Travis
The story of a betrothal
It’s a truth the other guys and I often acknowledge that a tight end in possession of an exclusive contract with a world-class football team should be in want of a wife.
During my first season on the Chiefs, Coach was very concerned that I comport myself in a manner that would result in a favorable pairing. “No more bucket hats,” he told me. “No more Diplo and Lil Wayne. In fact, no more Kelce Jam. These things are not befitting a young man of your social stature, Travis.”
Reader, I chafed at these restrictions. I was in the full bloom of my youth, as ready as any hale and ebullient Son of the American Midwest to spend my days doing keg stands and ketamine. But in my heart of hearts, I knew Coach was right. There ought to be more to the life of a young bachelor than crushing sandos and fighting for one’s right to party. Indeed, once the right to party has been granted, what more is there to fight for?
I began to understand my future — and thereby the future of the National Football League — as a matter of utmost gravity. I got a haircut and a beard cut and became diligent about my French and Latin lessons. I even learned to embroider from Coach (it’s a little known fact that he stitches all our uniforms himself) and stopped filling my head with the gossip on TikTok. I transformed from an unruly young footballer into a modern man whose marriage might have the potential to elevate his entire sports team.
Even so, I did not begin my bachelor season on as auspicious a foot as the other guys. At my first Chiefs Ball, I was determined to appear well-mannered and engaging but not solicitous. I danced with quite a few wealthy influencers and girlbosses, many of whom already owned estates, but I received no invitations to dine, ride, or hunt with them. Indeed, I was not even stitched into anyone’s Instagram stories — a fact that might have perturbed me had I not become so wrapped up in the budding romance unfolding between my good friend Patrick and a one Ms. Brittany Matthews, pro soccer player with millions of online followers and a highly profitable workout brand. I am something of a romantic, so when Patrick was flushed with excitement as we returned to our locker chambers that evening, I couldn’t help but become flushed with him. We stayed up all night whispering, delighted that his pairing with Ms. Matthews might be not just prosperous, but a love match as well. By dawn, we’d grown so ginned up with emotion that we were nearly overcome with the vapors!
This went on for several more Chiefs Balls: I would dance with moguls and Kardashian-adjacents and try to continue #manifesting but then ultimately become distracted by the picturesque love stories unfolding in the lives of my teammates. Reader, is it such an act of self-abnegation to admit that one has a poet’s soul, better suited to celebrating the love of his bros than scheming a favorable marriage for himself? I even considered the social possibilities of a lifetime of bachelorhood. Perhaps I could host a podcast on which I played matchmaker for other footballers? Or I could license a reality show on which I attempted to wed but was never successful, thus delighting a large streaming audience? We are living in a modern era, after all, and I would certainly not be the first man to fashion such an unconventional life for himself. Just look at Timothée Chalamet!
When Coach called me into his study, I was sure it would be to chide me for my frivolousness. I had all my excuses prepared, but was quite taken aback when he greeted me with a smile instead.
Reader, is it self-abnegation to admit that one has a poet’s soul, better suited to celebrating the love of his bros than scheming a favorable pairing for himself?
“Come and join me on the settee, Travis,” he said.
There, Coach told me the most remarkable news. He had just had a DM from Mrs. Andrea Swift about her daughter, who would be coming to Kansas City on business soon. Apparently, Ms. Swift had expressed a desire to meet me.
“Both Mrs. Swift and I agree with Ms. Swift that such a meeting would be quite propitious,” Coach said.
I was flabbergasted. “But Coach, it’s training season, not ball season! I haven’t had the chance to get a new suit or a beard trim, and yesterday I overworked my quads!”
He laughed. “There will be time enough to prepare, Travis. Ms. Swift won’t be able to see you for another fortnight, anyway.”
It seemed that time simply moved faster in Ms. Taylor Swift’s world — a woman’s world of commerce and ideas — than it did in my own. I’d been able to clean my beard, blast my lats, and have a new suit tailored by the time Coach ordered the chauffeur to drive me off the Chiefs’ estate and to the hippodrome where Ms. Swift was performing her Eras Tour. There, I watched as she sang the songs from the multi-platinum albums she’d written as a teenager as well as those from the multi-platinum albums she’d written after making her successful pivot from country to pop. A great many of these songs were about heartbreak, and a great deal more about Ms. Swift’s ambivalence towards marriage. Hers was a struggle to which I could certainly relate, but what were the ditherings of a footballer, no matter how well-mannered, to a pop diva of global renown? Was this a joke? It occurred to me that word must have gotten out about my ambivalence, and this must have been the reason Ms. Swift had invited me to see her Eras Tour.
I snuck my phone from my pocket and penned a hasty DM to Patrick: bro did u post somewhere about my ambivalence twrds marriage???
Patrick’s typing bubble appeared, then vanished, then appeared once more, only to vanish again! The scoundrel! I resolved to give him a chiding during our next team practice and began gathering my coat, determined to leave the hippodrome before Ms. Swift’s performance of the additional Tortured Poets tracks. But I was stopped by a cheerful little fellow with a tattooed face. He introduced himself as Post-Malone, Ms. Swift’s valet.
“You are Mr. Travis Kelce, I presume?” Post-Malone asked.
“Yes, I am,” I said. “And I’m about to leave, that I may spare myself another moment of this unbearable social opprobrium.”
“You needn’t leave, m’lord. There’s no opprobrium here.”
I looked at Post-Malone askance, but he merely smiled.
“Really, m’lord,” he continued. “Ms. Taylor Swift doesn’t dither. May I take you to the VIP room, m’lord?”
I conceded, reasoning that I might take the moment to chug some Yerba Maté and give Ms. Taylor Swift a well-earned piece of my mind. Coach had always told me that my greatest fault was my hard-headedness, unbecoming in a man. Still, I would not be one to bear a public insult, regardless of the follower count of the slanderer.
When we arrived in the VIP room to find Ms. Swift composing a tweet about the success of her recent show, I was in quite the huff. She bid me sit down and I told her I’d prefer to stand, thank you very much.
“You may go, Posty,” she said to Post-Malone, who appeared reluctant to leave but nevertheless bowed and went. Then she introduced herself, to which I responded that I knew quite well who she was. She laughed.
“I did not invite you to my Eras Tour to humiliate you, Mr. Kelce, if that’s what you think. As it would happen, I quite like a strong-willed man. I think it’s a demonstration of character, not to mention modernity.”
Somewhat appeased, I sat down before Ms. Swift and listened as she told me the story of her father, Scott Kingsley Swift, his interests in the National Football League and gardening, and his impressive ability to “go toe-to-toe” with Mrs. Swift on matters of finance. As she spoke, I noticed that Ms. Swift, in addition to being quite striking in her Edwardian dress, was also trailblazing in her thought. She kept abreast of the latest scientific and literary advancements, and she felt that men should get the vote. I heard her words less and less, instead seeing her face as if through an enchanting Instagram filter: her eyes aglow with giant hearts, her mouth alternately vomiting neon rainbows and growing the large tongue of a happy dog. What had come over me? Was this how Patrick felt when he’d first spoken to Ms. Brittany Matthews?
“I should like you to accompany me to my next tour stop, Mr. Kelce,” she said. “And perhaps then you can join myself and my father at a Philadelphia Eagles game?”
By then I knew for certain that it was a love story. My love story. And reader, I said yes.
*
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Already hooked by the concept before having fully read the piece. My partner read it and he absolutely loved it
Love this. Shared on my Facebook page. What fun!