs.
“And where were you prior to arriving at this location?”
“We were having lunch at Café Louis near Washington Park.”
A nod. “Just so we’re very clear—this was consensual?”
Ah, now I get it. He’s asking to make sure I wasn’t banged against my will.
“Yes.”
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to say it in your own words.”
Lord, if my cheeks were any hotter I would swear it was the middle of a summer heatwave.
“Yes sir, it was consensual.” How on earth I manage that sentence with a straight face is entirely beyond me, my gaze still scanning the perimeter. “Sorry if I seem distracted—he plays football and if a paparazzi gets our picture and splashes it across the internet, I will literally die a thousand deaths.”
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” the cop asks, hands on his hips, countenance remaining stalwart. “This is considered a misdemeanor and I could issue a ticket to both of you. However, considering you seem like a nice couple, I’m going to let you off with a warning.”
My body sags with relief; pretty sure tickets are considered public records, making it damn easy for any meddling media to dig and make that information public. A public relations and personal nightmare for both of us.
“You cannot be engaging in this behavior in a residential area,” the officer continues, pointing down the block. “There’s a school a few blocks away—if your boyfriend is famous, he should know better than this.”
I nod, embarrassed, wondering if this is the exact spiel he’s about to give Tripp, down to the guilt trip about the school on the next block. How the heck were we supposed to know?!
“Yes sir.” I pause. “Um, can I get back in the truck now?”
“Once I speak to Mr. Wallace, you’ll both be free to go, but I’ll have to ask you to wait right here, please.”
He bows his head and saunters at a leisurely pace to the front of the truck, to the spot where Tripp leans casually against the hood, arm resting, watchful eyes boring into me.
They exchange words, a few of Tripp’s a bit too loud.
“Yes we’re actually dating.”
“She is not a hooker if that’s what you’re implying.”
Then, “Listen, officer, we had lunch and thought it would be fun to bang one out before she has to return to work. That is all, end of story.”
“Yes, I realize this is a terrible spot to have parked.”
I lean into their conversation and catch the cop say, “When I walk away, I’m going to need you to get back in your truck and leave, and then I’ll pull out.”
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-One