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Wyatt

“The next time any of us are in Texas, it could be when the guys play their first NFL game,” Everly muses in both awe and excitement.

Tatum grins, nudging her elbow against Everly’s. “Or when they sign with a team.”

She has a point. Dallas is one of the teams Zane mentioned as a real possibility. My mind starts spinning, racing ahead to a future where one of us is in South Carolina and the other in Texas, trying to make a long-distance relationship work.

Before I can spiral too far, the pilot’s voice crackles through the overhead speaker, announcing that we’ll be taking off in five minutes.

“It’s going to be so weird not watching them play at the Gridiron anymore,” I whisper, my words barely audible over the hum of the cabin.

I glance at Tatum and Everly, both nodding in agreement. Seated between them, we instinctively reach for each other’s hands, gripping tight as the plane lifts off the ground. It’s a ritual—one we’ve done countless times in the stands, holding hands when the guys take the field, like somehow, through sheer will, we can keep them safe.

This season has flown by. Every game, every late-night celebration, every gut-wrenching moment has led to this, and I’m just grateful I get to experience it as Zane’s girlfriend, not just Colter’s little sister.

The flight is less than three hours—perfect for a nap, though sleep has been impossible lately. Anxiety has gnawed at me since the moment Zane left, but at least I’ll be with him soon.

When we land, we have a few hours before heading to the stadium. Thanks to Everly’s family connections, we booked our room at the same hotel the team is staying at, which makes things easier. After checking in and freshening up, we grab lunch and catch a shuttle to the stadium, avoiding the hassle of a ride-share.

“This place is insane,” Everly murmurs as we step onto the stadium grounds.

“No kidding,” Tatum adds, tilting her head back to take in the massive structure. “Didn’t you say this is the same stadium they’d play in if they got drafted to Dallas?”

I nod, my stomach twisting. This field—this very place—could be where Zane ends up in just a few months. The thought is exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

Inside, the energy is electric. A storm of voices swirls around us, flashing lights cutting through the crisp fall air. The weight of the moment sits heavy on my chest, pressing into me with every deafening cheer, every heartbeat of anticipation.

It’s playoff night.

Braysen’s shot at the championship is on the line, and the pressure is suffocating.

Down on the field, the Bulldogs move through warm-ups, shaking out their limbs, running drills, getting their minds locked-in. Beckham stands in the pocket, flicking effortless spirals to his receivers, each throw smooth and precise. The offensive line shifts into position, working through their blocks with muscle memory, moving in sync like they’ve done it a thousand times before.

And then there’s Zane.

Every step he takes is measured and precise, his body coiled with tension beneath the surface. To anyone else, he looks locked-in and laser-focused, but I know better.

His jaw is tight, shoulders rigid.

Even as he jogs to the sideline, shaking out his hands like he’s trying to physically rid himself of the nerves, I know his head isn’t clear.

He’s carrying the weight of this moment, of this game, and I just hope it doesn’t crush him before the first snap.

As if he feels my stare, his eyes lift and find mine.

For a moment, everything else fades—the hum of the crowd, the steady buzz of anticipation in the stadium, the gravity of what’s at stake. It all blurs into the background, leaving just this moment, just him.

It’s just us.

Locked in a silent moment across the distance.

Zane tilts his head ever so slightly like he’s on the verge of a smirk. But there’s no amusement or cocky confidence behind it. Just heat. Just something raw and unspoken, something neither of us has the time or space to untangle right now.

My breath catches, fingers tightening around the railing.

I want to mouth something, to tell him I’m here, that I see him. That no matter what happens tonight, I’m on his team.

But before I can, Beckham claps a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back to the present.

And just like that, the moment shatters.

Zane turns away without another glance, adjusting his gloves, rolling his shoulders, shedding whatever emotions had flickered to the surface.

The fire is back in his eyes now—but it’s not for me.

It’s for the game.

And God, I pray that whatever weight he’s carrying tonight won’t be the thing that breaks him.

***

This is it.

One game stands between them and the championship. The stadium hums with electricity, a storm of voices and flashing lights, but all I can hear is the pounding of my heart, rattling in my chest like a drum.

Beside me, Tatum grips my arm, her nails digging into my hoodie. “This is too damn close.”

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. On my other side, Everly bounces her leg restlessly, fingers locked together in her lap. We all feel it—the weight of what’s at stake.

Braysen has fought for every inch of this game. Beckham’s passes are sharp, and the defense is holding strong, but something feels off. Zane moves with precision, but there’s tension in his shoulders and a split-second hesitation in his routes. It's like his body is here, but his mind is somewhere else.

And then it happens.

Beckham drops back, eyes scanning the field. Zane sprints up the sideline, breaking free from his defender, but something isn’t right. The spacing is too tight, the safety creeping closer. I see it before the ball even leaves Beckham’s hands.

Too close. Too risky.

The safety reads the play and jumps the route.

Interception.

A blur of black and red streaks down the field, the opposing player sprinting untouched toward the end zone.

The stadium erupts, a deafening roar shaking the bleachers, but I don’t hear it. My pulse is too loud, my stomach sinking as I watch Zane rip off his helmet, frustration carved into every tense muscle in his body.

“No,” I whisper, my fingers tightening around the railing.

Tatum buries her face in my shoulder, muffling a curse. Everly covers her mouth, her voice barely above a whisper. “His dad is gonna lose it.”

I don’t even want to think about James Kinnick right now.

But there’s no time to dwell. Braysen has to keep fighting. And they do.

They claw their way back in the second half, determined to stay in this game. Beckham throws crisp, calculated passes. Zane adjusts, finding his rhythm again, his movements sharper, more deliberate.

With two minutes left, they’re within reach. One final drive. One last chance.

The entire stadium is on its feet. The energy crackles, thick with anticipation. My heart races, hammering against my ribs as Braysen lines up in the red zone.

Beckham takes the snap. Zane cuts across the middle.

For a moment, everything slows. The opening is there. He sees it, Beckham sees it. The ball spirals through the air, a perfect pass—

Then… A blindside hit.

Zane never sees it coming.

The defender drills him just as the ball hits his hands, his body twisting violently before he crashes to the ground. The ball pops loose, bouncing once before the defense pounces.

Fumble.

Recovered.

Game over.

The other team’s sideline explodes, helmets flying as they rush the field in celebration. I barely register the chaos around me, my focus locked on Zane, still on the ground.

He stays there for a beat too long before pushing himself up, slow and unsteady. He doesn’t need to look to the sideline to know what’s waiting for him.

Tatum grips my arm tighter. “We need to get down there.”

I nod, swallowing hard, but my feet won’t move. Not yet.

Because even from up here, I see his father standing at the edge of the field, watching.

Waiting.

And the weight of that alone is enough to make my chest ache.

Zane doesn’t need anyone to remind him of what happened tonight.

He’ll carry it long after the lights go out.