Page 101 of Make the Play

Before I can say anything else, she steps forward, accepts a Roman candle sparkler the size of her forearm from Stoner Guy, and lights it with zero hesitation. Sparks erupt in every direction.

“Zoe,” I say, already panicking.

“What?” She pops the tab on the beer. “You nervous, Walton?”

“If you set yourself on fire, I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

She smirks, tips her head back, and chugs the entire beer like it’s nothing, like it’swater.

The sparkler crackles beside her, and the merry little band of idiots around her roars. And Zoe? Zoe looks like a goddamn goddess. Flushed cheeks, dangerous grin, glowing from the firelight and the chaos and the sheer adrenaline of being right in the middle of everything.

I hate her. I hate how hot she is. I hate that watching her laugh like this feels like taking my first real breath in weeks. Like everything in my life snaps into place the second she smiles.

I’m also in love with her, but that’s a separate issue I don’t have the mental capacity to unpack right now.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, still glowing with triumph as she turns to me, her eyes dancing.

“You’re up, Walton.”

I exhale, accepting the beer and the sparkler, and briefly mourn the version of myself that used to exist before this moment.

Zoe’s smirk is so big it’s about to launch off her face. “Want me to hold your hand?”

I don’t answer. I just pop the tab and tip it back, draining the entire thing in three seconds flat. The crowd erupts like I just scored the overtime winner in the Stanley Cup Final.

Zoe gasps and clutches her chest dramatically. “Chase Walton, you glorious bastard.”

I wipe my mouth and hold out my hand, waggling my fingers.

“Clue.”

Stoner Guy, now visibly awed, passes it over. Zoe’s practically bouncing beside me, beaming up at me, all exultant and bright with something I don’t deserve. I want more of this. More of her eyes on me, more of her smile directed toward me. Just more of her.

I unfold the slip of paper and read it aloud, still catching my breath.

“Clue number three…” I pause. “Okay, no. Absolutely not.”

Zoe’s eyes light up. “Oh my god, what is it?”

I stare at the paper, then at her. Then at the paper again.

“Apparently,” I say, deadpan, “we need to find the neon cowboy and make him sing a song from his soul.”

Zoe claps her hands in delight. “OH MY GOD.”

“No,” I say immediately. “I’m drawing the line at soul-singing cowboys.”

“Chase,” she says, grabbing my forearm with both hands. “Do you understand how happy this makes me?”

I roll my eyes, ready to plead all the reasons why I will not be convincing some neon cowboy to sing a ballad, but my eyes get caught on her again. Hair wild, the sparkler light still flickering across her face. Eyes lit up with that big, reckless smile. To her,this is all the best kind of madness—and I know on the spot I’d follow her straight into it if she asked.

So, when she reaches for my hand without thinking, fingers sliding easily into mine, my heart does something stupid and irreversible in my chest.

I feel it in my ribs. In my knees. In the part of me that’s been aching since the day I met her.

“Come on, Walton.”

She tugs me toward the crowd again, and I follow her straight into the chaos, because apparently, this is the greatest day of her life.

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