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CHAPTER ONE

Zane

“Kinnick.” Our offensive line coach, Coach Ferentz, blows his whistle, the piercing sound cutting through the late afternoon air, sharp and commanding.

I pull up from my sprint, chest heaving, and jog toward him. His finger hooks in a come-here motion, his brows already pinched in that assessing way that tells me he's scanning for any signs of weakness.

“How're you feelin'? How's that hamstring treating you?” His gaze drags over me from head to toe, like he's waiting to catch even the slightest hitch in my stride.

After being out of the game for the past three weeks, I hope he'll finally give me the okay to play again.

“Great, Coach. I finished my last round of PT last Thursday.” I keep my voice even and controlled. No hesitation. The last thing I need is for him to think I'm anything less than ready.

He nods slowly, absorbing my answer. I don't miss the flicker of approval that crosses his face before he glances at his clipboard. Good. That's what I need—reassurance I'll be back in the lineup where I belong.

“You think you're good to resume practicing at one hundred percent?”

“Yes, sir.” I straighten my shoulders, willing the impatience out of my tone. “Like I said, I'm feeling great. I'm ready to be back out there with my team.”

His quick grin is pleased. “That's what I want to hear.” He scribbles something onto his clipboard, then taps the edge against his palm. “I'll need a release from your physical therapist before I can officially clear you. Get that to me by tomorrow, and we'll be good to go.”

I nod, but inside, I'm groaning. I was hoping I'd seen the last of those PT sessions, but it seems I have one more trip to Keaton. The town is twenty minutes south, just past the Georgia–South Carolina border—crossing enemy lines. Not that I can complain too much. Their top-notch sports medicine program is better than anything closer. Still, if I had my choice, I'd take twenty minutes over the two-hour haul to Charleston any day.

Coach Ferentz dismisses me with a quick wave, signaling me to rejoin the offensive line and ease through my limited practice routine. I nod and jog toward the huddle, rolling out my shoulders and shaking out my legs as I go. The afternoon sun beats down relentlessly, the heat sinking into my muscles, making the damp fabric of my jersey stick to my skin.

We'd spent most of the morning in the film room, breaking down last week's game against the Lions—every play, every mistake, every moment we could have executed better. Now, I'd finish the day with light reps, running routes, and catching a few passes from Beckham.

Even after a few weeks off, our rhythm is still second nature. The way he reads the field and I anticipate his throws is instinct at this point. But no matter how dialed in we are, I know I'll never have what he has with his twin, Hayes Carver. Their connection is freakish, the kind of thing you can't train for. I don't take it personally. It's just how it is.

We've busted our asses for years to get to this point. Senior year. Our last shot to take this team back to the playoffs. To finish what we started.

The thought tightens in my chest, bittersweet in a way I can't quite put into words. Everything I've worked for—every early morning, every grueling practice—has led me to this season. The one that could set me up for the future. The one that could solidify my shot at the NFL.

After practice, I follow the team into the locker room, my muscles aching in that satisfying way that reminds me I'm finally back. Sweat drips from my brow, stinging my eyes, and I swipe at it with the towel draped around my neck.

“What'd Coach say?” Hayes asks, falling into step beside me.

I run the towel over my face and let out a heavy breath. “He needs a release from my PT before I'm fully cleared. I'm gonna head down there after I get cleaned up, so I should be good to go by tomorrow.”

“Hell, yes!” Hayes grins and claps a hand against my shoulder. Its solid weight is reassuring.

Tomorrow, I'd be back at full speed. Right where I belonged.

Colter overhears and steps in, hand outstretched. When I clasp it, he pulls me into a quick, firm hug, clapping me on the back.

“It hasn't been the same without you on the field.”

Tell me about it. Every second off the field has felt like a countdown—a slow, agonizing wait to get back out there.

Turning to my locker, I swipe my phone off the shelf and thumb the screen awake. A flood of notifications stares back at me, but it's the string of texts from my dad that catches my attention first.

Dad: How's your leg doing?

Dad: I haven't heard from you in a couple of days. How was your last PT appointment?

Dad: You said the PT would release you, right? Do you need me to pull some strings to get your release so you can play on Saturday?

Dad: Call me when you get this.

