Page 131 of The Hearts We Fumble
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.
