Page 20

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.

“If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy,” he adds, a weak attempt at humor that falls flat.

I don’t laugh. I don’t even breathe.

“Come on,” I say softly, wrapping my fingers around his. His grip tightens for just a second, grounding himself in me before he follows without protest.

I flick the light on in the bathroom, and the brightness only makes the damage more apparent. His knuckles are a mess of torn skin and swelling, the bruising creeping up his fingers like ink seeping through paper.

“Can you move them? Make a fist?”

I watch closely as he curls his fingers, the movement stiff and slow. Pain flickers across his face, but it’s gone as fast as it appears.

“It’s gonna be sore tomorrow.” My stomach twists, knowing he has a game coming up.

A part of me wants to ask who did this to him. Who pushed him to the edge? Who was stupid enough to throw hands with Zane Kinnick?

But I don’t.

Because I already know.

I heard enough of his conversation earlier to piece together that Myla was at a party in Keaton. I don’t know what happened, but I do know Zane. He doesn’t throw punches unless there’s a damn good reason.

“Is Myla okay?” I ask instead.

He nods once. “Yeah. She’s okay.”

The tension in his voice tells me something happened.

I swallow down the questions, the urge to press for details. Instead, I pull open the linen closet, scanning the sparse contents. He doesn’t keep much here, but thankfully, I spot a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

Turning on the faucet, I adjust the water to warm and grab a clean washcloth.

“Wash your hands,” I tell him gently.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say another word.

Stepping forward, he just lets the water rush over his battered knuckles while I stand beside him, gripping the sink like it’ll hold me together.

Zane hisses when the soap stings his busted knuckles, his jaw tightening as he gently scrubs them under the warm water. I stay close, ready with a towel to pat his hands dry the second he’s done.

The bleeding has stopped, but his knuckles are raw, the skin torn and angry. His fingers look swollen, and I know they’ll be sore as hell tomorrow.

“Here,” I murmur, carefully dabbing at the wounds with peroxide. He doesn’t flinch, just watches me with tired eyes, letting me take care of him.

When I’m done, I lead him into the kitchen, heating the dinner he barely touched earlier. I don’t have an appetite anymore, so I leave him to eat while I slip into the bathroom, washing my face and brushing my teeth.

By the time I return, the plate is empty, and Zane is gone.

I find him in his bedroom, sprawled out on his bed in nothing but a pair of athletic shorts. The sight of him—broad chest, tanned skin, muscles shifting as he runs a hand over his abs—stops me in my tracks.

His lips curve into a slow, knowing smile.

“You gonna join me,” he drawls, “or you just wanna stand there and stare at me all night?”

I roll my eyes, even as warmth spreads through my chest.

“I’m still deciding whether I’m mad at you,” I say, tossing an ice pack onto the mattress beside him. “So, for now, maybe I should keep my distance.”

His smile fades slightly, eyes darkening as he studies me.

“Mad at me?” He grabs the ice pack, pressing it against his knuckles. “Why would you be mad?”

I cross my arms over my chest—a mistake, considering his gaze immediately drops to my boobs. I clear my throat, and his eyes snap back up to mine.

“Why do you think?” I challenge.

He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face before setting the ice pack on his chest.

“Are you going to tell me what happened tonight?”

“Of course I am,” he says, shifting slightly so he’s leaning on his forearm. “But not right now.” His voice drops, eyes softening. “Right now, all I wanna do is hold you.”

I exhale slowly, fighting the pull he has on me. He makes it impossible to be upset with him. Truthfully, I’m just worried.

Without another word, I pull back the comforter and climb into bed beside him. The second I do, he sighs, like something in him finally relaxes.

“Are you in any trouble?” I ask softly, fluffing my pillow and avoiding his stare.

“Probably,” he admits. “There were a lot of people with phones. I’ll know how bad it is when I talk to Coach tomorrow.”

I nod, tucking myself closer to his side. “Okay.”

That’s all I can say.

He shifts, adjusting until his good hand rests on my hip, his fingers warm through the fabric of my shirt. I don’t miss the way his breathing slows, the tension in his body easing as I curl into him and lay my head on his shoulder.

Whatever happened, whatever’s weighing on him will still be here tomorrow.

And when he’s ready, we’ll talk about it.

***

“You saw the videos too?”

Everly nods, her expression serious. “Hayes told me about it last night when he got home.”

I jerk my head toward her. “Wait—he was with him?”

“Yeah.” She sighs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Zane picked up Hayes, Reed, and Colter before they took off to find Myla.”

