Page 114 of The Hearts We Fumble
Cameras click and flashes go off, but I don’t hear the follow-up questions. My mind is elsewhere—my thoughts tangled in the unraveling truth.
Then the door swings open hard enough to slam against the wall.
The room stills.
Luca Calloway stands in the doorway, still in his pads and jersey, drenched in sweat. His hair is plastered to his forehead, chest heaving like he just ran straight from the field.
His wild eyes scan the room before landing on me.
Whatever the fuck is about to happen, I already know this night isn’t over yet.
Luca’s chest rises and falls in sharp, erratic breaths, his whole body vibrating with anger. His eyes burn with fury, but beneath it—beneath the rage and the bitterness—is something raw. Something fractured.
“Nothing more to it?” His voice drips with mockery, sharp and cutting. “Just two guys leaving it all out there on the field? That’s all it is, huh?”
A bitter laugh scrapes from his throat as he shakes his head. The sound is hollow, void of humor.
“Why don’t you tell everyone what it’s like to play your best game of the season with yourwhole damn familywatching?” His voice rises, edged with something dangerously close to heartbreak. “Must be nice.”
Luca’s mother stands beside him, her fingers curling around his arm in a silent plea, trying to pull him back. But he doesn’t stop. He’s too far gone now.
“Oh, wait.” His mouth twists. “I guess notallof us in this room get that privilege.”
The tension in the press room thickens, heavy and suffocating. A murmur spreads through the crowd, cameras flashing like firecrackers. I can feel the weight of every pair of eyes on us—on me.
Luca takes a step forward, his voice sharp enough to cut. “You walk around like you own this damn town. Maybe that’s what happens when yourdaddybuys your way into everything.”
“All right, son, that’s enough.”
The room goes eerily silent.
Luca’s head snaps toward my father, the weight of that single word—son—hitting him like a sledgehammer. His barely contained fury shifts into something darker, something colder.
Reporters lean forward, sensing blood in the water, their cameras clicking frantically.
Luca exhales a sharp breath, his shoulders rising with it. Then he looks at me—reallylooksat me—waiting, daring me to speak.
“Go on, Zane,” he taunts, voice thick with emotion. “Tell them the truth. Tell them how the golden boy and the kid no one wantedshare the same blood.” His nostrils flare. “Or would you ratherIdo it for you?”
The air is sucked from the room. Chaos erupts instantly.
Microphones are shoved toward him, reporters firing off questions so fast they blur together in a messy hum. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs, my throat tight, but the words won’t come.
What the hell am I supposed to say? That he didn’t ask for this? That I don’t blame him for being pissed? That I get why this feels like a goddamn punch to the gut?
But nothing comes.
Luca studies me for another beat, waiting—hoping—for something I can’t seem to give him.
Then his expression hardens. His fists curl at his sides. And without another word, he turns to my father, his voice slicing through the noise like a blade.
“Don’t youdarecall me son.” His voice is low, but the fury behind it is deafening. “You lost that right the day I changed my last name from Kinnick to Calloway.”
For a moment, my father doesn’t react—doesn’t evenblink.He just stands there, his face unreadable. It’s like he’s already calculating how to spin this.
And then Luca is gone.
The door swings shut behind him, leaving behind only the chaos he set into motion.
