Page 9 of The Hearts We Fumble
I never questioned it. Hell, I’d set the same unspoken rule for Myla. But at some point, Wyatt wasn’t just Colter’s sister anymore.
She was my friend.
Then, somewhere along the way, she became something else entirely.
I knew it, felt it, but I never acted on it.
After Colter and Wyatt lost their dad, I watched her—saw the way she kept everything bottled up, the way she never asked for help, even when she was drowning.
I wanted to be the person who pulled her back to the surface.
I wanted to be everything for her—even when I knew I could never be what she needed.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that love doesn’t last.
I watched my parents go from two people who gave everything to each other to two people who could barely stand to be in the same room.
My father’s rumored affair broke them, turning them into strangers who stayed together for the sake of appearances.
For money. For power.
For us, they claimed.Bullshit.
They should have walked away instead of pretending. Instead of turning our home into a battlefield.
And maybe that’s why I’ve always known—I could want Wyatt all I wanted, but it wouldn’t change the inevitable.
She deserves more than someone who doesn’t even believe in happily ever afters.
I didn’t know the first thing about being in a relationship.
Not the kind that actually lasts.
Colter and Wyatt’s parents did the smart thing—they got a divorce and spared their kids from growing up in a house filled with resentment.
I wish mine had done the same.
Instead, my parents stayed together, claiming it was for us, but that was all crap.
They should have split years ago, but my mom had grown comfortable in the safety and luxury of being married to one of the greatest NBA players of all time.
With my dad’s salary and endorsements, he was worth over a billion dollars.
That kind of wealth buys loyalty, or at least the illusion of it.
I’ll always be grateful for the opportunities his career gave me. But being James Kinnick’s son comes with its own weight.
Expectations. Pressure. A path already paved before I ever had a say in it.
It was hard enough convincing him I didn’t want to follow him—or Miles and Myla—into basketball.
Football has always been my game.
And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love the thought of doing something different—of proving that I’m more than just James Kinnick’s son.
I pause outside my door, my gaze drifting across the yard, locking onto the soft glow of Wyatt’s bedroom window.
I’ve debated climbing that damn tree more times than I care to admit. Knocking on her window, seeing if she’d let me in.
