Page 14

Wyatt

The bass of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” pulses through the speakers as I step inside, slipping off my shoes and shrugging out of my jacket. Zane must have passed out early last night, which was a good thing ahead of today’s game against Keaton.

When he texted me good morning earlier, letting me know he was awake, I figured I had just enough time to sneak over and surprise him with breakfast before he left for the stadium.

We’ve spent almost every day together since the night of the bonfire. This is his first away game since then, which means I won’t see him until late tonight—if he even comes over after the team gets back. I don’t want to waste the chance to see him now.

“Zane?” I call out, draping my jacket over the back of the chair.

No answer.

I glance toward his room, only to find his bed empty and still rumpled from sleep. Then I hear his voice, loud and off-key, echoing from the bathroom as he sings along to the music, completely unaware of my presence.

Smirking, I shake my head and make my way into the kitchen, pulling out eggs, sausage links, and butter. Spotting a bunch of ripe bananas on the counter, I grab the bread from the cabinet.

I move on autopilot, flipping sausage links in the skillet while whisking the eggs with one hand, the scent of butter browning in the pan filling the small space. I barely register the footsteps approaching down the hall until Zane’s voice breaks through the kitchen.

“Wyatt?” His tone is groggy, laced with surprise. “If it’s not you, I think someone just broke into my house to use my kitchen.”

A grin tugs at my lips just as he rounds the corner, and my breath catches for a fraction of a second.

He’s wearing black dress slacks and a teal button-up shirt, the fabric straining slightly across his broad chest, two buttons undone at the collar, revealing the dark ink stretching across his golden skin. He looks… insanely good.

Zane’s gaze flickers between me and the breakfast bar, where I’ve already plated his eggs and toast—two slices slathered in peanut butter, topped with banana slices. His brows twitch, his expression unreadable for a beat.

“You remembered?” His voice is quiet, almost as if he’s in disbelief.

I glance over my shoulder, flipping the last of the sausage links onto his plate. “Of course, I remembered,” I say, laughing lightly. “I only made it for you and Colter a million times.”

He just stands there for a second, watching me like I’ve done something monumental. Like this small act of remembering means more to him than he’s willing to admit.

And maybe it does.

There was a time when Zane practically lived at our house. Back when his parents were going through a rough patch, and his older brother, Miles, was holed up in the guesthouse, he spent more time in our kitchen than his own. Even after Colter moved out and got a place with the guys, Zane still dropped by constantly—checking in on my mom, raiding our fridge, and sitting at the counter while I baked.

Taking care of the people I love in the kitchen has always been my thing. Cooking. Baking. Making sure they have something to eat, whether they ask for it or not.

And right now, standing here in Zane’s kitchen, serving him breakfast before his game, I realize something—I like doing this for him.

Maybe I always have.

Zane saunters toward me, his large frame commanding the space between us, effortlessly pulling me into his side. His touch still sends a jolt through me—warm, firm, and possessive, like he has no intention of letting me go.

He lowers his head, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the crown of mine before inhaling deeply, his breath stirring the loose strands of my hair. I brace myself for whatever words might follow, expecting him to say something—maybe a warning, maybe something teasing. But instead, he just exhales, his voice a whisper against my skin.

“Thank you.”

The words are so soft, yet they wrap around me like a slow-burning fire.

His fingers trail up my jaw, cupping my chin, and tilt my face toward his. His gaze locks onto mine, dark and unreadable, before he leans in and presses his lips against mine.

It never fails to catch me off guard. The way Zane kisses—like he’s staking his claim, pulling every ounce of air from my lungs, leaving me breathless and weightless all at once.

A slow smile tugs at my lips when he pulls back, and when I blink my eyes open, I find him smirking.

“It’s almost like you know you render me speechless when you do that,” I murmur, my voice still laced with the remnants of our kiss.

His smirk deepens. “Oh, so you’re onto me now, huh?”

I swat at his chest, and he chuckles, releasing me. With effortless ease, he rounds the counter, slides onto a barstool, and shoves an entire sausage link into his mouth in one go.

I shake my head as he chews, groaning in satisfaction. The sound sends a ripple of warmth through me—knowing he appreciates the effort, that this little act of care means something to him.

