My tickets for the biggest game in a decade were gone, sold by the one man I’d trusted with my password.
Trevor always treated my season ticket account like a public utility, a little perk he was entitled to. A password I shared years ago became his personal key to discounts and social clout within his fan club.
He was a social parasite, and I was the host.
But this was different. He didn’t just steal two seats; he stole fifteen years of history and my son’s one wish.
And he did it all while standing just two rows away, laughing with his friends and wearing a commemorative cap he’d bought with my discount.
What he couldn’t possibly know was that his downfall wouldn’t be a private argument, but a brutal verdict delivered by the very digital trail he left behind, a stadium full of witnesses, and an unexpected ally in the announcer’s booth.
The Low Hum of Entitlement: A Favor I Never Asked For
The text message arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer during a client presentation. My phone buzzed on the polished concrete conference table, a single, insistent vibration. I ignored it, focusing on the 3D model of a cantilevered balcony that was currently giving our structural engineer an aneurysm.
“As you can see,” I said, pointing a laser at the impossibly thin support beam, “the aesthetic is meant to evoke a sense of weightlessness.”
The engineer, a man named Gary whose face was permanently clenched in a state of low-grade panic, muttered something about gravity not caring about aesthetics. My phone buzzed again. I risked a glance. It was Trevor.
Trevor: Hey Mara! Need the login for the Vipers app again. Beth can’t find the email. Game day rush, you know how it is!
A familiar knot of irritation tightened in my stomach. It wasn’t a big deal. It was never a big deal. That was the whole problem with Trevor. His encroachments were always so small, so reasonable-sounding, you felt like a jerk for even noticing them. “The login again.” Not your login, but the login, as if it were a public utility. I’d shared it with him two years ago in a moment of weakness when he wanted to pre-order a special edition jersey through my season ticket holder account to get the discount. Since then, “the login” had become common property in his mind.
I typed a quick reply under the table while Gary explained how our “weightless” balcony would soon be a ground-level patio.
Me: It’s the same as last time, Trev. My old AOL email and Leo’s birthday.
Trevor: Got it! You’re a lifesaver! Seriously, we owe you one.
We were two weeks away from the Decennial Clash, the once-a-decade rivalry game against the Northwood Grizzlies. It was the only game my son, Leo, had been talking about for six months. The tickets for this game were the crown jewels of the season package I’d fought to keep in the divorce. Mark had called them “a frivolous expense.” I called them my sanity. They weren’t just seats; they were 21-inch-wide plots of plastic real estate where I wasn’t an architect, an ex-wife, or a stressed-out single mom. I was just a fan. And Section 112, Row 14, Seats 5 and 6 were mine.
More Than Plastic and Concrete
Those seats were born from a different life. A life with Mark, back when we were young and thought buying a thirty-year season ticket package was a romantic, unshakeable promise. We’d sat on a waiting list for seven years. The day the confirmation email arrived, Mark framed it. We’d imagined bringing our future kids there, hoisting them onto our shoulders to see their first touchdown.
We did, for a while. Leo’s first game, he was six. He’d spilled a giant soda all over the guy in front of us, a grizzled man named Sal who just laughed and said, “He’s got the spirit. That’s Viper venom now.” Sal had been in Seat 4 for forty years. He’d seen legends born and dynasties crumble from that exact spot. We became stadium neighbors, a weird, dysfunctional family bonded by overpriced beer and a shared hatred for the Grizzlies.
When Mark and I split, the tickets were a sticking point. He saw their monetary value, a liquid asset to be divided. “We could sell them, Mara. Pay off a good chunk of the credit cards.” I saw a hundred Sunday afternoons, the roar of the crowd, Leo’s face painted green and silver, the comforting presence of Sal asking if I wanted a hot dog. It was the only thing I put my foot down on, the only asset I refused to let get sliced down the middle by lawyers. I took less of the retirement account to keep them. It was a terrible financial decision and the best choice I ever made. They were my anchor to a part of myself that had nothing to do with him.
So when Trevor treated my account like a Netflix password to be passed around, it felt like more than an annoyance. It felt like a tiny, chipping erosion of something I had paid for not just with money, but with a piece of my own history. He didn’t understand. To him, it was just an app. A way to get a discount. He had no concept of the emotional equity baked into that login.
The Viper’s Nest
The fan group chat was called “The Viper’s Nest.” It was a chaotic mess of 50-plus people, mostly guys Trevor had roped in. It was a constant stream of memes, injury reports, and terrible betting advice. Trevor was the undisputed king of the chat, the self-appointed social director and font of all Vipers knowledge. He organized tailgates, arranged group buys for merchandise, and held court like a warlord doling out favors.
His digital persona was all about access. “Just talked to my guy in the front office,” he’d post, followed by some vague, unverifiable rumor. He loved being the center of it all, the man with the connections. My season tickets made me, by extension, a person of value to him. I was a resource.
Scrolling through the chat was an exercise in decoding Trevor’s brand of manipulative camaraderie.
About the Author
