4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Tripp

This is fucking incredible. I'm a Super Bowl Champion. I've never been "the guy" when it comes to winning big games. This season, this game specifically, I was key. Me. Tripp Owens. It wasn't just me hyping up the guys on the sideline but making plays.

Black and green Seattle Serpent confetti falls on the field. The same field where I caught two touchdowns in the second half. We trailed the entire game, except for the last three minutes of the fourth quarter. I scored the touchdown that put us on top and it feels fucking great.

Un-fucking-real.

The field is now full of families—wives, girlfriends, kids, parents. Everyone is looking for their player. I've got my eyes looking for the only person I had a ticket for.

"Tripp!" Someone puts their hand on my shoulder, lightly turning me. I can tell by voice alone it's my mom. Exactly who I was looking for.

I face her and envelop her in a massive hug. The woman who constantly drove me to practices, tutoring sessions, and never missed a college home game. I've never been the golden boy on any roster, but I always was on hers.

"I can't believe you ." She kisses both of my cheeks. "Two touchdowns! TWO." She is yelling and jumping up and down, holding my hands. "129 yards!" She wraps me up in hug.

All I can do is cry. It's more than football at this point. It's always been me and her ever since my dad left when I was a kid. He never looked back but neither did she. In this moment, I'm so fucking thankful she didn't.

I set her down and she puts both of her hands on the sides of my face. "Tripp. You did it. Your team did it." Tears trickle down her face. "I'm so proud of you!" she yells.

I hear the clicks of cameras around me and hope someone is capturing this moment. This is one I'll want to relive repeatedly—celebrating with the person who always put me and my dreams first.

" We did it. I love you, Mom." I hug her again, dipping down so I can put my head in the crook of her neck and shoulder. She squeezes as tight as she can. A few stray tears of excitement, gratitude, and adrenaline fall down my face.

Someone pulls me away to the makeshift stage where my coach, quarterback, and general manager gather. The rest of the team is close behind. Friends and family surround the stage; I find my mom right away. Someone hands me a Seattle Serpent Super Bowl Champion hat, and my mouth hangs open.

I've watched the Super Bowl every year for as long as I can remember. Logically, I know what happens next, but knowing and experiencing it are two wildly different things.

"Wouldn't be a Super Bowl without an MVP," the NFL commissioner says. It's surreal being on the same stage as him. My brain can barely make sense of it.

He pauses as the crowd claps. I'm shoulder to shoulder with my guys, and this smile is fucking glued to my face at this point.

"And your Super Bowl most valuable player is…" The commissioner pauses again just as my head coach makes eye contact with me and winks. "Tripp Owens! "

My mom's face is the only thing I see. Her hand covers her mouth as she jumps up and down. Hands clap me on the back. Coach makes his way over to me, reaches out a hand, and shakes mine before pulling me in for a hug. I can't hear anything he says. The crowd. My teammates. Clicks of cameras. Everyone trying to get closer.

I don't know how it happened but I'm the MVP.

Fuck.

Adrenaline and bliss wash over me. It's like I'm twelve years old, watching my favorite player win a Super Bowl, nose almost touching the TV screen. Except, this time, it's me.

The locker room is in complete chaos. The field was almost like a shock to the system, and now, letting it soak in, the locker room is crazier. It's bottles of Champagne and goggles—no one likes to get blasted in the eyes with bubbly. Teammates and coaching staff scream, clap each other on the back, and there are even some chest bumps. Music blares from somewhere as we dance in a circle. A laugh bursts from my chest when Coach gets in the middle.

A security guard asks if we mind an interruption. None of us object because we don't give a fuck. It doesn't matter who walks through that door with the high we're on.

She steps into the locker-room, cautious, knowing there's a Champagne party happening. A pair of goggles dangles from her hand.

Willow is wearing a Seattle Serpents jersey, black leggings—which hug all of her curves, and white sneakers. It's simple but ridiculously attractive. In a room full of mostly professional athletes she looks short, but I'm guessing she's around 5'4''. When she turns to talk to someone, I see her name on the back of the jersey.

Fuck. She looks good.

"Hey!" she says, louder than I expected. "Super Bowl champs!" she shouts and starts clapping. The rest of the locker room follows suit and claps along, hooting and hollering.

"Just wanted to say amazing job. I didn't get to watch the first half but sounds like the second half is where it was at anyways." The guys don't even let her finish before they're yelling, hitting hands with teammates, and letting another wave of excitement wash over the room.