“I didn’t think I’d get to see you before the game,” he admits between bites, and my heart stumbles at the hint of his disappointment.

“That’s why I snuck over,” I say, grinning. “Had to steal a few minutes with you before you take off.”

He nods, shoveling eggs into his mouth, then chasing it with a bite of peanut butter toast. The combination has never sounded appealing to me, but he loves it, so I just smile, letting him enjoy it.

“You get your suit jacket ironed, or do you want me to do it?” I ask casually, though my stomach flips the second the words leave my mouth. It’s such a domestic thing to say, but the offer is genuine.

Zane shakes his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nah, I got it. Took care of it last night before bed.”

I nod, biting back a smirk.

Truth is, I might have an ulterior motive for asking.

But I keep it to myself. For now.

Instead, we chat about the game—his strategy, his predictions, the rivalry with Keaton—until he disappears down the hall to brush his teeth and fix his hair.

The moment he’s out of sight, I slip off my stool and make a beeline for his bedroom, moving swiftly toward the closet where I’d seen it hanging.

His jersey. The one I plan to wear today.

Braysen is the away team today, which means Zane will be wearing their crisp white jersey with teal and navy details. I spot his navy home jersey hanging neatly in his closet, and without a second thought, I swipe it from the hanger. Moving swiftly, I fold it up and stuff it into the arm of my coat, my heart pounding with anticipation.

I barely make it two steps before I turn and collide straight into a solid wall of muscle.

“Holy shit,” I gasp, my hand flying to my chest.

Zane’s hands find my hips, steadying me, but instead of stepping back, he rocks his hips into mine, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’ll be there today, right?” he asks, voice low, almost teasing.

I melt under his touch, my arms instinctively slipping around his neck. “Of course. I’m riding with Tatum and Everly. Hallyn and Ava are traveling with the dance team, so it’ll be the three of us.”

His smirk deepens. “Good. I like knowing when I look up into the crowd, that you’ll be there watching me.”

His fingers trace down my sides, settling over my ass as he pulls me tighter against him. The heat in his gaze sends a thrill through me, and then his lips are on mine—firm, possessive, lingering just long enough to leave me breathless.

“I have to go,” he whispers against my mouth, his forehead resting lightly against mine. “Thank you for breakfast. It was perfect. Best I’ve had in a long time.”

I smile, brushing my fingers through the short strands at the nape of his neck. “Good luck out there, Kinnick. Kick some ass, yeah?”

His answering grin is pure confidence. “Always. I’ll text you on the way back, but it’ll be late.”

I nod, knowing how seriously he takes his pre-game routine. The team likes to arrive early to warm up, get mentally locked-in, and drown out the noise before the stands fill.

I walk him out to his car, and we share a quick goodbye kiss. As much as I want to linger, I’m not sure who’s home in his house—probably Myla, maybe even his mom. And we’re not ready for anyone to know about this yet.

Not yet.

As I cross the backyard to my house, I check my phone. A few unread messages pop up in the group chat with Tatum and Everly, mostly coordinating plans.

Tatum doesn’t pick me up for a few more hours, but with traffic expected to be insane—the Braysen-Keaton rivalry is the game of the season—we want to leave early to beat the chaos.

By the time we arrive, the energy outside the stadium is electric. Fans tailgate in the parking lots, jerseys and school colors flood every inch of space, and the air hums with anticipation.

We find our seats forty-five minutes before kickoff, just enough time to settle in and take it all in.

As I unzip my jacket, my heart pounds a little harder, waiting for the moment when Tatum and Everly notice what I’m wearing underneath.

Because I know the second they do… all hell is going to break loose.

It doesn’t take long for them to notice—especially since both Tatum and Everly are decked out in their matching jerseys.

Everly is the first to catch on. The second I shrug out of my coat and drape it over my seat, her head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“That’s a real nice jersey you have there,” she shouts over the noise, reaching out blindly to grab Tatum’s hand, yanking her attention my way.

Tatum gasps, eyes flicking between my jersey and my face like she’s solving a puzzle she’s been working on for weeks. “I knew it.” She swats my thigh, her voice full of triumph. “I knew you two were acting weird the other night at the bonfire.”

