Page 129 of The Hearts We Fumble
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.
