Page 33

Zane

We walk off the field in silence, the weight of the loss pressing down on us like a physical force. The only sounds are the scrape of cleats against the concrete, the uneven breaths of exhausted bodies, and the occasional sniffle from a teammate trying—and failing—to hold it together.

This is it. The end of our season. The end of our shot at a championship.

The last time I’ll ever walk off the field in a Bulldog jersey.

I replay the game in my head like a cruel highlight reel—every missed opportunity, every inch that slipped through our fingers, the final whistle that sealed our fate. My grip tightens around my helmet, fingers curling around the face mask like I can hold on to something, anything.

Beckham steps up beside me, offering a hand. I don’t hesitate. I pull him in, gripping him hard, like we’re both trying to ground ourselves in something solid.

“You played your heart out,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “Left it all out there. Remember that.”

He flicks his thumb over his nose, swallowing back the frustration we’re all feeling. We fought like hell to get here, but tonight, the Kings were the better team. That’s the truth, whether we like it or not. Still, I know Beckham—he’s replaying the game in his head, same as I am, wondering if he could’ve done more.

Coach waves us over, motioning for us to take a seat. His voice is steady as he gives us one last speech of the season, but I barely hear it. All I can think about is how four years of blood, sweat, and sacrifice led to this moment. We’ve been on the other side of this—hoisting the trophy, celebrating under the stadium lights. But tonight, there’s no confetti, no victory formation. Just a quiet, hollow kind of ache.

In a few months, life will move forward. I’ll enter the NFL draft alongside Beckham, Colter, Hayes, and maybe even Reed—if he decides that’s what he wants. But tonight? Tonight, this loss is a bitter pill, and none of us are ready to swallow it.

After a quick shower and throwing on fresh clothes, I just want to get the postgame press over with so I can do the only thing that matters—see my girl.

The hallway outside the locker room is a mess of cameras, reporters, and bodies moving in every direction. But past all the chaos, standing just beyond the noise, is Wyatt.

My Wy and my why.

Our eyes meet, locking across the distance, and suddenly, everything else fades. The tension coiled in my body loosens, the tight ache in my chest eases. She’s here. She waited for me.

“Hey,” she murmurs when I reach her.

I wrap my arms around her, pulling her against me, burying my face in the crook of her neck. She smells like home. Like something solid in a world that feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.

“I know this isn’t how you wanted it to end,” she says, rubbing slow circles into my back. “But you guys fought like hell out there.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight. “I wanted this so damn bad,” I admit. “I just wish I could have made more of a difference.”

Wyatt pulls back just enough to press her palm against my chest. “You gave it everything you had. You all did. We saw it. You know one game doesn’t define you.”

I exhale sharply, my jaw clenched against the frustration gnawing at me. She leans in, resting her forehead against mine.

“It’s okay to be disappointed,” she whispers.

Then a voice cuts through the moment.

“Hell of a way to end the season, Son.”

My whole body goes rigid.

I don’t have to turn around to know what’s coming. I can already picture the expression on my father’s face—the tight jaw, the unspoken disapproval.

Bracing myself, I turn to face him.

“You had chances out there,” he says, his voice sharp. “Dropped passes. Missed reads. You let them get inside your head.” His gaze flicks past me, settling on Wyatt. There’s something cold in his eyes.

I shift, stepping in front of her.

“You let distractions off the field cost you and your teammates the championship.”

I knew this conversation was coming, but knowing doesn’t make it sting any less.

“I gave it everything I had,” I say, echoing Wyatt’s words.

Her fingers slip under my arm, grounding me, but my father doesn’t waver.

“And it still wasn’t enough.”

The words land like a punch to the gut. But I shouldn’t be surprised. This is how it’s always been. No matter what I do, how hard I fight, I’ve never been enough for James Kinnick.

My fists curl at my sides. My pulse pounds in my ears.

I can’t do this. Not tonight.

“You know what?” My voice comes out rough, raw. “I spent my whole life trying to make you proud. Pushing myself until I had nothing left, trying to be worthy of the Kinnick name. And no matter what I did, it was never enough.”

His expression doesn’t change, but I keep going.

“You think I don’t know how people see me? How the world sees me as the son of James Kinnick? The only one who didn’t follow in your footsteps into basketball? Hell, look at Luca—how he sees me. He hates me because he thinks I was handed everything he never got.”

I shake my head, a bitter laugh slipping out.

“Golden ticket, huh? Turns out everything you touch tarnishes.”

The words hang heavy between us. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t say anything at all.

And that’s when I realize—he never will.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

“I’m done. I’m done trying to be enough for you.”

Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe. But I don’t plan to stick around and find out. Then Wyatt’s voice comes, soft but certain.

“There’s someone else who wants to see you too.”

The way she says it, the way she watches me, makes my stomach tighten.

I follow her gaze—and my chest locks.

Luca.

He’s standing a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw tight.

My rival. My half brother. The guy who spent an entire season trying to get under my skin.

But now, there’s no fire in his eyes. No hostility.

Maybe even a silent understanding.

Neither of us moves.

For a long moment, we just stand there, the weight of everything unspoken crackling between us like static in the air.

We both watch as my father disappears into the crowd, his presence lingering even after he’s gone. Luca shifts, exhaling like he’s been holding something in too long. “Tough loss.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, no shit.”

The silence lingers thick between us. I wait for him to throw one last dig, to twist the knife while I’m already down.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Look, I—” He hesitates, jaw clenching, then forces himself to continue. “I was pissed at you. I let myself believe I hated you. For a long time.”

“I know,” I say, because I do.

“I thought you had everything. The name. The talent. The opportunities. While I—” He shakes his head. “I thought I was the one left behind.”

His words sting, but not in the way I expect.

Because I get it.

I spent my whole life proving I was worthy while he stood in the shadows, believing it should’ve been his.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I say, my voice firm. “I wasn’t handed some free pass, Luca. I spent my whole life trying to meet the expectations of a man who was never going to see me as enough.”

Luca clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t argue.

He studies me for a long moment, then exhales sharply. “Yeah. I see that now.”

It’s not an apology. But it’s something.

A beat passes before he steps forward. “For what it’s worth, I never hated you. I just hated what I thought you had.”

I nod. “And I never wanted to be your enemy.”

He watches me for a moment, then extends his hand. “Guess we screwed that up, huh?”

I stare at it, my chest tight, memories crashing over me. The night we stood toe-to-toe, fists clenched, anger crackling between us like neither of us could afford to lose.

It felt like a battle we had to win. Like everything was on the line.

Maybe it was.

I exhale slowly, then take his hand.

And just like that, the war between us is over.