Page 6

Wyatt

“Is this the last of it?” Tatum huffs, gripping the final box from the trunk of my car.

I step forward, reaching for it before she can protest. “I got it.”

She relents, letting me take it from her arms, and follows me inside the house.

“So that’s it? You’re officially moved back in?” she asks.

I nod, shifting the weight of the box as we weave through the familiar hallway. “Yeah. Colter brought my mattress over a couple of days ago. This is the last of my stuff before I turn in my keys.”

I should feel some sense of finality, some weight lifting off my shoulders. But all I feel is that this wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t in a hurry to move my bed over. I’ve been sleeping on the couch in the family room since moving back anyway.

It’s cozy down there, tucked under a mountain of blankets, with the flat-screen TV glowing in the dark—the one my brother bought my mom two Christmases ago.

She fought him on it, of course. Told him it was too much and that she didn’t need it. Colter just shook his head, saying something about how she needed a way to watch his away games.

She hates it when we try to take care of her. I think she forgets how many years she spent taking care of us alone.

Colter took over the man-of-the-house role after Dad died, and it fit him like a second skin. He looks out for everyone around him, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And maybe it should make me feel better, like I still have a piece of Dad with me. Except lately, it just makes me feel like a failure. Like I’m stuck, drifting through life while Colter has everything figured out.

He inherited the house our father left him. He was given a full-ride scholarship to Braysen University, playing football like our dad did. He has the beautiful girlfriend, and it’s only a matter of time before he gets down on one knee. After they graduate, Colter will likely be drafted to play in the NFL.

Where will I be? I’ll still be here. Back home in Braysen, South Carolina.

Don’t get me wrong—I love our small town. I love my mom. I wouldn’t trade the world for everything she’s done for us.

But this wasn’t the plan—not mine, anyway. Sports were never my thing. At least, not when it came to playing them.

I was the kind of kid who tripped over my own feet and swung a bat like I had a personal vendetta against physics. One humiliating afternoon in T-ball sealed my fate when I lost my grip mid-swing, sending the bat flying dangerously close to the dugout.

The entire field went still.

And then came the tirade—from some furious parent in the stands, shouting about safety risks and how I had no business being anywhere near a baseball diamond.

That should have been the moment I brushed it off, laughed along with everyone else, and moved on. But I didn’t. I felt like a failure.

So I did what I always do best. I studied.

If I couldn’t play the game, I would learn everything about it.

It started with football. Tracking my brother’s stats, memorizing his game highlights, diving into every rule, strategy, and playbook I could get my hands on.

The more I learned, the more I fell in love with it—the rush, the anticipation, the way a single play could change everything.

Before long, it wasn’t just football. I found myself watching basketball, hockey, anything with competition and heart. Those three, in particular, became my favorites.

Maybe it was inevitable. Living next door to the Kinnicks, I had no choice but to care.

James Kinnick—Zane’s father—was practically sports royalty. A Braysen University legend, he was one of the best basketball players in school history. Then he went pro, playing for the Hornets in Charlotte, carving his name into the league like he was always meant to be there.

And Zane?

Well, Zane was a force all on his own.

I told myself my obsession with sports was about my brother, my research, and my love of the game.

But sometimes, I wondered if it had a little more to do with him.

After James left the league, he and Zane’s mom, Maggie, moved back to Braysen, but retirement didn’t pull him away from the game. Instead, he took over partial ownership of the Hornets and stepped into a front-office role, now serving as head of operations.

These days, he splits his time between Charlotte and Braysen, constantly on the move during the season. But no matter how busy he gets, he never misses a home game for Zane.

Or for Myla, his youngest, who’s already making a name for herself on the Braysen University basketball team.

It was impossible not to admire that—his unwavering commitment to his family and the way he made sure his kids knew they came first. And maybe that’s why, despite everything, I could never quite shake the way my focus always seemed to drift back to Zane.

Because as much as I loved the game, as much as I loved analyzing plays and studying stats, part of me knew the truth. I’d spent years watching him.