My jaw tightens. Pull some strings. Of course, because in James Kinnick's world, success isn't about patience or hard work—it's about leverage. Control. Making sure nothing, and no one, disrupts the perfect trajectory he's carved out.

Dragging a hand through my damp hair, I hit the lock screen and shove my phone deep into my gym bag. I'll call him on my way back from Keaton and let him know I have it under control before he decides to handle it for me.

If there's one thing my dad refuses to tolerate, it's the idea that his son—the one bearing his name—might falter. Might not measure up to the image of perseverance and dominance he's built his entire life around.

After my injury, he didn't hesitate to remind me—more than once—how he played through an ankle sprain during the NBA Finals. He had hidden its severity from the team's athletic trainers, opting for pain injections over rest, pushing through every minute of the last round until he led his team to their third ring.

His voice still echoes in my head. Pain is temporary. You only get one shot to make an impression on the scouts.

As much as I love my dad and respect the work ethic he drilled into me from a young age, there are moments—like now—when I don't want to hear it. His version of motivation has a way of making everything feel like a test I can't afford to fail.

But I've put in the work. For four years, I've stayed locked-in, limiting distractions and keeping my circle tight with my teammates. Bonding off the field mattered just as much as what we did on it. Relationships? Dating? Not worth the risk. Don't get me wrong—I've gone to my fair share of parties and have had a few hookups here and there. But every girl knew what it was—no strings, no expectations. Football has always come first.

Saturday's coming. And I'll be ready.

After showering and throwing on fresh clothes, I sling my bag over my shoulder and call out to my teammates, “Catch you guys later.”

I hustle out to my car, eager to knock this trip to Keaton out fast.

With a few hours to kill between practice and my only class today, I should be using this time wisely—studying for my upcoming exam and catching up on assignments. I'm not too worried about the test, but I was late turning in my last paper, and the last thing I need is my dad catching wind of it. That would be just one more excuse for him to get on my ass.

The drive to Keaton flies by in a blur of open highway and blaring music. Before long, I'm weaving through the streets of downtown, where Keaton University's red-bricked campus stretches out alongside the nearby hospital. The area is packed with medical buildings—sports therapy centers, pediatric offices, and clinics catering to elite athletes.

Finding a parking spot, though? Damn near impossible.

I circle the block twice before a space finally opens up down the street from the physical therapy office. Without hesitation, I swerve over and back in before someone else can claim it.

Shutting off the engine, I push open the door and immediately spot her.

The unruly mess of curls whips in the wind as she fumbles down the front steps of the Alpha Nu house. Her cheeks are pink, her steps uneven as she makes what can only be described as a walk of shame.

And me? I'm shameless as my gaze drags over every inch of her curves.

Wyatt Vaughn.

She's been the highlight of one too many of my fantasies for longer than I care to admit. But as my best friend's little sister, off-limits have always been the unspoken rule. The two-year age gap never mattered much—except when it did.

Like the night after her eighteenth birthday.

A night neither of us talks about. A night she'd probably say she regrets.

I fucked that up in every way possible. But maybe it was for the best.

Wyatt is the definition of a distraction. That wild laugh, that beaming smile, the full, tempting curves that have haunted me for years. And those hips? Don't even get me started on those damn hips.

She's the whole package. And worst of all? She knows it.

Knows exactly how to get under my skin and stay there. Knows how to push my buttons until I'm one wrong look away from doing something stupid.

This is why my jaw locks tight the second I see her stumbling toward the bus stop at the corner.

I already know she's going to fight me on this.

Yet before I can stop myself, I'm already moving straight for her, striding across the street.

The excuse running through my head?

If her brother Colter were here instead of me and saw Wyatt walking out of a frat house that belonged to the Keaton Eagles, our biggest rivals, he'd bark her name and order her straight into his truck without a second thought.

And that? That's exactly why I feel justified in doing the same.

She's always been my firecracker. And I can already feel it coming—the moment she detonates on me all over again.

CHAPTER TWO

Wyatt

“Baby, where're you goin'?”

I freeze at the sound of his deep, sleep-rough voice, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. Shit.

Gritting my teeth, I force a smile and turn to face him. “My ride's here. I gotta get to work.”

Lies. Lies. Lies.

