Page 113 of The Hearts We Fumble
I turn back, finding Luca sprawled on his ass, scrambling to his feet.
“You need a map, Calloway?” I taunt, leaning over him with a smirk. “’Cause you look a little lost.”
He shoves me back, and I don’t even flinch. “You’re just another speed bump on my way to the end zone.”
“Fuck you, bro,” he grits out.
I cackle, shaking my head at his choice of words. “Tell your coach to sub you out before I embarrass you again.”
Then I turn, jogging back toward my team, already itching to do it all over again.
***
“Once you’re showered and cleaned up, I want you with me for the postgame press conference,” Coach Frye calls out, his voice firm but carrying a note of satisfaction. “You too, Colter and Beckham.”
We just fought our asses off in overtime and clawed our way to a win. The exhaustion hasn’t fully settled yet, still riding the high of victory, but I know the press is gonna be all over this one—especially with how the game played out.
I take longer than I should in the shower, letting the hot water work some of the tension from my muscles before quickly drying off and pulling on the suit I wore to the stadium earlier.
By the time I step into the press room, a crowd has already formed. The energy is palpable—buzzing, expectant. Colter and Beckham are seated next to Coach at the table, with an empty chair waiting for me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I murmur as I take my seat, adjusting the mic in front of me.
A woman in the front row stands, holding a mic in her hand. “Coach, what adjustments did you make at halftime to help pull away with the win?”
Coach Frye leans into his mic. “For starters, we had to get out of our own damn way. There were nerves, no doubt. Mistakes cost us early, but we cleaned it up and executed when it mattered.”
Another reporter stands. “Beckham, how much sweeter is this win, knowing it came against Keaton?”
Beckham chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Look, we know it's gonna be a battle every time we go up against them. They’re not an easy team to beat, and they proved that the two times we faced them this season.”
Then, one of the male reporters I recognize from past interviews shifts forward in his chair, eyes locking onto me. “Zane, there’s been a lot of talk about the feud between you and Keaton’s cornerback, Luca Calloway. Walk us through that game-changing play in the third quarter. What was going through your mind when you caught that pass?”
I exhale, rolling my shoulders back. “Man, it was one hell of a play. Like Beckham said, this was a battle from the first snap. But we needed to make a statement. Defense was pressing, and I saw an opening. Beckham put it right where I needed it, and after that, it was just instinct. I caught it, turned upfield, and then I saw him”—I clench my jaw—“coming straight for me.”
I pause for a beat, clearing my throat and shifting my weight.
“We’ve gone at it before, and I knew Calloway wasn’t gonna let up. Neither was I. He came in hard, and I checked him, kept my grip on the ball, and kept moving. You gotta dig deep in moments like that.”
The buzz of the press room fades for a second when my gaze snags on something—or rather, someone—standing against the far wall.
My father.
But it’s not just him that catches me off guard—it’s the fact that he’s not watching me.
He’s watchingher.
My pulse kicks up as I follow his line of sight, my stomach twisting when my eyes land on a woman I recognize instantly from the photos Reed showed me.
Luca’s mother.
A slow, controlled breath pushes through my nose as I snap my attention back to my father. The tic in his jaw is barely perceptible, but I see it.
The anger.
The tension crackling beneath the surface.
I swallow, shifting my focus back to the reporters and finishing my thoughts. “Look, I know what people are saying about that play, with the videos circulating and the way the media spins shit. But at the end of the day, Luca’s one hell of a player. That was two guys leaving it all out on the field. Nothing more to it.”
