Chapter Text
April 21st, 2016
Taylor glanced in the full length mirror, adjusting her red shirt labeled with her home state, Pennsylvania. Her usual tangled and wild hair was tamed by her hair stylist Veronica. She had a hair stylist. This whole situation was just completely absurd. And right now, she could think of three reasons why she should leave off the top of her head.
One, she was terrible at talking in public. Two, she hated this tied up Britney Spears styled shirt. And three, most of all, she didn't even want Travis Kelce.
She'd first seen the ad while doom-scrolling Instagram at 1 a.m.—a flashy nationwide casting call for women ages 20–30, promising a chance to date an NFL player. Some guy named... Travis Kelce?
Who the fuck even was Travis Kelce? Taylor didn't pride herself on her football knowledge, but she knew the basics. And she's never heard of Travis Kelce.
At first, she laughed. The man looked like the human version of a sports car—loud, shiny, and too fast for his own good. She was already tired of his cocky smile and absurd outfits just from the ad.
But then she saw the subscript: Compensation and exposure to the entertainment world if participated.
It was ridiculous. But also...it could be something. She was living in a dingy apartment in Philadelphia living off a meager wages busting shifts at Margie's.
Oh come on Taylor. What makes you think a millionaire athlete would want to do with you?
So she didn't apply. She didn't think about it. Until a week later when Abigail came over and they got drunk on cheap wine, talking about everything and nothing at all.
"Oh my gosh Tay, have you seen that hot NFL player's new dating show ad?" Abi giggled.
"Trevor Kirk?" Taylor laughed. "Or whatever the fuck his name is." God, she was way too drunk to be having this conversation, or any conversation at all.
"Babe nooo, it was like, Travis or something."
"Right." Tay rolled her eyes. "How arrogant do you have to be to have your own dating show?"
"Oh come on Taylor. Anyone with eyes can see he's hot as fuck." Abi teased, leaning in with a mischievous grin. "You should try out for it."
"Hell no. Are you serious? Like I would even get picked." Taylor sighed.
"Oh my god Tay. You're like, the most gorgeous person I know. Why the fuck would he not pick you??" Abi exclaimed with conviction. "Do it girl. Heaven knows you're drunk enough to be convinced right now."
She was right. And two glasses (okay, three) of wine later, Taylor submitted her application—half as a joke, half as a dare.
And somehow, two weeks later, she got an email back.
"Congratulations, Miss Taylor Swift! You've been selected for the opportunity of a lifetime! See you in LA!"
And here she was. About to step out into the USC stadium holding two stupid looking pom poms in a too tight crop top in the middle of goddamn February. If she didn't freeze to death tonight, the rest can be planned after that.
A knock sounded on her door.
"1 minute!" The production manager called out.
Taylor looked back at the mirror, uncertainty glancing back.
"On second thought..." She muttered, yanking her tied up shirt down and smoothing the wrinkles with her hand. "If he has a problem with my regular, non Britney Spears outfit, he's not the one for me."
Taking a deep breath.
Exhaled any sanity or dignity she had left.
And stepped out of the trailer.