But the real question was, had he ever been watching me?

“You okay?” Tatum’s voice pulls me back, her brows furrowing as she watches me a little too closely.

I shake off the feeling, forcing a small smirk. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

She studies me for a second longer, like she knows there’s more I’m not saying, then rolls her eyes. “Well, stop that. We’ve got a dinner to get ready for, and I refuse to let you mope your way through it.”

I huff out a soft laugh, nudging her with my elbow. “Bossy.”

“You love it.”

And as much as I hate to admit it…she’s not wrong.

I move carefully up the stairs, balancing the box in my arms as I make my way toward my bedroom. The door swings open, and for a moment, I pause in the doorway, taking in the space that still feels frozen in time.

Aside from moving my mattress, everything is just as I left it.

The far wall is still painted bright purple, a bold choice my younger self once insisted on. A collage of newspaper scraps—cutouts of headlines, words that meant something to me—sprawls across the space above my desk, spelling out my name. At some point, I had taken black paint and traced over the letters, making them stand out in sharp contrast against the chaotic background.

I set the box down near my half-open closet, which looks like a war zone. Piles of clothes spill onto the floor, unfolded, waiting to be put away. Somewhere in the mix are the random boxes I packed in a rush—makeup, jewelry, hair products, random knickknacks—things I shoved together without any organization just to get it over with.

I’ll have to go through it all eventually, especially if I have any hope of getting ready for class in the morning.

But right now? I just don’t care.

“Want help putting some of this away?” Tatum asks, standing in the doorway, arms crossed as her gaze sweeps over the mess.

She bites her lip like she’s not sure where to start. Honestly? I wouldn’t even know where to tell her.

Before I can answer, my stomach growls loud enough to break the silence.

I sigh, tossing a dismissive hand in her direction. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it later tonight. I still have two loads of laundry to do.”

Tatum raises an eyebrow, but I don’t give her time to argue before adding, “And right now, I’m starving. Let’s go grab a bite at Rosey’s.”

Her face instantly brightens. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

And just like that, we’re out the door, leaving the mess behind for future me to deal with.

Tatum forces a smile like it’s physically paining her not to help me sort through the mess.

It’ll get taken care of eventually.

Besides, the sun is finally out after days of nothing but gray skies, and the last thing I want is to spend another afternoon cooped up inside.

Using my foot, I nudge a pile of clothes aside, spotting my purse buried beneath the heap. With a quick tug, I drag it free and sling it over my shoulder.

I rake my fingers through my hair, attempting to tame the chaos, before grabbing a scrunchie off my desk and pulling it into a messy bun.

The cooler air makes my decision easy. I slip on my Braysen University sweatshirt, pairing it with distressed denim shorts. My curls rebel, frizzing in every direction, but I ignore them.

Getting dolled up is the last thing on my mind right now.

“C’mon.” I grab Tatum’s arm, giving it a playful tug.

She giggles, shaking her head with a mock exasperated sigh. “All right, if you say so.”

She still doesn’t have a car of her own, though she’s been borrowing Reed’s when she needs to get around.

We load into my beat-up Nissan Altima, and as soon as I start the engine, the yellow check engine light blinks at me—a not-so-subtle reminder of one more thing I’ve been avoiding.

Colter had Hayes look at it the last time I was at their house. He figured it was a sensor issue, nothing urgent, but something I’d need to fix soon.

I keep meaning to stop by Kavlik’s, but it’s been shoved to the bottom of my to-do list between moving back home, work, and life.

The drive to Rosey’s is short, the familiar neon sign blinking at us as we pull into the lot.

Rosey’s is one of those quintessential small-town diners, the kind where everyone knows your name, and the coffee isn’t fancy but always hot. It’s just down the road from Sweet Tooth, the bakery where we work.

Baking was one of the few hobbies I picked up while growing up.

When my mom realized I wasn’t built for sports, she encouraged me to explore something creative, something I could actually be good at.

