Page 25

Zane

Coach Frye: We need to talk. Can you meet me in my office in thirty minutes?

Colter’s jaw is tight, his eyes bouncing between Wyatt and me before settling on where my fingers are laced with hers.

“It’s Coach Frye,” I say, holding up my phone. “He wants to see me. Probably about my punishment.” My grip tightens around the device. “I gotta go.”

Wyatt follows as I stalk past Colter, my muscles strung tight with frustration. I need to get a handle on my temper before I talk to Coach, or I’ll only make this situation worse.

“So you’re just gonna walk away and not tell me what the hell is going on?” Colter calls after me. Then louder, sharper, he asks, “Are you two fuckin’?”

I stop cold.

Releasing Wyatt’s hand, I pivot, closing the distance between us in a blink. We’re nearly chest to chest, my pulse hammering in my ears.

“I don’t have time to sit here and explain things to you right now,” I bite out, keeping my voice measured despite the anger simmering beneath my skin. “But what I won’t tolerate is you disrespecting your sister. You want to try rephrasing that question, or are you gonna back the fuck off and let me deal with my shit first?”

Colter clenches his jaw. His nostrils flare. But after a beat, he nods once and steps back.

“We’ll talk later,” he says. “But we will talk about this.”

His gaze flicks to Wyatt, something unreadable crossing his face—maybe regret. Maybe something else. But I don’t stop to analyze it. I reach for Wyatt’s hand, and she grips my forearm with her other, anchoring me.

“C’mon,” she whispers, her voice a soothing balm against the heat in my chest.

I don’t look back as we turn toward my car.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Wyatt asks after I pull out of the driveway, her voice tentative. “To talk to Coach?”

For a second, I consider it. Having her close by would help. But I don’t know what kind of mood Coach is in, and the last thing I need is another distraction when I’m already bracing for the worst.

“It shouldn’t take too long,” I say, my fingers flexing on the wheel. “I’ll drop you off at my place if that’s okay. I’ll come there straight after.”

She nods with no hesitation, and the tension in my shoulders loosens just enough to breathe.

After dropping her off and changing into something more comfortable, I make the drive to campus, my mind already made up—I’m done for the season. I can feel it. After everything that’s happened today, I’m not feeling particularly hopeful.

But as I pull into a spot outside the football facility, the sight of a sleek BMW parked in front of me makes my stomach turn.

A Hornets logo gleams on the back window.

My father is here. Whether he’s trying to negotiate my punishment down or bracing for the fallout when news breaks that his son is benched for the rest of the season, I can’t say. But either way, he’s already working an angle—he always is.

I cut the engine and climb out, keeping my head down as I trudge inside.

Through the small window of Coach Frye’s office door, I spot him seated with Coach Ferentz, our offensive line coach. But the moment I step inside, my stomach knots.

My dad is there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, exuding the same air of control he always does. He hasn’t even bothered to take one of the empty chairs. His suit is crisp, perfectly tailored, but the unbuttoned cuffs at his wrists are a rare crack in his polished exterior—a small but telling sign that this meeting isn’t just a formality.

He lifts his head as I step inside, his expression unreadable.

“Zane.” His voice is smooth, practiced—like he didn’t just have a hand in getting me suspended from the team I’ve poured everything into. Like he hasn’t been hiding a secret that could change my entire goddamn life.

There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and for a fleeting second, I wonder if they’re from the weight of his secrets or if there’s something more. I’ve seen the way he’s treated my mother over the years, the damage he’s done. Does he even feel guilty for any of it?

“Zane.” Coach Frye’s firm voice pulls me back. “Close the door and have a seat.”

“Yes, sir.” My voice is clipped as I push the door shut behind me and take the seat farthest from my father. He remains standing, arms crossed, posturing as if he still has control over this situation. Maybe he’ll drop the tough-guy act and actually sit down at some point, but I don’t expect it.

Coach Frye leans forward, resting his forearms on his desk. “I wanted to follow up on our discussion earlier regarding the altercation between you and Keaton’s Luca Calloway.”

At the mention of Luca, my father shifts uncomfortably. My jaw clenches. Every muscle in my body tenses with the urge to turn and demand that he just tell the truth already—but I don’t.

This isn’t about him right now. This is about me. About my future.

“Zane deeply regrets his actions that night,” my father interjects, his tone laced with authority like he’s speaking for me. “He’ll take whatever punishment is given, but we’re hopeful he’ll still have the opportunity to play this season. Right, Son?”

I want to tell him to shut up. To get the hell out.

Two hours ago, if you’d asked me if I regretted punching Luca, I would’ve told you hell no. Not after watching him flirt with Wyatt. Not after the shit he said about Myla.

But now? Now, I just feel bad for the guy.

Exhaling sharply, I keep my mouth shut and give Coach a firm nod, waiting for him to get to the point.

“We’ve reviewed the video footage,” Coach Frye continues. “Coach Bluder spoke with Myla regarding Calloway’s comments about her and your family. We’ve taken all factors into account.”

