Page 1 of The Hearts We Fumble
Chapter One
Zane
“Kinnick.” Our offensive line coach, Coach Ferentz, blows his whistle, the piercing sound cutting through the late afternoon air, sharp and commanding.
I pull up from my sprint, chest heaving, and jog toward him. His finger hooks in a come-here motion, his brows already pinched in that assessing way that tells me he’s scanning for any signs of weakness.
“How’re you feelin’? How’s that hamstring treating you?” His gaze drags over me from head to toe, like he’s waiting to catch even the slightest hitch in my stride.
After being out of the game for the past three weeks, I hope he’ll finally give me the okay to play again.
“Great, Coach. I finished my last round of PT last Thursday.” I keep my voice even and controlled. No hesitation. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m anything less than ready.
He nods slowly, absorbing my answer. I don’t miss the flicker of approval that crosses his face before he glances at his clipboard. Good. That’s what I need—reassurance I’ll be back in the lineup where I belong.
“You think you’re good to resume practicing at one hundred percent?”
“Yes, sir.” I straighten my shoulders, willing the impatience out of my tone. “Like I said, I’m feeling great. I’m ready to be back out there with my team.”
His quick grin is pleased. “That’s what I want to hear.” He scribbles something onto his clipboard, then taps the edge against his palm. “I’ll need a release from your physical therapist before I can officially clear you. Get that to me by tomorrow, and we’ll be good to go.”
I nod, but inside, I’m groaning. I was hoping I’d seen the last of those PT sessions, but it seems I have one more trip to Keaton. The town is twenty minutes south, just past the Georgia–South Carolina border—crossing enemy lines. Not that I can complain too much. Their top-notch sports medicine program is better than anything closer. Still, if I had my choice, I’d take twenty minutes over the two-hour haul to Charleston any day.
Coach Ferentz dismisses me with a quick wave, signaling me to rejoin the offensive line and ease through my limited practice routine. I nod and jog toward the huddle, rolling out my shoulders and shaking out my legs as I go. The afternoon sun beats down relentlessly, the heat sinking into my muscles, making the damp fabric of my jersey stick to my skin.
We’d spent most of the morning in the film room, breaking down last week’s game against the Lions—every play, every mistake, every moment we could have executed better. Now, I’d finish the day with light reps, running routes, and catching a few passes from Beckham.
Even after a few weeks off, our rhythm is still second nature. The way he reads the field and I anticipate his throws is instinct at this point. But no matter how dialed in we are, I know I’ll never have what he has with his twin, Hayes Carver. Their connection is freakish, the kind of thing you can’t train for. I don’t take it personally. It’s just how it is.
We’ve busted our asses for years to get to this point. Senior year. Our last shot to take this team back to the playoffs. To finish what we started.
The thought tightens in my chest, bittersweet in a way I can’t quite put into words. Everything I’ve worked for—every early morning, every grueling practice—has led me to this season. The one that could set me up for the future. The one that could solidify my shot at the NFL.
After practice, I follow the team into the locker room, my muscles aching in that satisfying way that reminds me I’m finally back. Sweat drips from my brow, stinging my eyes, and I swipe at it with the towel draped around my neck.
“What’d Coach say?” Hayes asks, falling into step beside me.
I run the towel over my face and let out a heavy breath. “He needs a release from my PT before I’m fully cleared. I’m gonna head down there after I get cleaned up, so I should be good to go by tomorrow.”
“Hell, yes!” Hayes grins and claps a hand against my shoulder. Its solid weight is reassuring.
Tomorrow, I’d be back at full speed. Right where I belonged.
Colter overhears and steps in, hand outstretched. When I clasp it, he pulls me into a quick, firm hug, clapping me on the back.
“It hasn’t been the same without you on the field.”
Tell me about it. Every second off the field has felt like a countdown—a slow, agonizing wait to get back out there.
Turning to my locker, I swipe my phone off the shelf and thumb the screen awake. A flood of notifications stares back at me, but it’s the string of texts from my dad that catches my attention first.
Dad: How’s your leg doing?
Dad: I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days. How was your last PT appointment?
Dad: You said the PT would release you, right? Do you need me to pull some strings to get your release so you can play on Saturday?
Dad: Call me when you get this.