Luca exhales a lazy sigh, propping himself up on an elbow. The sheets dip around his bare torso, the early morning light catching on the tattoo that stretches across his ribs. Great. Now he looks even more smug.

“If you would've told me, I would've given you a ride instead.”

I swallow the urge to roll my eyes. The last thing I need right now is to pay for an Uber, but I sure as hell don't need him driving me home either. Moving back in with my mom as a sophomore in college is already bad enough. I feel like I've backtracked when everyone else is moving forward.

I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “It's okay. Maybe next time.”

Another lie. They're rolling off my tongue so easily now, I should be concerned.

Luca's hair is a disheveled mess, his jawline rough with stubble. He coughs, voice thick with sleep, his heavy-lidded eyes tracking my every move as I hunt for my bag. He's ruggedly handsome, the kind of good-looking that comes with zero effort and full awareness of its power.

And if his stare is anything to go by, he's not used to being ignored.

“I don't know where my phone is,” he muses, stretching lazily before flashing me a smirk. “Why don't you save mine and text me later?”

Good grief, Wyatt. Why did you let Claudia drag you to this party last night anyway?

Spotting the strap of my purse peeking out from beneath a pile of clothes he must've shed the night before, I bend down, tug it free, and sling it over my shoulder. I scoop up my own sweatshirt—the one I wore to the party—and tuck it under my arm. My phone is already in my hand, the screen glowing as I pull up a contact list, pretending to care.

“Go ahead,” I say.

He rattles off his number, watching me closely as I tap it in. When I'm done, I hold up my phone with a sweet, fake-as-hell smile. “Got it.”

He grins as if he thinks this means something, but it doesn't.

“You want me to walk you out?” Luca swings his legs over the edge of the bed, his muscles flexing slightly as he moves.

“No, it's fine.” My phone buzzes, and my eyes flick down to the preview of a text from Tatum asking where the heck I am.

Guilt stabs at me. I stopped responding to her texts last night after Claudia picked me up. I was too wrapped up in my own self-pity, wallowing over the fact I had to move back home. Claudia hadn't let me. She'd shown up, full of fiery energy and no room for negotiation, dragging me off to this party with the excuse that I needed to shut my brain off for a night.

It hadn't worked. But I appreciate the effort.

Pushing out a breath, I step onto the front porch of the Alpha Nu house, where the aftermath of last night's party is still alive in the wreckage. Cups litter the lawn. Streamers dangle from the railing. Someone's jersey is crumpled in the flower bed, abandoned like the dignity of half the people who walked through these doors last night.

Adjusting my bag and sweatshirt over my arm, I jog down the steps, then pause as the world tilts ever so slightly. Ugh. The remnants of last night cling to me, a dull throb settling behind my eyes, my hands clammy, my pulse drumming a little too hard in my temples.

I start toward the bus stop at the end of the street, keeping my head down.

I don't belong here. Never have.

And if my brother found out where I was last night—or worse, who I was with—he'd never let me hear the end of it.

Colter has always been protective of me. When we were younger, my friends thought it was sweet—like something out of an older-brother-of-the-year playbook. But the older I got, the more it grated on my nerves.

Because his version of looking out for me has changed over the years.

Back then, it was comforting—him taking care of me, stepping into the role our father left behind when he passed. Now? Now it's scrutiny. Judgment wrapped in a watchful gaze, like he's constantly waiting for me to screw up.

Colter is everything I'm not. Calm. Level-headed. Stoic to a fault. His emotions are locked down so tightly you'd think they don't exist. Meanwhile, mine are impossible to hide.

I wear my thoughts on my face and speak before I think—two things that have landed me in trouble more times than I can count.

Pair that with my stubborn streak, and, well… you can guess how that's worked out for me.

I drag a hand through my tangled hair, groaning as I pull my sunglasses from my bag. But just as I go to slide them on—

“Wyatt!”

I freeze.

That voice. I know that voice.

I've heard it a thousand times—some of which have been the highlight of one too many of my fantasies.

Give it a rest, Wy. Zane will never see you as more than a kid sister.

That's not what makes my stomach drop, though. It's the fact that I'm miles from home—a whole state away from where I'm supposed to be.

In Eagle territory.

I swear under my breath.

“You gonna just stand there, or you gonna turn around?”

