Page 2 of The Hearts We Fumble
My jaw tightens. Pull some strings. Of course, because in James Kinnick’s world, success isn’t about patience or hard work—it’s about leverage. Control. Making sure nothing, and no one, disrupts the perfect trajectory he’s carved out.
Dragging a hand through my damp hair, I hit the lock screen and shove my phone deep into my gym bag. I’ll call him on my way back from Keaton and let him know I have it under control before he decides to handle it for me.
If there’s one thing my dad refuses to tolerate, it’s the idea that his son—the one bearing his name—might falter. Might not measure up to the image of perseverance and dominance he’s built his entire life around.
After my injury, he didn’t hesitate to remind me—more than once—how he played through an ankle sprain during the NBA Finals. He had hidden its severity from the team’s athletic trainers, opting for pain injections over rest, pushing through every minute of the last round until he led his team to their third ring.
His voice still echoes in my head.Pain is temporary. You only get one shot to make an impression on the scouts.
As much as I love my dad and respect the work ethic he drilled into me from a young age, there are moments—like now—when I don’t want to hear it. His version of motivation has a way of making everything feel like a test I can’t afford to fail.
But I’ve put in the work. For four years, I’ve stayed locked-in, limiting distractions and keeping my circle tight with my teammates. Bonding off the field mattered just as much as what we did on it. Relationships? Dating? Not worth the risk. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve gone to my fair share of parties and have had a few hookups here and there. But every girl knew what it was—no strings, no expectations. Football has always come first.
Saturday’s coming. And I’ll be ready.
After showering and throwing on fresh clothes, I sling my bag over my shoulder and call out to my teammates, “Catch you guys later.”
I hustle out to my car, eager to knock this trip to Keaton out fast.
With a few hours to kill between practice and my only class today, I should be using this time wisely—studying for my upcoming exam and catching up on assignments. I’m not too worried about the test, but I was late turning in my last paper, and the last thing I need is my dad catching wind of it. That would be just one more excuse for him to get on my ass.
The drive to Keaton flies by in a blur of open highway and blaring music. Before long, I’m weaving through the streets of downtown, where Keaton University’s red-bricked campus stretches out alongside the nearby hospital. The area is packed with medical buildings—sports therapy centers, pediatric offices, and clinics catering to elite athletes.
Finding a parking spot, though? Damn near impossible.
I circle the block twice before a space finally opens up down the street from the physical therapy office. Without hesitation, I swerve over and back in before someone else can claim it.
Shutting off the engine, I push open the door and immediately spot her.
The unruly mess of curls whips in the wind as she fumbles down the front steps of the Alpha Nu house. Her cheeks are pink, her steps uneven as she makes what can only be described as a walk of shame.
And me? I’m shameless as my gaze drags over every inch of her curves.
Wyatt Vaughn.
She’s been the highlight of one too many of my fantasies for longer than I care to admit. But as my best friend’s little sister, off-limits have always been the unspoken rule. The two-year age gap never mattered much—except when it did.
Like the night after her eighteenth birthday.
A night neither of us talks about. A night she’d probably say she regrets.
I fucked that up in every way possible. But maybe it was for the best.
Wyatt is the definition of a distraction. That wild laugh, that beaming smile, the full, tempting curves that have haunted me for years. And those hips? Don’t even get me started on those damn hips.
She’s the whole package. And worst of all? She knows it.
Knows exactly how to get under my skin and stay there. Knows how to push my buttons until I’m one wrong look away from doing something stupid.
This is why my jaw locks tight the second I see her stumbling toward the bus stop at the corner.
I already know she’s going to fight me on this.
Yet before I can stop myself, I’m already moving straight for her, striding across the street.
The excuse running through my head?
If her brother Colter were here instead of me and saw Wyatt walking out of a frat house that belonged to the Keaton Eagles, our biggest rivals, he’d bark her name and order her straight into his truck without a second thought.
