Page 40 of The Air I Breathe

And that right there is how I know this girl has gotten under my skin, how I know she's inevitably changed my life in ways I never imagined. I can't wait to fucking hug her.

W: Same. ::heart emoji::

I love you is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't yet. I refuse to do it in a text, but sometime while we’re in New York, I will make sure this woman knows exactly how I feel about her.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Willa

"Did you see the camera following us?" I ask CeCe as we walk into the New York stadium. I'm wearing a custom shirt with Blake's number on it, along with the Warriors logo. I never thought I'd be the type of girl who would be wearing team colors to football games, but here I am. While it's not yet cold in the south, it sure is here, so I've had a beanie custom made.

"I did. Do you think there's going to be a bunch of news stories about this?" she asks as we're driven toward the elevator that will take us to the suite we've reserved for the game.

"Oh, I'm sure.” I shrug.

In about ten minutes we're up in the suite, ordering food and drinks. There are a group of Blake's friends here tonight. I haven't met this one before, and they all introduce themselves. I go down the row. "Josh, Tyler, Andre, and Puck?" I question, giggling slightly when I get to the last one. "Did your mom hate you?"

"I played hockey. Almost went pro. Got the nickname in college, and it sorta stuck."

Well, that makes a lot more sense. "Do you introduce yourself like that to women?" I give him a wink.

"You fuckin' better believe it." He has a huge ego-centric grin on his face.

As the team takes the field, my stomach flutters. My eyes go directly to Blake’s jersey as he stretches and hypes up the crowd, but the crowd hates him because New York can't stand Nashville. He puts a hand to his ear, as if he’s encouraging them to boo him louder.

I cheer as enthusiastically as I can. Bret and Blake are standing next to each other, talking.

"They look really good standing there, don't they?" CeCe hits my shoulder with hers. "We're lucky ladies."

"That we are," I agree.

CeCe and I are enjoying our drinks, as well as some snacks when the crowd starts booing and clapping at the same time. I glance at the scoreboard; they're showing us. I wave, because that's what I've been taught to do, even when people are being rude to me. I keep the smile across my face because if they don't see you upset then they can't talk about it.

I keep emotion off my face for the first drive that New York makes, only clapping when Nashville keeps them from scoring.

"Here we go!" Andre says from behind me. "It's our turn to the run the ball. Let's fuckin' go!"

Everyone in the suite claps and gets to their feet, showing support. Two plays in and we've made it halfway down the field. This time, Russell gets the snap from Bret and drops back, throwing a perfect spiral. Blake catches it and sprints toward the end zone, making the touchdown. There are jumps up and down, screams, and high-fives all around, including with Blake's friends. It's weird—I've never felt like much of a person who belongs with others, although I'm constantly around more people than I can count. But with this bunch, I feel included.

The rest of the game goes along the way us Nashville fans want it to, ending with our team winning. We're all hanging out, and I make it a point to clean up the leftover plates and empty cans, as the others are watching post-game coverage and cruising social media to see our pictures.

"You don't have to do that," one of the workers tells me.

"I don't mind. We're adults; we can clean up after ourselves." It's how I've always looked at things. I'm no better or worse than anyone else. Just because I might have more money in my bank account than others doesn't mean I can't throw my trash away. It's something my parents instilled in me.

"You're what he's needed," Puck says as he gathers a few plates himself.

"What do you mean?" I give him a small smile.

"Blake. You're what he's needed. A normal woman who has a life of her own. I mean, I think many would argue that you're not necessarily normal in the sense that you're known the world over, but your values." He points to where I've thrown away cups, and am now wiping down one of the tables. "They align with his. If he were up here, he'd be bitching at all of us, telling us we can clean up after ourselves."

The thought warms me. That is the type of man I've wanted to—one who can hold my hand and be proud, but also do the normal things. I want the man who can wear a designer tux, but at the same time run to Publix because I need milk to finish making the mashed potatoes. "Thank you."

"No, thank you. I haven't seen a smile on his face like this in a long time. It's because of you."

When I finish doing what I can, I grab my purse and follow the rest of the crew out the door, riding the elevator down. CeCe has her hand in mine, and she's directing me, showing me where I need to go. It's all so domestic and I can't help but love it. We're all taken to a hallway to await the guys. There are photographers taking pictures, and I do my best to give them the angles I know they want. Regardless of whether I plan it or not, these pictures will be everywhere.

"We're gonna go in here." Andre directs us into a room to the side.