His gravelly voice cuts through the early morning stillness like a blade.

For a split second, I consider booking it—pretending I didn't hear him, keeping my head down, and walking straight to the bus stop.

I almost regret not taking Luca up on his offer to drive me home. Almost.

Slowly, I turn. “What the hell are you doing in Keaton?” he barks.

I hold up a hand, wincing. “Why the heck are you yelling?” I glance around. “It's too early for this.”

“Don't ignore my question.”

I arch a brow. “I could ask you the same thing. Why are you in Keaton? Isn't this like crossing over into enemy territory? Did you get permission from your wolf pack?”

His jaw tightens. “Will you stop turning this around on me and answer the damn question?”

I exhale loudly, dragging it out on purpose, and turn on my heel. I trudge toward the bench at the corner, acting like I don't care that he's still standing there, watching me.

Except—

His footsteps follow.

Loud, deliberate thumps against the pavement, each one like a crack of thunder behind me.

I don't give in to him.

Not now. Not anymore.

If this were five years ago, I would've been falling over myself at the thought of having Zane's attention on me.

I've had a crush on him since the day we moved into the house next door. And if I thought Colter's overprotectiveness was frustrating?

Then Zane is a whole different kind of infuriating.

I learned not to read into his words a long time ago.

It was easy to convince myself that he cared more than he let on—that if he was going to take after Colter and scare off any guy who so much as glanced in my direction, then surely whatever I thought what I felt between us meant something.

I was wrong.

Like I said, Zane sees me as nothing more than Colter's kid sister.

His loyalty to my brother is unbreakable, a bond stronger than anything that ever could've sparked between us. And I—stupidly—once thought he might give in to the temptation I swore burned between us.

But I know better now.

I drop onto the cold bench, tapping open the Uber app, only to have Zane's sharp voice cut through the morning air.

“Why the hell are you sitting at the bus stop?”

I don't even look up, crossing one leg over the other as I enter my ride request. “Umm… waiting for a ride?” I hold out a hand as if it isn't blatantly obvious already.

He glares. His eyes flicker around like he's looking for some logical explanation for why I'm here.

“Where's your car?”

I sigh, long and dramatic, before finally leveling him with a look.

“Christ almighty, Zane, will you lay off? Geez, I don't have the patience for you this early in the morning without at least one cup of coffee. Actually, scratch that—with you, let's make it two.”

His jaw flexes, but his gaze snags on something, and I don't miss the way his eyes darken, the heat behind them shifting into something heavier.

It takes me a second to realize what he's staring at.

My stomach drops.

Oh shit.

I glance down, finally remembering what the hell I'm wearing.

A T-shirt. But not just any T-shirt.

A freaking Keaton shirt with Calloway's number on it.

I'd grabbed it in a hurry, thrown it on without a second thought, not even remembering that I'd borrowed it to sleep in after the party.

But Zane?

Oh, he notices. He notices everything.

His entire demeanor changes, his fingers flexing at his sides, his nostrils flaring like he's barely holding himself back from saying something he'll regret.

But instead of calling me out, instead of shoving his frustration into words, he steps forward—and before I can react, he snatches my phone right out of my hand.

“What the hell, Zane?” I jolt up, reaching for it, but he angles away, thumbing over my screen. “Give that back to me.”

He doesn't.

Instead, he clicks a few buttons, then finally—smug as ever—drops the phone back into my palm.

“There. I took care of canceling it for you.”

I stare at the screen, blinking.

“You did what?”

He crosses his arms, unbothered. “Give me ten minutes, and I'll give you a ride.”

I gape at him. “Are you kidding me? You canceled my ride? What if I don't want to ride with you?”

A slow, infuriating smirk lifts the corner of his mouth.

“Looks like you don't have much choice, now do you?”

I open my mouth—ready to lay into him—but he gestures behind me toward the sports medicine clinic across the street.

I turn my head, my eyes narrowing as I take in the line of cars crammed along the curb.

So that's why he's here.

He wasn't here for me. He was just looking for somewhere to park his car.

Him and that stupid fucking car.

I grit my teeth just thinking about it.

As if Zane wasn't already infuriatingly hot, he had to go and drive a black '67 Pontiac GTO, a car so damn pretty it should be illegal.

