CHAPTER EIGHT
Zane
Storm wide receiver Zane Fitzpatrick will be back on the field next week after his serious incident with a teammate. But we’re all wondering…. Did management make the right call in keeping him on the roster? How does this fit with D’Angelo’s claims of Storm being a family-oriented team?
I toss my phone across the room and it immediately vibrates. Several times in a row. Meaning one of two things. It’s either Cade checking in on me, which he’s been doing regularly since I left him at the bar, reminiscent of when I first took off all those years ago.
Or it’s the damn Storm group chat. Easton warned me that it would probably drive me crazy and I should have listened. They are fucking relentless. Always texting. Always getting involved.
Since I was first added to the group, I’ve discovered it’s made up of my teammates, Easton, Luke, and Reed, along with my ex-teammate, Dylan.
He retired two seasons ago and I was lucky enough to take over his starting position.
But we barely know each other. In fact, I’d say that other than at the hospital back in Florida, and when we’re on the field, I’ve barely spoken to any of these guys. Group chat aside.
Turning toward my bedroom door, I fight the urge to check my phone the second I get a notification, but like the addict I am, I give in, instantly regretting it.
LUKE: Those media fuckers
REED: Came here to say something similar
LUKE: But with nicer language, right? You’d probably say “Those awful, awful men”
I bark out a laugh and shake my head. I’ve got to admit, they’re at least entertaining. But it’d be better if the discussion didn’t revolve around me.
REED: Are you sexist now, Luke? The writer was a female
LUKE: Bullshit. I checked before I sent the text
REED: Lucky. Anyway, you’re right. They’re fucking awful. You deserve to be playing, Zane
ZANE: I never doubted that
I should have been playing sooner. It’s a fucking scratch.
Despite what the media are reporting, my absence had nothing to do with Mr. McKenna—fucking Landon—still being on life support.
The reason I’m not playing until game three of the season is that my stupid wound reopened on my first day of practice, all because I pushed myself too far.
The team doctors then decided I needed more time to heal before they’d let me back on the field.
Fuckers.
But here I am, finally ready to play. Ready to prove that I’m still on my A game, regardless of how long I’ve been out of action. I’ve got two weeks to practice, and I have no doubt I’m going to kill it out there.
I need this.
My breath shakes as a shiver runs through me. But I close my eyes to refocus.
Football is my life. If I don’t have this, God knows…actually, no. They can drag the football out of my cold, dead hands, because I’ll be playing until then.
I have to. I refuse to contemplate the alternative. Because if I’m being honest with myself…it’s bleak.
After grabbing my gear, I throw my phone in my bag and toss it over my shoulder, heading out to my car. Bouncing my shoulders, I smile. I’m so pumped to be back into full practice that nothing could ruin today. Nothing—
Motherfucker.
The second I exit the parking garage, I’m hit with a wall of reporters, and the smile drops from my face.
There’s been no fucking news. He’s still in a goddamn coma, and the police aren’t pressing charges…yet. I don’t know what more they want from me.
“Is it true that if your teammate dies, he’ll be the third death you were involved in?” I pause, my knuckles white as I clench the steering wheel. “And is it true that you abandoned your family in their time of need?”
Fuuuck. Bile rises in my throat as my chest tightens uncomfortably. Who’s been talking? Was it that asshole after I walked out on him in the bar with Cade? That was weeks ago. Flashes go off as more questions are thrown my way, but a ringing in my ears blocks them all out.
My vision blurs as my sister’s screams echo through my mind. “Zane, no!”
“Zane?”
The brakes screech.
“Zane!”
Fuck.
Snapping back to the present, I shake off my thoughts, schooling my features. Fuck the media. And fuck this.
Fake smirk back in place, I sit tall. I’ve been through it all before. I can get through it again.
When I first transferred from my college in Florida to Washington State, thanks to my old high school coach, I was constantly hounded by the media.
They wanted someone to blame for the loss of an innocent life, and the police never named my sister.
Rightly so. She may have been driving, but the accident was not her fault.
I should have been in her place.
I shouldn’t have survived her, and the world is constantly reminding me of that.
But not today. I refuse to be affected. Today is supposed to be a good day. And it will be.
Squaring my shoulders, I smile back at them, waving as I slowly roll forward. And as the sea parts, I lower my passenger window, giving them exactly what they want.
“You’re fighting an old fight. This story’s been done. Come on. Be better. You can do it.”
With that, I plant my foot and drive away, waving out the window when I’d much rather be flipping them off.
It’s been years since anyone asked me about the accident. Not since the spotlight on my football career took center stage.
When I was finally able to play in Washington, I played my fucking ass off. I flipped the narrative, forcing everyone to talk about my career instead of my past, and there was no going back.
Why the fuck did I go back?
I should have faked an appendicitis, or told Storm management that I had severe gastro—anything to convince them to leave me behind.
It was a fucking preseason game. They wouldn’t have cared.
But no. My stupid cockiness got the best of me, and I had to prove that I could do it, that I wasn’t trapped by the past. That no matter what, I was a force.
And I did prove it, way beyond what I could have imagined.
Until I stepped off the field and it all turned to shit.
Memories of my childhood came crashing back to me. Moments at that very stadium with my sister and dad, dreaming of a life that would never come to be.
My mom and dad forgave me for many of my faults.
They turned a blind eye when I got my first tattoo, and they barely gave me a slap on the wrist the first time I stumbled home drunk at two in the morning, when I was only fourteen.
Dad even forgave me for trying drugs after Blair’s dad told him about it. And he never mentioned it to my mom.