I straighten in my seat.

“We’ve decided to suspend you for next Saturday’s game against the Lions.”

Even though I expected it, the words still hit like a gut punch. My hands clench into fists in my lap, my nails digging into my palms.

“Given that this is the SAC championship and the final game of the regular season, we will still allow you to travel with the team and stand on the sidelines. But I expect you to be on your best behavior.”

I swallow hard and nod. “Yes, sir. You have my word. Thank you.”

Pushing to my feet, I shake his hand, then do the same with Coach Ferentz before heading for the door. I barely make it two steps before my father’s voice cuts through the air.

“Zane.” It’s an order, not a request. “Wait for me.”

Every instinct tells me to keep walking, to get in my car and drive straight home. But I know him. If I leave now, he’ll follow. The last thing I want is for this conversation to bleed into my home—into Wyatt, into my already wrecked night.

So I stop. I take a slow breath, and I brace myself for whatever bullshit he’s about to feed me next.

With the last game of the season being the conference championship in less than two weeks, fall break and Thanksgiving are right around the corner. The game is scheduled for the first weekend of December.

Even if we lose, there’s still a chance we’ll make it to the playoffs, which works in my favor when it comes to rest and recovery. While there’s no doubt the media will run with the news of my suspension, at least I’ll still be on the road with the guys, keeping them focused and in the game.

They have a tough road ahead if we want any shot at making it to the playoffs come January.

I stand in the hallway, leaning against the wall across from Coach’s office, waiting for my father. Through the door, I hear bits and pieces of his conversation before he thanks them and steps into the hallway. His eyes cut to mine.

“Let’s go.” His voice is tight, laced with barely restrained anger.

To anyone else, he might just seem pissed off or impatient, but I know James Kinnick. This is what he sounds like right before he explodes.

His hand claps against my back—hard, more of a warning than anything—as he grips my shoulder and leads me down the hall and out into the parking lot. The moment we’re outside and away from any prying eyes, he shoves me against the side of my car.

“What the hell do you want?” I snap, shoving him off. “Go ahead, say whatever you came here to say so you can get back to Charlotte and as far away from us as possible.”

He steps forward, crowding me, jaw tight with barely concealed rage.

“You watch your fucking mouth,” he growls. “Do you have any idea the shitstorm I’ve been dealing with, trying to clean up your mess? Are you intentionally trying to throw your future away?”

I shake my head, scoffing. “Wouldn’t know. You haven’t been home in weeks. But I’m not surprised. Wouldn’t want to do anything that might taint the great James Kinnick’s reputation, right?”

His nostrils flare. “You keep running your mouth, and I’ll give you a real reason to.”

I clench my jaw, already over this conversation before it’s even really begun.

“What do you want?”

“Have you spoken to that boy since the fight?”

I narrow my eyes. So that’s what this is about. He wants to know what I know.

Not giving him the satisfaction, I shake my head. “Why would I?”

His shoulders drop ever so slightly like my answer relieved him.

“Keep your head on straight,” he says, “and I’ll do what I can to make sure this all blows over before the draft.”

As much as I want to tell him to go to hell, I know if he can pull some strings to lessen the fallout, I need to let him. When I threw that punch, I wasn’t thinking about the consequences. I wasn’t thinking about the scouts or my future in the NFL.

But I am now.

Turning, I reach for my car door handle, but his voice stops me again.

“I’m flying back to Charlotte in an hour. I’ll be home for Thanksgiving, but until then, I better not hear about you at any more parties or getting into any more trouble. And I mean it.”

I exhale sharply and turn to face him, my lips pulling into a smirk. “Or what?” I challenge. “What exactly are you gonna do about it? We both know you’ll do anything to keep your name clean, so tell me—what’s your move here?”

His expression darkens. “Don’t fucking taunt me, Zane. Not unless you’re ready for the consequences.”

I let out a humorless laugh before stepping closer, meeting him head-on. We’re nearly nose to nose. “Consequences?” I repeat. “What consequences? It’s not like you’re gonna disown me. I mean… I am your son. Right?”

His jaw twitches, the subtle tic of it visible beneath the parking lot lights.

A door creaks open in the distance. I don’t have to turn to know we’re no longer alone.

“Is everything all right here?” Coach Frye’s familiar voice carries across the lot, thick with warning.

I step back, leveling my father with a look before turning to Coach. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I was just wishing my father safe travels on his flight back to Charlotte.”

My words drip with false politeness, a sharp contrast to the tension still crackling in the air. I take another step back, reaching behind me for the car door.

My father doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. Just watches me, his expression unreadable.

“Good night, Coach,” I say as I slip inside, slamming the door behind me.

I don’t wait for a response. I throw the car into reverse, gripping the wheel tighter than I probably should, and peel out of the lot.

In the rearview mirror, I catch one last glimpse of him—standing there, still watching, still trying to hold on to a control he’s already lost.

If he wants to break me, he’s gonna have to try a hell of a lot harder.