It's hard for me to look anywhere else. Her hair, pinned back from her face, and rich like chocolate, is short enough that it doesn't touch her shoulders. Her cheeks are pink, and it doesn't look like she's wearing any makeup. Fresh faced, her features glow. Fucking gorgeous.

We line up and take a photo with her. She stands in the middle of our team huddle, arms around the guys next to her like she knows all of us. I wish I was next to her.

"I don't want to take up any more of your time but congrats and have some fun tonight!" Everyone yells as she waves and leaves the locker room.

I stand there smiling. In awe. Like an idiot. I'm the Super Bowl MVP, and I'm star struck.

After about another hour in the locker room, the guys are packing up to head to the airport. It sounds like we're going to Vegas because according to my Coach, that's where you go after you "win a fucking championship" .

I can't believe this is my life.

I forgot something in my locker so I'm one of the last ones to leave the stadium. I'm about to head out when I see Willow at the end of the hallway. She's on the phone, pacing back and forth.

Gone is the cool and collected woman in a rowdy locker room. Her chin is folded into her chest, and she's twirling her dark hair nervously.

Three security guards stand near the doors, peering out the window. They seem unsure of the next step. I can hear the maniacal shuffle of the paparazzi from here.

Willow's voice is short and low while she paces, staring at the floor. I don't catch much of her conversation, but I do hear, "Dex, I know how you feel about me being here without my standard team, but there's nothing I can do about that now. If you let me hang up, I could try to figure this out."

She pulls the phone from her ear. It appears that Dex, whoever that is, hung up on her. Tucking the short dark strands behind her ears she clasps her hands in front of her chest, still pacing. "Miss... ugh… Willow. What do you want to do?" one of the guards asks her, instilling zero confidence.

"I can't believe how bad you are at this," a woman wearing a black pantsuit snaps.

Before I know what I'm doing, I interject myself into a situation I have nothing to do with. Sounds like me—impulsive as fuck.

"What seems to be the issue?" I ask. Willow's eyes snap to mine, and I see a moment of clarity when she realizes I'm one of the players.

"I'm trying to get to my car, but the paparazzi have blocked every single door. It keeps getting worse the longer I wait."

Immediately, I go into problem-solving mode .

"Is the car still safe? Like, if you got there, it'd be fine?" I don't step into the line of sight of the window. I'm not as popular as Willow, but I don't need to make it worse.

"Yes. My driver says no one is there. It's around the corner."

"Sounds like you need a distraction." A small smirk reaches my lips.

Willow laughs. "Yeah, I guess you could say that." Her hands are on her hips, and she puts weight on one of her legs.

An idea pops into my brain. My mom, publicist, and maybe even my coach probably won't love it but I feel like I get a pass after winning a Super Bowl. Sometimes you go for it and ask for forgiveness later. If you're me, you do this most of the time.

"I can get them away from the door. Long enough for you to get to the car."

I run back to the locker room and see exactly what I need: a bottle of unopened Champagne. Not just any bottle but a magnum. Perfect.

While jogging back to the end of the hallway, I'm smiling and love that I'm going to be able to help her out.

"What are you going to do?" She's hesitant but inquisitive.

"Don't worry about it." I turn to the three security guards. "Can you get her out of here safely? You've done a piss poor job so far." Willow grins behind them.

"Yes. We just need a little space to get her to the vehicle."

I nod. "You better."

"Now that is what I'm talking about!" The woman in black claps her hands and points at me.

"Be ready to run, okay?" I make eye contact with Willow. She trades her look of annoyance with one of determination and nods her head in understanding.

I take a deep breath and stretch my neck from side to side. I run my hands through my hair, messing it up and making it even more disheveled.

Before I open the door, I look at Willow a final time and give her a wink. I hope it makes me seem much more confident than I feel. If this doesn't work, I'll look like a major jackass.

The second the door opens, it's nothing but flashes and clicks of cameras. People scream my name, trying to get me to look at them. I fake stumble out of the hallway, into the mob, and continue to move forward. They move away from the door, trying to see what I'm doing.

"Super Bowl champs, baby!" I scream as I pop the cork of the Champagne. It's a mix of screaming fans and whooping paparazzi. They're getting the shot they were hoping for: the drunk MVP overindulging and making a fool of himself.

As soon as I've moved the mob from the door, and I can feel the attention on me, I spray everyone with Champagne.

Just like I planned. Out of my peripheral vision, the door opens, and four figures run toward the car as I spray the rest of the magnum bottle. Someone yells about their equipment, but I act like the drunk football player who can't control themselves.

And because I am stone-cold sober, I know they buy it.

The only thing I wish was different? Telling her my name.