Page 27

Zane

The conference championship is the first game I haven’t started in my entire four-season career as a Bulldog. The weight of it has been pressing down on me for weeks—since we lost to the Lions in the SAC championship, since I let my team down, standing on the sidelines instead of the field where I belong.

The only silver lining? We still made it to the playoffs.

Since the schedule dropped and we learned we’d be facing Keaton again, I’ve been itching for vengeance. The last time we played them, we didn’t show up like we should have. Luca made damn sure to take advantage of that, and I have no doubt he was targeting me specifically. He doesn’t know that I know the truth about him, that I’ve pieced together the lies and secrets my father has spent years covering up. But when we step onto that field today, it won’t just be a game—it’ll be a reckoning.

From the first snap, the tension is palpable. It’s not just another playoff game. It’s personal.

The nerves are there, under the surface, creeping into the way we play. Sloppy mistakes pile up. We fumble a punt return on our first possession, giving Keaton the ball inside the fifteen-yard line. They capitalize immediately, running it into the end zone for an easy score. We’re not even losing to Keaton at this point—we’re losing to ourselves.

By halftime, frustration runs hot through my veins. Sweat drips down my face as I yank off my helmet and storm toward the tunnel, jaw clenched so tight I could break a tooth.

That’s when I hear his voice.

“Zane.”

It’s sharp, commanding, and impossible to ignore.

I glance to the side, my stomach twisting at the sight of my father leaning against the wall outside the locker room, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. My pulse kicks up a notch, knowing damn well whatever comes out of his mouth is only going to piss me off.

Behind me, Colter mutters, “Don’t.”

He knows how easily my dad can get under my skin. How one wrong word could send me over the edge when I need my head in the game.

Before I can decide whether to stop or keep walking, Coach Frye’s voice cuts through the space, sharp as a blade.

“Kinnick. In my locker room. Now.”

His tone leaves no room for argument.

My dad’s gaze flicks past me, locking on Coach. There’s a challenge in his eyes, a silent war brewing, and I don’t have to wonder if this is unfinished business from their last conversation in his office.

Without hesitation, I turn away and follow my teammates inside.

Coach’s voice drops low as I pass him. “Leave it at the door, son. Whatever he said, whatever he’s thinking of saying—it doesn’t belong in here.”

He’s seen enough over the years to know the tension between me and my father isn’t just a bad day kind of thing. It’s been brewing for years, festering under the surface. And now, with everything I know, it’s ready to explode. But he’s right. I can’t let it. Not here. Not now.

I take a deep breath, exhaling hard through my nose as I drop onto the bench in front of my locker. My fingers curl around my knee, squeezing tightly as I force my mind to shift gears.

Knox claps a hand on my shoulder, his voice steady. “You good?”

He still hasn’t been released to play since his injury. I know it’s killing him to sit this one out, and after watching my teammates lose their last game, the sting is even worse.

“I’m good.” I squeeze my water bottle, squirting a stream into my mouth before wiping the back of my hand across my jaw. “I’ll be better when we win this fuckin’ game.”

Knox kneels in front of me, his expression serious. “We know how this team plays. Last time, it got chippy, and we’ve already racked up too many penalties. Just wanted to check in to make sure you’re keeping your head straight. Don’t let their bullshit bait you into another one.”

He’s right. I already let Luca get under my skin once, and it cost me a game. I’m not about to let him fuck with my head again—not when this one matters even more.

Jogging back onto the field after halftime, I shake out my arms, my focus locked-in. But the second I glance toward the stands behind our bench, I catch sight of Wyatt with Everly and Tatum.

She’s in my jersey.

My number stretches across her chest, my last name stamped across her back like a brand. Like a claim.

Heat twists through me, winding tight in my gut. Damn, this girl. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me. The last time she wore my jersey, I spent the night stripping it off her, and if we win this game, I plan to do the same all over again.

But first, we have to take Keaton down.

We have possession of the ball on the kickoff, trailing by three. It’s not a comfortable place to be, but if we can march down the field and score—even if it’s just a field goal to even things up—it’ll shift the momentum in our favor.

As expected, the tension between the two teams is scorching. With every snap and play, trash talk is flying, and players are getting in each other’s faces. The refs have already thrown more flags than they’d like, but it’s not stopping anyone from playing rough.

Beckham takes the snap and fakes a long pass to Hayes before lobbing the ball to Reed. It’s a beautiful misdirect. The defense bites, giving Reed just enough space to take off down the field before he’s tackled at the seven-yard line.

We don’t huddle. No time for it. Instead, we rush back into formation, throwing Keaton’s defense off.