And I loved it—the careful measuring, the way flour dusted my hands, the satisfaction of pulling something warm and sweet from the oven.

But as much as I enjoy it, I know it’s not forever.

Still, Sweet Tooth means something to me.

It’s where I met Tatum, where our friendship started over shared shifts, sugar-dusted aprons, and late-night recipe experiments.

And honestly? That alone makes it worth every second.

The doorbell chimes as we step into the small diner, the scent of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon wrapping around us like a familiar hug.

We don’t bother waiting for a server to seat us. We never do.

Tatum and I come here often for lunch, study sessions, and late-night milkshakes after a long shift at Sweet Tooth. This booth in the corner? It’s our spot.

If it’s open, it’s ours. An unspoken rule.

I slide in first, already knowing what I want before I even pick up a menu.

Tatum, on the other hand, still flips through hers, even though she almost always orders the same thing.

Across the room, Susie—the diner’s longtime server—makes her rounds, dropping off plates, refilling coffee mugs, and throwing in the occasional joke. When she finally reaches us, she grins, eyes already on her notepad as if she doesn’t need to look up to know who she’s talking to.

“Hey, girlies. How’re you doin’?” She scribbles something quickly, then glances at me. “Your usual, Wyatt?”

I tilt my head back against the booth, nodding. “You know it. But make it a Sprite today.”

Susie smirks. “Switching things up, huh?”

“Wild, I know.”

Tatum hums, still browsing the menu even though we both know what she’ll end up going with.

As Susie jots down my order, I glance around, taking in the checkered tile floor, the retro jukebox in the corner, and the soft hum of seventies music floating through the air.

The whole place feels like a scene straight out of Grease —red leather booths, chrome-accented stools at the counter, a server in a pink uniform balancing plates with one hand and pouring coffee with the other.

The leather sticks to my thighs, and I shift, reaching down to tug my shorts lower.

It’s taken me a long time to feel comfortable wearing shorts in public.

For years, I stuck to leggings and cotton shorts, only wearing them at home where no one would judge the shape of my legs.

I take after the men in my family—stronger, broader, built with bigger arms and legs. And when you grow up surrounded by guys like Colter, Zane, and their friends, the girls at school don’t let you forget it.

They used to whisper behind my back and point out the things I was already self-conscious about. The way my jeans never fit quite right, the way my body didn’t look like theirs.

But college changed things.

I forced myself out of my comfort zone, slowly swapping out leggings for denim, figuring out what fit, what worked, and what made me feel like me.

Some days, I still hear those voices from the past that made me hate looking in the mirror.

But today? Today, I ignore them.

And I sit here, in my distressed shorts, in my favorite diner, surrounded by people who actually matter, and remind myself—I belong just as much as anyone else.

“So you never did tell me what happened after the Keaton party… and Zane taking you home.”

Tatum’s voice is casual, but I don’t miss the underlying curiosity in her tone.

She trails off as Susie drops off our drinks, taking Tatum’s order before disappearing again.

Tatum folds up her menu, sliding it behind the condiment caddy like she’s settling in for a story she’s determined to get out of me.

I take a sip of my Sprite, the cool carbonation fizzing against my tongue, stalling for time.

“There’s not much to tell,” I say, keeping my voice even, hoping she doesn’t catch the way it changes at the mention of Zane’s name.

Tatum just arches a brow, waiting.

“He was in Keaton to pick up some paperwork from his physical therapist’s office. It just so happened to be near the Alpha Nu house. He saw me waiting for an Uber and offered me a ride home.”

Tatum’s smirk is instant. “Well, isn’t that just… convenient .”

I roll my eyes, setting my drink down with a soft clink.

“Annoying is more like it,” I mutter. “But yeah, convenient, I guess. Since we were both heading in the same direction anyway.”

She doesn’t buy it.

Tatum leans in, resting her arms on the table, her gaze too sharp, too knowing. “You know, you haven’t really told me what happened between you two.”

