Page 115 of The Hearts We Fumble
Silence clings to the air for a beat too long before one of the journalists exhales, barely above a whisper—
“Holy shit.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Zane
It’s late when we roll into Braysen, the town wrapped in quiet, save for the low hum of the tires on the pavement. I haven’t checked my phone much—only when I texted Wyatt to let her know I made it back safely.
She replied right away.I’m home.
Which means she’s at her mom’s.
I leave my bag in the back seat, shoving my phone into the pocket of my dress pants as I step out. The night air is crisp, biting against my skin as I cut across the yard to the familiar oak tree outside her window.
I don’t think twice before reaching for the lowest branch, testing its strength with my grip. The bark is rough, scraping against my palm as I hoist myself up. My dress shoes slip against the trunk, making the climb trickier than usual.
Halfway up, the window creaks open, and Wyatt’s soft laughter spills out into the night.
“Youstillhaven’t considered using the front door, huh?” she teases, amusement thick in her voice.
The branch wobbles beneath me, and my foot slips, sending a smaller one snapping to the ground below.
“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath, bracing myself.
“Smooth,” she muses, resting her elbows on the windowsill, watching me struggle with a shake of her head.
I glare up at her. “Maybe stop distracting me before I break my damn neck?”
“Oh,my bad,” she deadpans. “Didn’t realize mestanding in my own bedroomwhile you attempt a break-in was a distraction.”
“This isn’t breaking and entering,” I huff, pulling myself up higher. “This is what we call using an alternate entrance.”
Wyatt snorts. “No, this is what we call an ER visit waiting to happen.”
Her smirk is taunting, and the twitch in my lips betrays me before I can fight it off. I hoist myself up one final time, gripping the windowsill and swinging my leg over, landing softly inside her room.
“My mom isn’t even home,” she informs me, smug. “Next time, just use the damn door.”
I barely have time to respond before I reach for her, wrapping my arms around her waist. She melts into me, her warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her sleep shorts and matching tank top.
She slides her hands under my jacket, nails tracing slow, deliberate paths over my back, and I exhale, the tension in my body unraveling.
“God, you don’t know how much I needed this,” I whisper into her hair. “After today… how much I needed to be near you.”
She nods against my chest. “I missed you.”
I stroke my fingers down her spine, grounding myself in the feel of her, in the quiet steadiness that’s her. We left for Georgia yesterday morning, and between the game, the press conference, and everything that went down afterward, it feels like weeks since I’ve seen her.
And it’s only going to get harder. We’re heading to Texas for the next round of playoffs. Longer trips, longer stretches without this—withouther.
“How are you handling everything that happened?” she asks, pulling back just enough to study my face.
I haven’t told her much—just brief texts—but I know she’s heard about the press conference and what went down in that room.
I don’t know how to answer her yet, so I just tighten my hold, resting my forehead against hers.
She lets me take my time.