“Kill, kill!” Beckham growls.

It’s almost impossible to hear him over the roar of the crowd, but I recognize the call.

He snaps the ball and drops back, scanning the field. Hayes is open, a clean window right down the middle. Beckham lets it fly, a perfect spiral, just within reach.

Then—impact.

A safety comes flying in from the side, slamming into Hayes midair, shoulder to chest. His helmet whips back violently, and with the awkward twist of his body, he crashes to the ground hard.

The ball hits the turf.

The collective gasp from the crowd is deafening.

A flag sails through the air.

Beckham rips his helmet off, sprinting toward his brother.

But Hayes isn’t moving.

I can’t hear what’s being said. All I see is Luca exchanging words with one of his teammates, his body language relaxed like he hasn’t just watched someone get laid out on the field.

Then his gaze lifts, locking onto mine.

Rage detonates in my chest, white-hot and unrelenting. My feet are already moving before I register it, closing the distance between us.

“Don’t, man.” Colter steps into my path, planting a hand on my chest. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’ll regret it. Let it go. Let the trainers do their job and make sure Hayes is okay.”

Luca grins around his mouthguard. It’s like he knows exactly what I want to do and is daring me to do it.

It takes everything in me not to rip his helmet off and wipe that smug expression off his face.

Instead, I force my focus back to Hayes, who’s finally climbing to his feet. He’s slow, shaking off the hit, and I already know tomorrow’s gonna be hell for him, even if he’s not seriously hurt. But he jogs off the field, earning a cheer from the crowd.

Good. We’re not done yet.

Back in the huddle, I lean in close to Beckham and shout over the noise, “I want the ball. Give it to me.”

“They saw what happened with you and Calloway. They’re gonna have him on you,” Beckham warns. “If I throw it your way, they’ll expect it.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” I growl. “I want the ball, and I want to run straight through that motherfucker.”

Beckham doesn’t argue. He calls the play, and we break, lining up at the two-yard line.

Luca shadows me, just like I knew he would.

The second the ball snaps, I fake right, cutting hard into the end zone. Beckham doesn’t hesitate, launching a bullet straight to my chest.

I catch it clean.

Luca lunges, bracing for impact, expecting me to lower my shoulder and take the hit.

I don’t.

Planting my foot, I throw a stiff arm, catching him off guard. His feet skid out from under him, and I’m already past him, securing the ball in the end zone.

The whistle blows.

I turn back, finding Luca sprawled on his ass, scrambling to his feet.

“You need a map, Calloway?” I taunt, leaning over him with a smirk. “’Cause you look a little lost.”

He shoves me back, and I don’t even flinch. “You’re just another speed bump on my way to the end zone.”

“Fuck you, bro,” he grits out.

I cackle, shaking my head at his choice of words. “Tell your coach to sub you out before I embarrass you again.”

Then I turn, jogging back toward my team, already itching to do it all over again.

***

“Once you’re showered and cleaned up, I want you with me for the postgame press conference,” Coach Frye calls out, his voice firm but carrying a note of satisfaction. “You too, Colter and Beckham.”

We just fought our asses off in overtime and clawed our way to a win. The exhaustion hasn’t fully settled yet, still riding the high of victory, but I know the press is gonna be all over this one—especially with how the game played out.

I take longer than I should in the shower, letting the hot water work some of the tension from my muscles before quickly drying off and pulling on the suit I wore to the stadium earlier.

By the time I step into the press room, a crowd has already formed. The energy is palpable—buzzing, expectant. Colter and Beckham are seated next to Coach at the table, with an empty chair waiting for me.

“Sorry I’m late,” I murmur as I take my seat, adjusting the mic in front of me.

A woman in the front row stands, holding a mic in her hand. “Coach, what adjustments did you make at halftime to help pull away with the win?”

Coach Frye leans into his mic. “For starters, we had to get out of our own damn way. There were nerves, no doubt. Mistakes cost us early, but we cleaned it up and executed when it mattered.”

Another reporter stands. “Beckham, how much sweeter is this win, knowing it came against Keaton?”

Beckham chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Look, we know it's gonna be a battle every time we go up against them. They’re not an easy team to beat, and they proved that the two times we faced them this season.”

Then, one of the male reporters I recognize from past interviews shifts forward in his chair, eyes locking onto me. “Zane, there’s been a lot of talk about the feud between you and Keaton’s cornerback, Luca Calloway. Walk us through that game-changing play in the third quarter. What was going through your mind when you caught that pass?”

