Page 100 of Make the Play

Because it’s not fake—not that part. Not any of the parts that matter. She’s still the one I’d cross every line for, not because she needs protecting, but because I want toclaimher. Because I need to be the one standing next to her, in any capacity she’ll have me in.

To make damn sure no one else gets the chance to be her safe place to fall.

We stand there for a moment too long, looking at each other dead-on, challenging each other to make a move before one of us implodes, because we both know I mean every damn word.

The silence stretches taut, neither of us breathing or moving. But eventually, I force myself to smirk and turn away. I head into the kitchen like my body isn’t still lit up with the memory of her standing there in that skirt, golden skin, and glitter and everything I’ve ever wanted wrapped up in one impossible woman.

I open the fridge just for something to do. Cold air rushes against my overheated skin, but it doesn’t help. Nothing could.

Because Zoe Carlson is living in my apartment, looking like that, and somehow, I’m supposed to pretend I’m not one breath away from dropping to my knees and begging her to let me touch her.

Behind me, her voice slices through the silence.

“Wait, does this mean you’re doing the scavenger hunt?”

I freeze, then glance over my shoulder to find her watching me like she already knows she’s won. Arms crossed. One brow arched. That same feral little smirk that makes my brain go offline every time.

“Zoe.”

“Walton.”

“Youplannedthis.”

She just winks, then turns and saunters back into her room, that damn skirt swaying like a loaded weapon, no doubtannihilating any chance of me avoiding a painful boner for the next twenty-four hours.

***

I have made a grave mistake.

Because the thing is, I thought this would be a normal scavenger hunt. A few cryptic riddles, maybe some indie kids with glitter on their cheeks, a light jog between weird coffee shops. I even braced for a hipster in suspenders playing a kazoo or whatever.

What I didnotprepare for was this level of absolute feral chaos.

Zoe holds up the next clue card like she’s just pulled Excalibur from a stone. “Clue number two says we have to shotgun a beer while holding a lit sparkler.”

I stare at Zoe. She stares back, completely fucking serious.

We are currently standing outside some grimy underground record store in the middle of downtown Denver. There’s a full crowd gathered around us—at least fifty people in various states of glitter, leather, mesh, and general life instability—and somehow, I have become one of them.

A guy in a crop top and fishnets just backflipped while holding a Four Loko. A woman with anactual parroton her shoulder is DJing from a van.

I rub my temples. “Explain to me again why this is necessary?”

Zoe grins. Not a normal grin. No, this is the grin of a woman who is positivelythrivingin my suffering. High on chaos and caffeine and whatever this night is turning her into.

“Because the only way to get the next clue is to complete the challenge,” she says sweetly, already accepting a can of beer from a dude who looks like he legally shouldn’t be handling fire.

“And the challenge,” she continues, “is to shotgun a beer while holding a sparkler. Hence…” She gestures to the stoner dude who is somehow responsible for running this shambles. “The sparkler.”

I shake my head. “That is objectively unsafe.”

“Not my problem.”

I glance around again. There is literal fire. There is no fire marshal. Someone is playing the flute.The flute.

“What the fuck kind of festival is this?”

Zoe beams. “The best kind.”

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