Page 107 of The Hearts We Fumble
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.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Wyatt
The past few weeks have gone by in a blur—classes, shifts at Sweet Tooth, and late nights with Zane.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go inside and see your family?” I ask gently, watching Zane’s expression as we sit parked outside his childhood home. “Miles is home, and I’m sure he’d love to see you. Your mom, Myla… even your dad is here.”
His jaw tightens, but he shakes his head. “I already told them we had plans with your family and wouldn’t be joining them today.”
A knot twists in my stomach. I know how complicated his relationship with his father is—how deep the wounds run. After he got back from his meeting with Coach, he told me everything. The suspension. The argument in the parking lot. The tension that never seems to let up.
Yet I struggle with this part of things.
I know Zane has every right to be angry. The secrets, the lies, the way his father has manipulated every situation to serve his own interests—it’s a lot. But I also know what it’s like not to have my dad here anymore.
No matter how many times he frustrated me, no matter how many holidays were strained after the divorce, I’d give anything for one more Thanksgiving with him.
But Zane’s situation is different, and I remind myself it’s not fair to compare. His feelings are just as valid as mine, and the last thing he needs is me making him feel guilty for staying away.
So instead, we head to Friendsgiving.
Since fall break is short and the team has to stay close for practice leading up to the conference championship, most of the guys are still in town. To make up for it, they’re deep-frying a turkey and turning the day into a full-blown event. Later tonight, after my mom finishes her shift at the bar, we’ll head to my grandparents’ for dinner. It’s different from how I used to celebrate growing up, but this is my first Thanksgiving with Zane, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
The moment we step inside, the sound of the NFL game fills the air, mixed with the occasional yell of frustration from the guys gathered in the living room. The girls are sprawled out in comfy clothes, their legs tucked under them as they lounge on the couches.
I was warned about the dress code last night and didn’t hesitate for a second.
A day spent in sweats and one of Zane’s oversized hoodies, stuffing my face while curled up next to him and surrounded by our friends? Sign me up.
Zane gives my hand a quick squeeze before releasing it, heading toward the kitchen and out the back door. I know where he’s going—straight to Colter.
Neither of them has spoken since the conversation outside the garage the other night. Colter texted me the following morning asking how Zane was doing, and I was relieved he decided to give him some space. But I also knew my brother, and if there was ever a time for that long-overdue talk, today would be it.
“How’s he holding up?” Everly asks as I sink onto the couch beside her and Tate.
Across from us, Ava and Hallyn sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the coffee table, their eyes locked on me.
I sigh, running my fingers over the sleeve of my hoodie. “It depends on the day. Hell, sometimes it depends on the hour. One minute, he’s fine, like nothing’s bothering him. The next, he’s pissed over a text from his dad or an article in the tabloids trying to stir up drama between him and Luca.”