But when they arrived at the hospital the day of the accident, one look was all it took to convince me that their forgiveness had gone. There was a void in their eyes where the love had once been, and a thickness in the air.
They kept up appearances, staying with me while I healed, accepting their parental duties. They even found me a therapist, and thanked God that they hadn’t lost two children that day, praying for my good health.
They did everything you’d expect of them, making everyone believe we were going to be okay. And I stupidly believed it.
But when I asked to transfer colleges—when I told them I couldn’t live in Florida anymore—they never once asked me to stay.
They practically packed my bags and shipped me out the door. If I’d turned back, I doubt they’d have stayed outside long enough to wave. They never even bothered calling.
The light ahead of me turns red and I come to a stop, closing my eyes, my nostrils flaring as I take in a breath. Images of our last goodbye threaten to haunt me, but I push the pain down, burying it deep, where it belongs.
A horn blares and I startle, my eyes flashing open as I make a move, throwing a quick wave in my rearview mirror.
My heart feels heavy in my chest, but I refuse to acknowledge it. Not today. Not ever.
Me being gone was easier for my parents, and it turns out it was easier for me too. They could move on. And so could I.
Although, based on what Cade and my old friend said, it doesn’t seem like my parents succeeded.
But that’s not my weight to carry.
I did feel for them. Back then. I always felt for them. Always wondered if I’d made the right choice. But when they stopped answering my birthday and Christmas calls, I stopped caring. In general. I had to or I was likely to fall apart.
Instead, football become my focus. It was there when my parents weren’t, and I’m not about to let anything derail that.
Nothing will ever get in the way of my game.
No teammate trying to attack me after I accidentally fucked his girl, no media agencies trying to paint me as a killer, dragging my name through the mud. And definitely no one from my past.
We have a Super Bowl to win. It’s time to move on.
I’m walking away with a ring this year if it’s the last thing I do. I need it.
Thomas launches the ball and I race forward, knocking our linebacker, Heath, as I secure the ball in my grasp. Nailing it again.
Jogging back to position, I line up for the next drill when the whistle blows.
“Alright boys, time’s up. Back to the locker room,” our head coach, Pierce, calls out, pointing toward the tunnel. “I want you showered and dressed before Johnson and D’Angelo arrive to discuss the upcoming fundraiser for the D’Angelo Foundation.”
A few of the newer guys groan, but when Easton glares their way, they’re all smiles once more.
And I almost chuckle. Easton’s girl, Paige, runs the D’Angelo Foundation, and they’d be wise to learn you do not fuck with Easton’s girl.
He’s not likely to handle that twice without violence.
Especially when it comes to Paige. She’s a whole different ball game from his ex.
When we’re dismissed, I rush off the field, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins, a triumphant smirk plastered on my face.
Fuck, that felt good.
Like the first time you sink into a tight pussy, or your first sip of whiskey after a hard day.
Like coming home.
No one can take that away from me. But fuck, I’d like to see them try.
I’m ready for my first game back, and despite the fact that the team is gelling without me, I’m here to show them what they’re missing.
That with me…we’re unstoppable.
This season is ours.
Mine.
We’re ready no matter who we play.
“Hell, Zane,” Reed interrupts my internal celebration, his smile wide. “You absolutely dominated that practice. Seems like the media lit a fire in you.”
I roll my eyes, biting back a smirk. “Why are you here, Reed? I didn’t think you’d been cleared to play?”
“I haven’t. Yet.” He frowns and, of course, lets my comment slide, even though it was a dick thing to say. “Don’t worry.” His smile returns. “I’ll be ready soon. I need to keep on top of things until then.”
“So that’s why you’re here? It’s got nothing to do with you wanting to look out for me? Wanting to be here for my first practice back?”
“Definitely not.” He laughs to himself, waving me off as he wanders away.
And next comes Thomas. Quarterback. Team captain. And a genuinely nice guy. Meaning…it’s hard to be a dick to him. Believe me, I’ve tried.
“I think he’s really here because Hayley’s filming a new role in LA, and he’s lonely.” He winks and I bark out a laugh.
“Poor Reed.”
Thomas only lets his smile linger for a beat before his expression turns serious and my buzz leaves me. “What’s up, Cap?”
“You played well out there, but I need you to take it easy for your first couple of days.”
For fuck’s sake. “I’ve been cleared. I’m good. The doctors made me wait longer than necessary so the fucking scratch didn’t tear. Again.”
“You’re not fooling anyone with this scratch business.
A scratch wouldn’t have kept you from the game for a month.
You need to accept the fact that we’re looking out for you.
We want you ready for your first game. I want you ready.
I know you’ve been training. You’re fit.
But when it comes to head-on tackles and drills, I need you to ease into it. At least for this week.”
I smile while the urge to tell Thomas to fuck right off is strong. “Thanks, Cap. I appreciate the concern. I’ll take it easy.”
“Good.” He smiles back, somewhat relieved. “Los Angeles won’t know what hit them when you get on that field.”
“Hell, yeah.” I nod as he walks away, but the second I turn to my locker, my face drops.
Los Angeles. My first game is against L-fucking-A.
In all the excitement of getting to play, I never bothered to check the schedule.
My first game back, and I’m playing against Nathan-douchebag-Morgan.
The reason my sister and I were out driving that goddamn night to begin with.
A rage simmers inside me. That asshole’s been my biggest rival since high school and... My thoughts trail off as I picture his smug face and my anger clears.
I’m looking at this all wrong. I get to play against Nathan.
Looks like I finally caught a break. Thomas is right. LA…you better be fucking ready.