Page 64 of The Hearts We Fumble
Not soon enough.
The game stays locked in a tense tie heading into the fourth quarter. Both defenses dig in, making it nearly impossible for either team to gain ground. The energy on the field turns sharp and aggressive, the kind of simmering hostility that’s one wrong move away from boiling over.
“That guy—Calloway, I think his name is—keeps chirping in Zane’s ear,” Tatum mutters beside me, narrowing her eyes. “It’s like he’s trying to piss him off.”
My stomach tightens. I noticed it too, but what she doesn’t know is why.
Zane never saw me with Luca that morning, but he did see me in his shirt and again talking to him at the bar. Those two things alone were enough for him to put the pieces together—who I had been with the night before.
Nothing had happened, but I hadn’t exactly volunteered that information either. Maybe a part of me liked the thought of Zane being jealous, feeling that same possessive burn I’d endured watching him with other girls over the past year.
He never asked if anything had gone down. And if he had, I would’ve been honest. But something about the way Zane and Luca kept circling each other, jawing back and forth, made me wonder if that question was already gnawing at him.
Braysen is driving, deep in the red zone, and time is bleeding off the clock. We need these points. The offense lines up for third and long, the entire stadium crackling with anticipation.
Beckham takes the snap. The defense reads pass, shifting into coverage as he scans the field. Then he fires—hitting Zane in stride across the middle.
But before he can secure the ball, a body barrels into him from the side.
Hard.
Zane barely has time to brace before the impact crushes him, his head snapping back as he slams into the turf. The ball bursts loose, bouncing off the ground, and the breath in my lungs vanishes.
“Holy shit,” Tatum gasps.
Everly grips my forearm, her other hand flying over her mouth. My fingers go numb, my pulse a frantic hammering against my ribs.
Zane doesn’t move.
The stadium falls into a stunned, eerie silence.
Seconds stretch into a suffocating eternity before he finally stirs, his hands pressing into the ground as he pushes himself upright. The guys crowd around him, offering hands to help him to his feet, but my vision stays locked on his face, searching for any sign that he’s okay.
A flag sails onto the field late.
The roar of the crowd shifts, boos and shouts of outrage spilling through the stands. I barely register the announcer confirming what I already suspected.
Personal foul.Luca Calloway.
The penalty shoves Braysen forward, giving them the fresh set of downs they desperately need. Beckham doesn’t waste a second, dropping back and launching a laser to Hayes in the end zone.
The moment the ball lands in his hands, the stadium erupts.
A deafening mix of cheers and jeers shakes the stands, the scoreboard flashing Braysen’s victory as the final seconds tick off the clock. But while everyone else is caught up in the win, my focus stays locked on him.
Zane is back on his feet, standing tall—but I know better.
The damage is done.
Not just from the hit, though I can already see the tension in his stance, the tightness in his jaw as he shakes out his shoulders. It’s the other wound festering beneath the surface, the one Calloway just ripped wide open.
Whatever has been simmering between them isn’t just lingering animosity.
It’s personal.
And I know damn well why.
Chapter Fifteen