I exhale, rolling my shoulders back. “Man, it was one hell of a play. Like Beckham said, this was a battle from the first snap. But we needed to make a statement. Defense was pressing, and I saw an opening. Beckham put it right where I needed it, and after that, it was just instinct. I caught it, turned upfield, and then I saw him”—I clench my jaw—“coming straight for me.”

I pause for a beat, clearing my throat and shifting my weight.

“We’ve gone at it before, and I knew Calloway wasn’t gonna let up. Neither was I. He came in hard, and I checked him, kept my grip on the ball, and kept moving. You gotta dig deep in moments like that.”

The buzz of the press room fades for a second when my gaze snags on something—or rather, someone—standing against the far wall.

My father.

But it’s not just him that catches me off guard—it’s the fact that he’s not watching me.

He’s watching her .

My pulse kicks up as I follow his line of sight, my stomach twisting when my eyes land on a woman I recognize instantly from the photos Reed showed me.

Luca’s mother.

A slow, controlled breath pushes through my nose as I snap my attention back to my father. The tic in his jaw is barely perceptible, but I see it.

The anger.

The tension crackling beneath the surface.

I swallow, shifting my focus back to the reporters and finishing my thoughts. “Look, I know what people are saying about that play, with the videos circulating and the way the media spins shit. But at the end of the day, Luca’s one hell of a player. That was two guys leaving it all out on the field. Nothing more to it.”

Cameras click and flashes go off, but I don’t hear the follow-up questions. My mind is elsewhere—my thoughts tangled in the unraveling truth.

Then the door swings open hard enough to slam against the wall.

The room stills.

Luca Calloway stands in the doorway, still in his pads and jersey, drenched in sweat. His hair is plastered to his forehead, chest heaving like he just ran straight from the field.

His wild eyes scan the room before landing on me.

Whatever the fuck is about to happen, I already know this night isn’t over yet.

Luca’s chest rises and falls in sharp, erratic breaths, his whole body vibrating with anger. His eyes burn with fury, but beneath it—beneath the rage and the bitterness—is something raw. Something fractured.

“Nothing more to it?” His voice drips with mockery, sharp and cutting. “Just two guys leaving it all out there on the field? That’s all it is, huh?”

A bitter laugh scrapes from his throat as he shakes his head. The sound is hollow, void of humor.

“Why don’t you tell everyone what it’s like to play your best game of the season with your whole damn family watching?” His voice rises, edged with something dangerously close to heartbreak. “Must be nice.”

Luca’s mother stands beside him, her fingers curling around his arm in a silent plea, trying to pull him back. But he doesn’t stop. He’s too far gone now.

“Oh, wait.” His mouth twists. “I guess not all of us in this room get that privilege.”

The tension in the press room thickens, heavy and suffocating. A murmur spreads through the crowd, cameras flashing like firecrackers. I can feel the weight of every pair of eyes on us—on me.

Luca takes a step forward, his voice sharp enough to cut. “You walk around like you own this damn town. Maybe that’s what happens when your daddy buys your way into everything.”

“All right, son, that’s enough.”

The room goes eerily silent.

Luca’s head snaps toward my father, the weight of that single word— son —hitting him like a sledgehammer. His barely contained fury shifts into something darker, something colder.

Reporters lean forward, sensing blood in the water, their cameras clicking frantically.

Luca exhales a sharp breath, his shoulders rising with it. Then he looks at me—really looks at me—waiting, daring me to speak.

“Go on, Zane,” he taunts, voice thick with emotion. “Tell them the truth. Tell them how the golden boy and the kid no one wanted share the same blood. ” His nostrils flare. “Or would you rather I do it for you?”

The air is sucked from the room. Chaos erupts instantly.

Microphones are shoved toward him, reporters firing off questions so fast they blur together in a messy hum. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs, my throat tight, but the words won’t come.

What the hell am I supposed to say? That he didn’t ask for this? That I don’t blame him for being pissed? That I get why this feels like a goddamn punch to the gut?

But nothing comes.

Luca studies me for another beat, waiting— hoping —for something I can’t seem to give him.

Then his expression hardens. His fists curl at his sides. And without another word, he turns to my father, his voice slicing through the noise like a blade.

“Don’t you dare call me son.” His voice is low, but the fury behind it is deafening. “You lost that right the day I changed my last name from Kinnick to Calloway.”

For a moment, my father doesn’t react—doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, his face unreadable. It’s like he’s already calculating how to spin this.

And then Luca is gone.

The door swings shut behind him, leaving behind only the chaos he set into motion.

Silence clings to the air for a beat too long before one of the journalists exhales, barely above a whisper—

“Holy shit.”