“Don't even think about calling another ride,” he warns, already jogging across the street toward the sports medicine clinic. “I just need to pick up some paperwork. I'll be right back, and then I'll give you a ride home.”

I roll my eyes, crossing my arms. I wasn't going to argue with him. Getting a ride from Zane was better than paying a hundred bucks for an Uber back to Braysen.

Keaton was about twenty minutes from home, mostly highway miles cutting across the Savannah River, marking the line between Georgia and South Carolina.

I wait until he disappears inside before I let myself glance over, watching as he moves with easy confidence, his fitted shirt pulling tight over his shoulders, denim hugging his thighs like the designer had him in mind when they made them.

Quit while you're ahead, Wyatt.

Shaking the thought away, I shove in one of my earbuds and pull up a playlist, the bass-heavy music buzzing through my chest as I pop a breath mint in my mouth.

Barely five minutes pass before I hear the familiar sound of his throaty exhale.

“All right, you ready?”

I glance up just as he stops in front of me.

“You're the boss,” I mutter, tossing the mint tin into my bag and holding my hands up in mock surrender. “Lead the way.”

He rolls his eyes, stepping off the curb, but he still looks both ways before gesturing for me to follow. Like I'm not capable of crossing a street by myself.

We don't walk far. His precious GTO is parked a few cars down, gleaming under the morning sun.

Zane doesn't ask questions—not yet, at least—but I should've known better than to think he'd let me off easy.

Just as he shoves his key in the lock, he glances up, eyes narrowing over the roof of his car.

“You want to tell me what the hell you're doing in Keaton yet?”

“No.”

His jaw ticks, but he doesn't push. Instead, he yanks the door open, climbs inside, and reaches across to unlock my side.

I slide onto the leather seat and adjust the bag in my lap, praying he drops it.

He doesn't.

“So I'm just supposed to pretend I didn't watch you do the walk of shame out of the Alpha Nu house?”

I flinch, my fingers going rigid around my bag strap.

The engine roars to life, a low rumble vibrating through my bones. My stomach knots, but I keep my gaze focused on the people passing by outside the window, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my reaction.

It's not what it looks like—but I already know he's made up his mind.

And I'm not about to waste my breath correcting him.

I didn't think I could be so lucky. But I hoped—when he hadn't said anything right away—that maybe, just maybe, he would let it go.

“Quit ignoring me.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I lie.

He chuckles, low and knowing. It settles something in me, though I refuse to acknowledge it.

I hadn't planned on telling Zane what I was doing last night—or why I walked out of a house that belonged to nearly a third of the Keaton football team.

I should've thought about my choices before coming with Claudia, especially considering she's been hooking up with one of the players, Robbie.

Of course, she had no intention of leaving, which left me crashing there too.

But none of that matters now.

Zane's already made up his mind, convinced he knows exactly what went down.

And really, what's the point of defending myself?

I do what I always do—dig a deeper hole.

“Why do you care so much? So what if I hooked up with an Eagle player last night?” I tip my head toward him, my voice sharp, mocking. “You gonna put me down for it? Like you aren't out doing the same thing back in Braysen?”

The words taste like bile, but I let them sit there, heavy and acrid.

The thought of him with someone else flashes across my mind, and my stomach knots.

I force myself to lean back against the seat, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.

Zane doesn't say a word. He doesn't deny it either.

And that? That's all I need to know.

“All right, good talk.” I exhale sharply. “Can you hit the fucking gas now, or do you need me to show you how to drive this thing?”

His grip tightens around the gear shift, his knuckles white as he throws it into reverse, then drive, before stepping on the gas.

We don't speak the whole way back to Braysen. My gaze lingers on the blur of miles slipping past—like if I focus hard enough, I can will myself away. Anywhere but here.

At one point, Zane leans over and turns up the radio, drowning out whatever thoughts are racing through his head—and mine.

I chance a look at him. His jaw is still tight, his grip tense around the wheel.

And for a split second, I swear I see something in his eyes.

Something like hurt.

But I don't say anything, and neither does he. It's easier this way.

Easier to convince myself I imagined it.

That whatever I saw wasn't real.

I've been wrong before when it comes to Zane Kinnick and his feelings for me.

And I should know better by now than to think he cares about me the way I do him.