My face flames instantly, heat crawling up my neck as the memory of that night slams into me—Zane pulling me behind the garage, pressing me into the siding, his mouth between my legs while I tried not to scream.

Tatum catches the shift in my expression immediately. She levels me with a knowing stare and points a finger in my face. “See! I told you,” she shouts at Everly. “I knew something happened, and the way her cheeks just turned fifty shades of red completely sold her out.”

Everly leans in, lowering her voice. “Wait… does this mean you guys are—? Like, what is going on?”

I shrug, not entirely sure how to explain whatever this is between me and Zane. I’m still figuring it out myself.

Everly tilts her head, studying me, and then grins. “Does this have anything to do with him catching you outside the Alpha Nu house?”

My mouth falls open. “How the hell do you know about that?”

“Hayes.” Everly smirks, like she’s enjoying every second of my unraveling. “Apparently, Zane told him after it happened. He was pissed. Told Hayes he couldn’t say anything to Colter, but he had to know if I had any idea why you’d be down there.”

“What did you tell him?”

She shrugs. “Nothing.”

I blink. “Nothing?”

“Of course not. I didn’t really know much either, but even if I did, I wouldn’t have told him. I mean, I knew Claudia was dating one of the guys, so I figured that’s why you went, but it wasn’t my place to say. Plus…” She smirks, throwing a conspiratorial glance at Tatum. “I liked the idea of you driving him crazy. Hayes said he was practically coming out of his skin trying to get information.”

Tatum bursts into laughter, tossing her head back.

The crowd around us erupts as the team takes the field, and just like that, all eyes are on the game.

All eyes except for mine—because my gaze instantly finds him.

“What are you gonna say when Colter asks why the hell you’re wearing Zane’s jersey?”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Didn’t want to be left out.” I nod toward their jerseys, the same navy and teal as mine. Everly tilts her head, considering, before giving me a slow nod of agreement.

Tatum arches a brow. “You’re just hanging out?”

“Yeah.” I exhale, glancing out at the field like I’m not feeling the weight of their scrutiny. “I’m not trying to overthink it. It’s way too soon to put any labels on anything, ya know?” I look between them, eyes pleading. “Please don’t say anything.”

Everly raises her hands in surrender. “I won’t.”

Tatum leans in, voice conspiratorial. “We have to keep them on their toes somehow. It’s no fun if we don’t make them work for it a little.”

Everly wags her brows, and I laugh because Lord knows she loves pushing Hayes’s buttons as much as I love doing the same to Zane.

For the first half of the game, Zane is locked-in—head down, laser-focused. Keaton had an early lead, up by fourteen, so he’s all business. But just before halftime, Beckham fires a long pass downfield to Hayes, who takes off like a rocket, running it in for a touchdown.

The stadium erupts.

Tatum, Everly, and I jump to our feet, screaming along with the rest of the Braysen fans. The momentum shifts—if we can score on our first drive of the third quarter, we’ll tie the game.

Except things don’t go our way.

Beckham takes a hard sack, dropping them back twelve yards, making it an impossible third down. In the next play, he fakes a deep throw and hands it off to Reed, who explodes through an opening in the defense, sprinting the length of the field for another touchdown.

The crowd loses it.

We’re still riding the high of the play when Hayes spots us, lifting a hand in our direction. Everly waves like she’s been waiting for him to notice her all game.

Then Hayes nudges Zane, nodding toward us.

Zane’s eyes track his movement, following his gaze—searching. It takes him a second, but when he finally sees me… really sees me…

It’s over.

His stare locks on me, on the jersey stretched across my chest, his number displayed in bold block letters like a silent declaration.

The air shifts.

I feel it crackle between us, the roar of the crowd fading into a dull hum in the background. My heart slams against my ribs as he yanks off his helmet and stalks toward the sideline, placing it on the rack without once breaking eye contact.

Sixty-five thousand people in this stadium.

Yet, at this moment, it’s just us.

Everly snickers beside me. “Damn, girl.”

“No kidding,” Tatum adds. “I’m surprised you didn’t combust under that look.”

I press my thighs together, heat curling in my stomach, mentally counting down the hours until I can see him again.

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.