Savannah squeezes me tight. “I’m sure he’s still proud of you. I wish I could have met him.”
The tears come faster, my chest burning with emotion. “I wish he could have met you. Because you’re it for me. I’m sure of it. And he would have loved you.”
She gives me a wobbly smile, her own eyes filling with tears. “You’re it for me too. I’ve never had this kind of connection with anyone. I’m glad you had a wonderful dad.” She sighs. “Mine pretty much hates me.”
I wrap my arms around her waist and bury my face in her hair. How could anyone hate her? How could anyone—especially her parents—take her for granted?
I deserve my mother’s anger. I’m to blame for Cora’s pain too. And I’ve come to terms with that burden. I shoulder the blame of my father’s death as well. But Savannah? I can’t imagine anything she could have done to deserve hatred from a parent.
Frustration mounts inside me, slowing my tears. Because as those thoughts run through my mind, I see the irony of not believing I deserved the same unwavering support from my mother.
“You’ll always have me, baby girl. We’ll have each other.” I grasp her face and tilt her head back, taking in the tears that track down her cheeks. “No more tears.” I press a kiss to each one.
She laughs awkwardly and sucks in a shaky breath. “God, I didn’t see tonight going like this.”
I give her a wry smirk. “No, I imagine you figured wearing my jersey would result in something very different.”
She studies me, her eyes depthless and full of uncertainty. “You aren’t freaked out seeing me with your name on my back? Concerned I’m trying to wife you up?”
I raise a brow, hiding the way my chest tightens at the thought. This woman as my wife? I can’t think of a damn thing I’d like more. “You been doodling our names together lately?”
She gives me a small smile, and that ache that was oh-so-tender only moments ago eases. “Maybe.”
I smirk. “Can I see?”
“What?” She laughs, her eyes darting away.
I scan the room, and when I spot a piece of paper on the bar, I dart for it, then go in search of a pen.
“What are you doing?” Savannah asks as I return with the tools I need.
I hit her with one of our looks, the one that tells her to be a good girl and be quiet for a moment, then I hold out the pen. “Show me.”
“This is such a weird kink,” she teases. She gives me the kind of eye roll I seem to earn from her often, but her smile is bright as she takes the paper from me too. In her pretty, dramatic handwriting, she scrawls her first name. Then, after a second of hesitation, she adds my last name after it.
“Savannah Snow,” I say aloud. That pinch in my chest releases. Or maybe it bursts. I think I could probably fly right now. I know I could score a fuck ton of goals.
Savannah Snow. Fuck, those words look good together. Sound even better.
I snatch the paperand herfrom her chair.
“What are you doing?” she squeals.
“We’re going to the tattoo shop,” I tell her as I collect my phone and her bag.
“Are you out of your mind?” she asks, pushing back against me.
I set her on her feet, gazing into her eyes. “Yup. I’m going to tattoo your name right here, baby.” I snag her by the wrist and press her hand to my heart.
“Camden,” she whispers, looking at me in what can only be described as awe.
“I love you, and I want your name on my chest.”
She freezes, blinks twice, then exhales.
“This is…” she whispers.
Her voice dies there. Like she’s speechless. Like she can’t believe I said those words. But I can. The article she wrote was right. When it comes to her, I act as the exception. But only becauseshe’smy exception. The one I want to spend the rest of my life with. The one I’ll spend my dying breath loving.
