Page 7 of The Air I Breathe

"Nine. Plenty of time for bed check. I wasn't about to piss Coach off. Not when I'm gonna have most of the news media on my ass."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he asks as we pull on each other's arms, stretching.

"I was with Willa," I admit quietly.

"No shit?" His eyes are wide as he whistles. "Was that what was in the package yesterday? A key to her room?"

“It was her phone number, you jackass.” I slap him across the stomach. “I texted her, she invited me to come hang out with her-“

“in her room?”

“Get your mind outta the gutter.” I roll my eyes. “We watched a movie together. It was cool.”

"You say that like it's no big deal." Russell eyes me. "It's a big deal. Do you realize who you hung out with?"

My eyes go heaven-ward. "Yes, I fucking know who I hung out with. Do you think I'm an idiot? I just don't want to broadcast it until she's ready for me to do so. Until I'm ready. I had no idea me texting her would end up as me hanging out with her later on, but it was a good time."

"You gonna do it again?"

"Well yeah." I grin. "I'd like to hang out with her again tonight, and I think I might not hop the team plane after the game. I’ll stay to watch her concert tomorrow night."

"Well if you're gonna stay to watch her concert, then I wanna stay to watch her concert," he retorts.

"You just wanna do what I do."

"We're best friends. Aren't we supposed to do everything together? Maybe she's got a single friend who wants to hang out with me." He grabs hold of his jersey, popping the collar. "I am pretty awesome, after all."

"Says all the women you left behind because they wanted a commitment from you. You did this lonely thing to yourself." I point my finger at him. "Don't think you're gonna crash my party. We don't have to do everything together."

"Hey, I'm a Potterite." He calls himself the name that's been coined for Willa's fans. "I just don't like to advertise it around town, ya know?"

"You shouldn't be ashamed. I'm not," I lift up my arm, showing him my wrist. My niece made me this bracelet when we went to Willa's concert in Nashville, and I've worn it ever since. It's become something of a superstition thing for me. "I'm not getting rid of you, am I?"

"Nope." He purses his lips. "We're going together."

I don't like this idea, but I also know him—there's no way I'll be able to get him to rethink it. "Alright, but don't embarrass me."

"Like I could even..."

We're standing in the tunnel, getting ready to take the field. This is always when my heart-rate starts to spike. When the adrenaline flows through my body, even if it's an away game. My hands will shake until I can take the field and run off the first burst. We walk slow, as if we don't care and we aren't anxious to get out there and play. Part of that is because we wear so much equipment; part of it is because we don't want to seem too excited.

Russell slaps my shoulders as he stands behind me. I hear The hard rock song we use to run out to blares over the stadium speakers, and fireworks explode from the corner of the stadium.

"Let's go, baby!" I yell, clapping my hands together. Everyone around me is screaming, beating on the sides of the walls, and stomping their feet. I'm typically middle of the pack, and when the front pushes forward, I leave a little bit of room between me and the person in front of me before I take off at a run, holding my arms up when I break the tunnel and arrive onto the field.

The boos are deafening, but they fuel me.

Rolling my neck on my shoulders, I watch as Russell heads out to where the referees are standing. He calls heads for the coin toss, and when he loses, I head to the sidelines. The home team will be receiving the kickoff, so there's no reason for me to be out there.

Glancing up to the boxes, I wonder what it'll be like to be there tomorrow, watching Willa perform. Maybe I'll even be able to get closer to the stage than I was in Nashville since I've met her now.

Get it together, Blake, I remind myself. My mind needs to be on the game at hand, not the woman I spent the evening with yesterday.

When Tampa fails to make a down, I put my helmet on and run with my teammates to try and make shit happen.

"Let's fucking go!" I yell as we prepare to take the snap in the fourth quarter. We're ahead by seven, but we'd like to make it fourteen. LFG is our coined phrase and seems to get everyone energized and ready to play when they hear it.

Russell has called a play for me, and I want badly to get in that damn end zone.