Page 10 of The Hearts We Fumble
But after the other day? Yeah, not likely.
She’d pull up the blinds, take one look at me, and slam them shut just as fast.
Aside from a muttered thank you when I dropped her off, she hasn’t said a word to me since.
I’ve seen her on campus a couple of times.
The first time, she didn’t notice me watching. The second? She did.
And the moment I moved toward her, she bolted—a straight shot to the cafeteria, vanishing into the crowd before I could catch up.
The memory grates at me as I punch in the door code, pushing my way inside.
I toss the chips and beer onto the counter and reach for my phone on the coffee table, thumbing the screen awake. A few texts from the guys light up my notifications.
They’re on their way.
Knox is the first to show. He has a stack of pizzas balanced on his shoulder like we’re feeding an entire football team instead of just four guys.
I prop the door open, arching a brow. “Think you brought enough?” I ask as Knox strides in with a case of beer under his arm. So much for a chill night in.
Right behind him, Colter and Hayes lug their gaming chairs inside, already bickering over who’s teaming up with whom forMadden.
We waste no time digging into the food, flipping on ESPN highlights as we eat. Tomorrow’s matchups scroll across the screen, but it’s Knox’s recovery that’s on all our minds.
“Coach say anything about your chances of playing again before the end of the season?” Colter asks, tossing the last bite of his crust into his mouth. “I mean, hell, we have a shot at the playoffs, and we need you back on the defensive line if we have a prayer in winning.”
Knox exhales, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off the weight of the question. He takes another bite of pizza, chewing slowly, buying time to find the right words.
I know he’s been frustrated as hell.
His injury happened so damn fast—one play, one unlucky hit, and suddenly, he was down. A player fell on his knee, and the force of getting rolled up on made his leg twist awkwardly.
A partial meniscus tear. Season-altering.
“He hasn’t said much to me, honestly,” Knox finally mutters. “And I think that’s only frustrating me more. I’m coming up on six weeks since the surgery. Recovery time was supposed to be four to six weeks, but with the bye week coming up, they might push it to eight.”
I don’t blame him for being pissed.
I’ve been nursing a hamstring injury since earlier this season after Beckham launched a deep Hail Mary and sent me sprinting for the end zone.
We made the pass. Scored the touchdown. But the second my feet hit the ground, I knew something was wrong. The pop was instant. A sharp, burning tightness crawled up my thigh. For a split second, I thought I’d just played my last game of the season.
Thankfully, it hadn’t been as bad as I’d feared. A strain, not a tear. But I wasn’t taking any chances.
Colter was right—we were screwed without Knox.
If any of us went down again, we could be saying goodbye to the rest of our season.
“Maybe eight weeks will be what you need,” Colter says, his eyes on the screen as he shoves the last bite of his pizza in his mouth. “Like you said, you’re only missing one more game with our bye week. If it gives you extra time to heal and come back stronger, take it, man.”
Hayes nods in agreement. Knox exhales heavily, but he doesn’t argue.
After eating, we fire up the Xbox and start playing our game. It’s niggling on my mind to bring up Wyatt moving back in without raising any suspicions as to why I’m asking.
“Noticed Wyatt’s car parked in the driveway the past few days,” I say, not looking up.
“Yeah…” he trails off, grunting as his player misses a tackle and goes down.
