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Zane

“Kinnick.” Our offensive line coach, Coach Ferentz, blows his whistle, the piercing sound cutting through the late afternoon air, sharp and commanding.

I pull up from my sprint, chest heaving, and jog toward him. His finger hooks in a come-here motion, his brows already pinched in that assessing way that tells me he’s scanning for any signs of weakness.

“How’re you feelin’? How’s that hamstring treating you?” His gaze drags over me from head to toe, like he’s waiting to catch even the slightest hitch in my stride.

After being out of the game for the past three weeks, I hope he’ll finally give me the okay to play again.

“Great, Coach. I finished my last round of PT last Thursday.” I keep my voice even and controlled. No hesitation. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m anything less than ready.

He nods slowly, absorbing my answer. I don’t miss the flicker of approval that crosses his face before he glances at his clipboard. Good. That’s what I need—reassurance I’ll be back in the lineup where I belong.

“You think you’re good to resume practicing at one hundred percent?”

“Yes, sir.” I straighten my shoulders, willing the impatience out of my tone. “Like I said, I’m feeling great. I’m ready to be back out there with my team.”

His quick grin is pleased. “That’s what I want to hear.” He scribbles something onto his clipboard, then taps the edge against his palm. “I’ll need a release from your physical therapist before I can officially clear you. Get that to me by tomorrow, and we’ll be good to go.”

I nod, but inside, I’m groaning. I was hoping I’d seen the last of those PT sessions, but it seems I have one more trip to Keaton. The town is twenty minutes south, just past the Georgia–South Carolina border—crossing enemy lines. Not that I can complain too much. Their top-notch sports medicine program is better than anything closer. Still, if I had my choice, I’d take twenty minutes over the two-hour haul to Charleston any day.

Coach Ferentz dismisses me with a quick wave, signaling me to rejoin the offensive line and ease through my limited practice routine. I nod and jog toward the huddle, rolling out my shoulders and shaking out my legs as I go. The afternoon sun beats down relentlessly, the heat sinking into my muscles, making the damp fabric of my jersey stick to my skin.

We’d spent most of the morning in the film room, breaking down last week’s game against the Lions—every play, every mistake, every moment we could have executed better. Now, I’d finish the day with light reps, running routes, and catching a few passes from Beckham.

Even after a few weeks off, our rhythm is still second nature. The way he reads the field and I anticipate his throws is instinct at this point. But no matter how dialed in we are, I know I’ll never have what he has with his twin, Hayes Carver. Their connection is freakish, the kind of thing you can’t train for. I don’t take it personally. It’s just how it is.

We’ve busted our asses for years to get to this point. Senior year. Our last shot to take this team back to the playoffs. To finish what we started.

The thought tightens in my chest, bittersweet in a way I can’t quite put into words. Everything I’ve worked for—every early morning, every grueling practice—has led me to this season. The one that could set me up for the future. The one that could solidify my shot at the NFL.

After practice, I follow the team into the locker room, my muscles aching in that satisfying way that reminds me I’m finally back. Sweat drips from my brow, stinging my eyes, and I swipe at it with the towel draped around my neck.

“What’d Coach say?” Hayes asks, falling into step beside me.

I run the towel over my face and let out a heavy breath. “He needs a release from my PT before I’m fully cleared. I’m gonna head down there after I get cleaned up, so I should be good to go by tomorrow.”

“Hell, yes!” Hayes grins and claps a hand against my shoulder. Its solid weight is reassuring.

Tomorrow, I’d be back at full speed. Right where I belonged.

Colter overhears and steps in, hand outstretched. When I clasp it, he pulls me into a quick, firm hug, clapping me on the back.

“It hasn’t been the same without you on the field.”

Tell me about it. Every second off the field has felt like a countdown—a slow, agonizing wait to get back out there.

Turning to my locker, I swipe my phone off the shelf and thumb the screen awake. A flood of notifications stares back at me, but it’s the string of texts from my dad that catches my attention first.

Dad: How’s your leg doing?

Dad: I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days. How was your last PT appointment?

Dad: You said the PT would release you, right? Do you need me to pull some strings to get your release so you can play on Saturday?

Dad: Call me when you get this.

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.

And that? That’s exactly why I feel justified in doing the same.

She’s always been my firecracker. And I can already feel it coming—the moment she detonates on me all over again.