Page 112 of The Hearts We Fumble
We don’t huddle. No time for it. Instead, we rush back into formation, throwing Keaton’s defense off.
“Kill, kill!” Beckham growls.
It’s almost impossible to hear him over the roar of the crowd, but I recognize the call.
He snaps the ball and drops back, scanning the field. Hayes is open, a clean window right down the middle. Beckham lets it fly, a perfect spiral, just within reach.
Then—impact.
A safety comes flying in from the side, slamming into Hayes midair, shoulder to chest. His helmet whips back violently, and with the awkward twist of his body, he crashes to the ground hard.
The ball hits the turf.
The collective gasp from the crowd is deafening.
A flag sails through the air.
Beckham rips his helmet off, sprinting toward his brother.
But Hayes isn’t moving.
I can’t hear what’s being said. All I see is Luca exchanging words with one of his teammates, his body language relaxed like he hasn’t just watched someone get laid out on the field.
Then his gaze lifts, locking onto mine.
Rage detonates in my chest, white-hot and unrelenting. My feet are already moving before I register it, closing the distance between us.
“Don’t, man.” Colter steps into my path, planting a hand on my chest. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’ll regret it. Let it go. Let the trainers do their job and make sure Hayes is okay.”
Luca grins around his mouthguard. It’s like he knows exactly what I want to do and is daring me to do it.
It takes everything in me not to rip his helmet off and wipe that smug expression off his face.
Instead, I force my focus back to Hayes, who’s finally climbing to his feet. He’s slow, shaking off the hit, and I already know tomorrow’s gonna be hell for him, even if he’s not seriously hurt. But he jogs off the field, earning a cheer from the crowd.
Good. We’re not done yet.
Back in the huddle, I lean in close to Beckham and shout over the noise, “I want the ball. Give it to me.”
“They saw what happened with you and Calloway. They’re gonna have him on you,” Beckham warns. “If I throw it your way, they’ll expect it.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I growl. “I want the ball, and I want to run straight through that motherfucker.”
Beckham doesn’t argue. He calls the play, and we break, lining up at the two-yard line.
Luca shadows me, just like I knew he would.
The second the ball snaps, I fake right, cutting hard into the end zone. Beckham doesn’t hesitate, launching a bullet straight to my chest.
I catch it clean.
Luca lunges, bracing for impact, expecting me to lower my shoulder and take the hit.
I don’t.
Planting my foot, I throw a stiff arm, catching him off guard. His feet skid out from under him, and I’m already past him, securing the ball in the end zone.
The whistle blows.