I clench my jaw, uneasy with the realization that I’m hearing about all of this secondhand instead of from Zane himself. I’ve been going out of my mind ever since those videos surfaced online. The grainy footage of fists flying, the muffled shouting, the chaos—it’s been replaying in my head all morning. I won’t see him until later, but I can’t wait that long.

“What else did Hayes say?”

Everly studies me, probably wondering why I’m asking her instead of going straight to Zane, but thankfully, she doesn’t press.

Mrs. Rodriguez drones on about media ethics, but I barely register her words.

Everly lowers her voice. “Katie called Zane, freaking out because Myla disappeared at a party. She went to use the bathroom and never came back. When Katie went looking for her, no one claimed to have seen her.”

A sharp pang of unease twists in my stomach.

“That still doesn’t explain the fight.”

“Luca Calloway,” she murmurs. “He was there. Made some nasty comments about Myla. He said some shit to piss Zane off, and, well… after that game against Keaton, I think they were already on edge.”

I press my fingertips to my temple, massaging away the tension building behind my eyes. Everly doesn’t even know the half of it—how Zane caught me leaving Alpha Nu wearing Luca’s shirt or how he saw me flirting with him at Whiskey Sinner’s the night of his birthday.

Luca never seemed like a bad guy—at least, I hadn’t thought so. But I also knew what he was doing that night at the bar. He had to know Zane was full of shit when he called himself my brother. And now, seeing how easily Luca got under Zane’s skin, I have to wonder if all of it—the flirtation, the teasing—was just a game to him.

“I haven’t talked to Myla, but Zane said she’s okay.”

Everly nods. “According to Hayes, Luca was full of shit. He was trying to bait Zane into throwing the first punch, knowing it would get him in trouble.”

“Not to mention the attention this is going to bring them both.”

Myla’s name carries weight in Braysen, thanks to her talent on the basketball court. She’s never been the type to party, so the fact that she was even at Alpha Nu in the first place is surprising.

The conversation stalls, and I try to focus on class, but it’s no use. My mind keeps circling back to Zane and what this could mean for him.

I’ve already been slipping in school, and today isn’t helping. Assignments are getting pushed off. Studying is an afterthought. I know better than to half-ass college, especially when money is already tight. The last thing I need is to fail a class and have to retake it.

But none of that stops me from opening a browser on my laptop, pretending to take notes while I type Zane Kinnick into the search bar.

The headlines hit me like a brick: Kinnick Faces Scrutiny After Alleged Brawl.

So much for rumors. The more videos that circulate, the harder it’ll be to control the narrative.

Everly nudges me. “You think he’ll be able to play Saturday?”

I shake my head. “His hand is pretty banged up, but knowing Zane? He’s not sitting this one out without a fight.”

“Psh, no kidding.” She smirks. “Hayes played with bruised ribs for weeks before… you know.”

We both know she’s thinking about the fight that landed him in the hospital.

I sigh. “Zane’s stubborn, but it’s not just up to him. It depends on what punishment his coach sticks him with.”

The weight in my chest lingers for the rest of class, but at least now, thanks to Everly, I don’t feel completely in the dark.

When the bell rings, Zane isn’t waiting outside the classroom like I half expected.

Instead, it’s just Hayes, leaning casually against the wall, his gaze flicking over to Everly the moment she steps through the door. Without hesitation, he hooks an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they head toward the cafeteria.

I barely have a second to register Zane’s absence before I spot him rounding the corner, his stride purposeful as he closes the distance between us. His arm slips around my waist, pulling me in the same way Hayes did to Everly—only with Zane, it feels different. It's like he’s anchoring himself.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you until later,” I say, tilting my head up at him.

“Decided to blow off class before practice.” His voice is light and teasing, but there’s tension beneath it. “I’m dreading whatever conversation I’ll be having with Coach when I get there.”

My chest tightens. “You think you’ll be suspended?”

He exhales heavily, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’d be surprised if I wasn’t. It’s just a matter of how long.”

Without thinking, I tighten my grip around his waist, pressing into him like I can absorb some of the weight he’s carrying. He responds by kissing my temple, the simple gesture sending warmth rushing through me.

“I figured instead of stressing over it,” he murmurs, “I’d spend the next few hours doing one of my favorite things.”

I lift my head, meeting his gaze. “And what’s that?”

A slow smile tugs at his lips, something softer hidden beneath the frustration and uncertainty. “Hanging out with my best friend.”

His nose brushes against mine, his voice dropping lower.

“And showing her just how much trouble she’s in with me.” He smirks. “Let’s go grab lunch.”