Page 111 of The Hearts We Fumble
From the first snap, the tension is palpable. It’s not just another playoff game. It’s personal.
The nerves are there, under the surface, creeping into the way we play. Sloppy mistakes pile up. We fumble a punt return on our first possession, giving Keaton the ball inside the fifteen-yard line. They capitalize immediately, running it into the end zone for an easy score. We’re not even losing to Keaton at this point—we’re losing to ourselves.
By halftime, frustration runs hot through my veins. Sweat drips down my face as I yank off my helmet and storm toward the tunnel, jaw clenched so tight I could break a tooth.
That’s when I hear his voice.
“Zane.”
It’s sharp, commanding, and impossible to ignore.
I glance to the side, my stomach twisting at the sight of my father leaning against the wall outside the locker room, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. My pulse kicks up a notch, knowing damn well whatever comes out of his mouth is only going to piss me off.
Behind me, Colter mutters, “Don’t.”
He knows how easily my dad can get under my skin. How one wrong word could send me over the edge when I need my head in the game.
Before I can decide whether to stop or keep walking, Coach Frye’s voice cuts through the space, sharp as a blade.
“Kinnick. In my locker room. Now.”
His tone leaves no room for argument.
My dad’s gaze flicks past me, locking on Coach. There’s a challenge in his eyes, a silent war brewing, and I don’t have to wonder if this is unfinished business from their last conversation in his office.
Without hesitation, I turn away and follow my teammates inside.
Coach’s voice drops low as I pass him. “Leave it at the door, son. Whatever he said, whatever he’s thinking of saying—it doesn’t belong in here.”
He’s seen enough over the years to know the tension between me and my father isn’t just a bad day kind of thing. It’s been brewing for years, festering under the surface. And now, with everything I know, it’s ready to explode. But he’s right. I can’t let it. Not here. Not now.
I take a deep breath, exhaling hard through my nose as I drop onto the bench in front of my locker. My fingers curl around my knee, squeezing tightly as I force my mind to shift gears.
Knox claps a hand on my shoulder, his voice steady. “You good?”
He still hasn’t been released to play since his injury. I know it’s killing him to sit this one out, and after watching my teammates lose their last game, the sting is even worse.
“I’m good.” I squeeze my water bottle, squirting a stream into my mouth before wiping the back of my hand across my jaw. “I’ll be better when we win this fuckin’ game.”
Knox kneels in front of me, his expression serious. “We know how this team plays. Last time, it got chippy, and we’ve already racked up too many penalties. Just wanted to check in to make sure you’re keeping your head straight. Don’t let their bullshit bait you into another one.”
He’s right. I already let Luca get under my skin once, and it cost me a game. I’m not about to let him fuck with my head again—not when this one matters even more.
Jogging back onto the field after halftime, I shake out my arms, my focus locked-in. But the second I glance toward the stands behind our bench, I catch sight of Wyatt with Everly and Tatum.
She’s in my jersey.
My number stretches across her chest, my last name stamped across her back like a brand. Like a claim.
Heat twists through me, winding tight in my gut. Damn, this girl. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me. The last time she wore my jersey, I spent the night stripping it off her, and if we win this game, I plan to do the same all over again.
But first, we have to take Keaton down.
We have possession of the ball on the kickoff, trailing by three. It’s not a comfortable place to be, but if we can march down the field and score—even if it’s just a field goal to even things up—it’ll shift the momentum in our favor.
As expected, the tension between the two teams is scorching. With every snap and play, trash talk is flying, and players are getting in each other’s faces. The refs have already thrown more flags than they’d like, but it’s not stopping anyone from playing rough.
Beckham takes the snap and fakes a long pass to Hayes before lobbing the ball to Reed. It’s a beautiful misdirect. The defense bites, giving Reed just enough space to take off down the field before he’s tackled at the seven-yard line.
