Page 65 of The Hearts We Fumble
Zane
If Colter noticed his sister in the stands wearing my jersey, he didn’t say a damn word on the drive back to Braysen. And honestly? I’m relieved. The last thing I need right now is to explain why she’s wearingmynumber instead of his.
Me: You better be awake when I get home.
Me: And wearing nothing but my jersey. Leave the window cracked for me.
Wyatt: My mom is home tonight, but she’ll be in bed. Are you sure you don’t want me to just meet you at your place?
Wyatt: You could always use the door, ya know.
Me: We could, but I want to make new memories with you in your room. On that bed.
As if seeing Wyatt in my jersey wasn’t enough to fuck with my head, all I could think about the entire ride home was seeing her in it again—only this time, without the rest of the crowd around.
I spent most of the trip forcing myself to focus on the ESPN highlights playing on my phone. Myla had a game today against UConn, and she pulled out a win, ranking them at the top of their conference. I should’ve been pumped for her. Iampumped for her. But it still wasn’t enough to distract me from the way my girl looked standing in that stadium with my name stretched across her back like a goddamn claim.
The second the bus pulls into the school parking lot, I’m up, grabbing my bag and hauling ass toward my car. The equipment manager can deal with the gear. I have somewhere else I need to be.
I toss a half-hearted wave over my shoulder to the guys before heading straight for my car. The roads are thankfully empty at this hour, making the drive home quick. The moment I pull into my driveway, I kill the engine and climb out, my mind already racing ahead—to her.
Wyatt.
I messaged her when we pulled into town, letting her know I’d be there soon, but the text is still sitting on Delivered. She must’ve fallen asleep on me.
I don’t waste time heading across the yard toward her house. My shoes barely make a sound against the grass as I reach for the tree outside her window, climbing with a little more effort than I remember needing in high school. If Coach saw me right now, he’d have my ass for risking an injury, but I don’t care.
The window lifts without a fight, and I slip inside, careful to close it behind me. The soft glow of her night-light casts just enough illumination for me to make out the room—the familiar space I’ve snuck into more times than I can count. A sound machine hums on her nightstand, filling the room with steady rainfall, muffling any noise I make as I step closer.
And then I see her.
Facedown, tangled in her blankets, her wild hair sprawled across the pillow. With one knee hitched up, she has her ass pushed in the air like a goddamn invitation.
But what really catches my attention is the jersey stretched across her back.
Myjersey.
Number 24. Kinnick printed in bold, block letters.
A growl hums low in my throat.
Slowly, I ease the blanket down, revealing more of her. My breath catches when I realize she actually listened to me earlier.
Nothing but my jersey and a pair of tiny panties.
Fuck me.
I lean down, my lips ghosting over the shell of her ear.
“Wyatt,” I whisper, my fingers tracing the hem of my jersey at her hip.
She stirs, letting out a soft sound that goes straight to my dick.
I smirk. Yeah…thisis exactly where I need to be.
I strip down to my boxer briefs in record time—the need to touch her, to feel her, overpowering every other thought. Climbing onto the bed, I settle between her legs, molding myself over her, my chest pressing against her back as I lace my fingers with hers.
She tenses for a split second before I rock my hips against her, my thick length grinding into the curve of her ass. A sharp breath leaves her lips, my name slipping past them in a breathy moan.