My arms fold tightly over my chest, a subconscious effort to contain the way my body wants to react—to keep my expression neutral and not let anything slip.

“What do you mean?” I deflect. “He’s been my brother’s best friend for as long as I can remember.”

She nods slowly, but her skepticism is practically palpable.

“So you say. But that doesn’t explain why him giving you a ride home clearly got under your skin.”

I exhale, glancing toward the window like maybe the answer is out there, somewhere beyond the glass, beyond this town, beyond the past that still lingers between me and Zane like an unresolved storm.

I’ve only ever talked to Reed about my history with Zane.

And that was only because I was trying to knock some sense into him—trying to get him to see what he had right in front of him before he lost Tate.

But my story with Zane? That’s something I don’t talk about.

Because everything changed after my eighteenth birthday.

And once it did… there was no going back.

No one really knew the depth of our friendship in high school. We kept it between us.

He had been one of the only people I could talk to about my dad’s passing. No one knew him the way Zane had.

The ones who did? They were drowning in their own grief, just like me. And talking about it with them felt like reopening a wound neither of us knew how to heal.

Before I can dwell on it any longer, Susie reappears, balancing a tray with our food.

She sets down my grilled chicken sandwich with a side of fries and coleslaw, then hands Tatum her chicken wrap and salad before disappearing again.

I pick up my sandwich, but before I can take a bite, Tatum speaks up.

“You know what it’s like having an older brother.” She pauses, grabbing a fry off my plate. “Hell, Talon was ready to haul Reed’s ass out back and toss him into the bonfire when he found out about the two of you.”

She snickers at the memory, and I smirk, chewing before responding.

“Yeah, but he got over it.”

Tatum wipes her mouth with a napkin, then fixes me with a look. “Zane is the furthest thing from a brother to you.”

My stomach tightens because she’s right.

The second she says his name, my mind drags me back to the night of my eighteenth birthday.

To him climbing the tree outside my window, just like he always had.

To the way his eyes lit up when he saw how I made his favorite for us, waiting on my desk.

To the way he plucked one off the plate, then searched my room for a candle. He grabbed a Bath & Body Works candle from my nightstand, lit the wick, and set it between us.

He whispered the lyrics to “Happy Birthday” even though we were the only two people in the house.

When I blew out the candle, he asked me what I wished for. The look in his eyes told me he already knew. And when he leaned in, pressing his lips to mine, all I could think was—It’s finally happening.

For years, I had been in love with Zane Kinnick.

And maybe, just maybe—he had been in love with me too.

Three nights later, on the anniversary of my dad’s passing, he climbed through my window again. No words, no hesitation—just Zane stretching out beside me on my bed and pulling me close.

He held me as I talked about my dad. Listened as I poured out the pieces of my grief I rarely shared with anyone. Wiped my tears away when the weight of it became too much.

And when I finally drifted off to sleep, exhausted from missing someone I’d never get back, he was still there.

But by morning, he was gone.

I didn’t text him. Not at first. I wasn’t upset that he left. It wasn’t the first time he had disappeared before dawn. But when my texts went unanswered, when an entire week passed without so much as a glance from him—I knew.

That gut feeling that had never steered me wrong tightened in my stomach.

And when he finally showed up?

When he stood in front of me, avoiding my eyes, voice strained as he said the words?

I already knew.

He regretted it.

The kiss I had dreamed of for years, the one moment that had felt like everything—to him, it was a mistake.

I could still taste the bitterness in my throat when he said it. When he apologized and told me it shouldn’t have happened. When he said it was wrong and I was like his little sister.

My chest had burned with humiliation, anger, and heartbreak. But somehow, I managed to hold myself together long enough to kick him out of my room.

He hasn’t stepped foot inside it since.

That night, I buried my face in my pillow, breathing in the last traces of him left behind. I made myself a promise that I would never give my heart to Zane Kinnick again.

He had proven exactly the kind of player he was.

The kind that ran when the game got tough.

And loving him?

That would be like handing him the game-winning pass, only to watch him fumble it on purpose.