Halftime Show

Every girl wants to be a flyer. She’s the tiny one who gets thrown, sits at the top of the pyramid, performs the flashy stunt that gets the oohs and aahs. She gets to, you know, fly.

Not me. I’m a base. I’ve got broad shoulders and thighs too thick for flying, see?

But I’m the lucky one. Because that flyer? That doe-eyed, pretty, petal of a girl? She’ll step on my back and climb me. She’ll stand on my shoulders. I’ll toss her, my arms always warm, legs always ready.

She’ll fly with me underneath, waiting to catch her.