2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Tripp

Down by seven at halftime is not where you want to be when playing in the Super Bowl. Having only two catches and eighteen yards is also not what you're hoping for as a starting wide receiver either. The opposing team's defense has stopped everything before my quarterback even has a chance to read the coverage. There's no time for plays to develop.

The veins bulging in my offensive coordinator's neck are starting to freak me out; it's hard not to stare. I know everyone with the Seattle Serpents, from the owner down, has felt the pressure as we prepared for the game.

We weren't supposed to play in the Super Bowl. We started the season 0-4, and if our start wasn't rough enough, we lost our top three wide receivers in week four. The reality of playing in the championship game was not on any of our minds, but when you win nine straight games at the end of the regular season, anything is possible.

We're supposed to be home, watching this game on TV, and certainly not getting our asses handed to us by the entire coaching staff.

You'd think we were down by thirty. Coach is going through the adjustments we need to make if we "want a shot at winning this thing".

Man, I want to win this game.

This is the first season I've been WR1 out of the seven I've been in the league. I'm the top receiver on our depth chart which means I'm targeted the most. Honestly, I'm the main target because of the injuries to my teammates. There literally is no one else .

Everyone was worried about me crumbling under the pressure. I was a consistent athlete, in college and the NFL; one you could rely on. I always played well enough to be included in a few play packages, but I was never the guy you immediately wanted to get involved.

I felt the pressure but did my best to have fun. And you know what? It fucking worked.

There's nothing like scoring your first touchdown and getting up from the turf in the end zone after. The sound from the crowd reaches your bones. Teammates pick you up, eyes surprised and relieved. Making eye contact with fans, giving them high-fives, and jumping up into the first-row seats. Going back to the sideline to have your coach pat you on the back.

I was always the one hyping up my teammates when they did something worth celebrating. Being on the receiving end was different and felt much better than I ever imagined—a rush that I'll chase and do almost anything to feel.

If I want that intoxicating rush, something has to give. It's kind of ridiculous that this is only a one-score game. We're technically still in it thanks to our defense and definitely not our offense. My quarterback threw three interceptions in the first half. Hell, that's more than the last three games combined. Adrenaline is kicking his ass, and every time I look at him, I swear he's going to throw up. If he can't settle in and loosen up, we've got no shot, and I won't get that hit of dopamine I crave from scoring a touchdown.

He's next to me, looking like his shoulders are glued to his ears. I hit him with my elbow, flashing him a quick look, and jumping up and down. Hoping he'll do the same.

Just as Coach is getting into the details of how we're going to "get our heads out of our asses" and "play like we've seen a football field before," the crowd goes absolutely wild. The halftime performer must've revealed themselves—sounds like someone worth seeing.

The crowd keeps getting louder, almost feral, and I'm not the only one who notices. My teammates break their concentration from Coach and look toward the locker room door. We're all wondering the same thing: who could possibly be on stage to warrant this reaction?

"Can y'all pretend you're interested in winning this game?" Coach spits, clearly annoyed.

I try to tuck the adrenaline and curiosity away.

When it's time to head back to the field, the crowd's noise hasn't lessened at all. I'm a few steps out of the tunnel when I see the stage, and my eyes flash up to the Jumbotron.

It all makes sense.

Willow is playing the halftime show. The Willow. The woman is a genius. How the hell did the NFL pull this off? She's wrapping up a record-shattering tour, and she's arguably the best artist to ever do it.

She's also gorgeous.

I own every one of her albums, on vinyl, and know probably every damn word. Some may call it a guilty pleasure, but the woman is remarkable. I stand by that. No guilt here.

I can't help but smile and practically dance to the warmup area. I jump up and down when I get close to my quarterback, trying to hype him up. He looks at me and laughs when he sees me singing along.

"Tripp!" my quarterback yells out. "Is the second half going to get in the way of your dance party?"

His laugh is all it takes, and other guys start singing along with me. With Willow. I dance, doing some of her tour choreography, because I know it. At this point, I'd do anything to help my guys relax and make them feel like we belong .

"Guys, it's like this." I start doing the moves, slow, in a way that they can catch on. The entire team has slowed or come to a stop. I do the moves, in order, one more time while Willow is wrapping up the verse. "Ready?" I yell to my guys. My team.

Willow hits the chorus and does the same choreography I just showed a group of professional athletes. Some of them hoot and holler and start doing the dance alongside me, mimicking the popstar. The fans near us laugh, point their smartphones, getting the video they didn't they know needed.

"Tripp Owens, get your ass moving and warm up," Coach says, playfully hitting my back and jostling my shoulders. He smiles and shakes his head.

Stress and anxiety are heavy, but it feels like it lifts just enough for us to focus.

For the first time tonight, it feels like we can win this game.