Page 85 of The Hearts We Fumble
The color drains from Myla’s face. Her hands press to her temples like she’s physically trying to block out the reality of what just happened.
“And all those people…” she breathes, eyes flicking back toward the house. “With their cameras…”
“It’s too late,” I say. “The damage is already done.”
The front door swings open, and a group of guys steps onto the porch. Calloway is among them, his eyes locking onto mine. The fucker is still grinning. Still trying to get the last word.
Colter pulls a set of keys from his pocket, nodding to me. “Katie gave me her keys. I’ll drive her car back to your place. Figured she and Myla could crash there for the night.”
Without another word, Myla and Katie slide into my car with Hayes. Colter jogs across the street to where Katie’s car is parked.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. It doesn’t work.
Reed lingers, glancing over at me. “Do you know what Calloway was talking about?”
I shake my head. “Probably nothing. He’s just stirring up drama.”
“Still… if you want me to look into it, let me know.”
I nod, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Appreciate it.”
Colter flashes his headlights, signaling he’s ready to go. Reed jogs across the street to ride with him, and I climb into the driver’s seat.
My knuckles ache, blood dried against my skin. Tomorrow’s gonna be hell when Coach hears about this shit.
I don’t even want to check my phone. Don’t want to see the videos or the headlines.
All I want is to get back to Braysen.
Back home.
Back to Wyatt.
Chapter Twenty
Wyatt
Restlessness coils in my chest as I wait for Zane to come home. I tried eating, but every bite felt forced, my stomach too tight with worry. So now, dinner sits half-eaten on the counter, and I’m curled up on my side in his bed, aimlessly watching a true crime documentary on Netflix. The details barely register.
Zane texted me half an hour ago, saying he was on his way. But he’s still not back.
The click of the lock jolts me upright. My heart kicks into gear as I shove a hand through my hair, smoothing it down before slipping out of bed and hurrying toward the living room.
He steps inside, his head down, shoulders slumped. The moment his eyes lift to mine, a wave of unease crashes into me.
Something’s wrong.
“What happened?” My hand flies to my mouth as my gaze sweeps over him, searching.
Then I see them.
His hands hang loosely at his sides, knuckles raw and bloody, the dried streaks dark against his skin. A bruise blooms along his jaw, deepening into something ugly.
“Oh my God.” The words slip out as I rush forward, grabbing his wrist to inspect the damage. His skin is rough beneath my fingers, his hands so much larger than mine, yet they tremble—just slightly.
“Zane, what the heck happened? Did you get into a fight?”
“I’m okay,” he murmurs, lifting a palm to my cheek. His warm touch is hesitant, as if he’s testing to see if I’ll pull away. When he winces, I know it’s worse than he’s letting on.
