Page 102 of Make the Play

And when she doesn’t let go, it’s suddenly mine, too.

***

This is a goddamn fever dream.

It’s been over an hour since the sparkler-chug incident, and now we’re standing on the roof of a bowling alley. Not metaphorically.Literally.On the roof.

Surrounded by glow sticks and neon signs and people dressed like backup dancers in a post-apocalyptic rave ballet.

And in the middle of it all, we are attempting to emotionally coax a man in a neon pink fringe jacket and a glowing cowboy hat to perform aballad from his soul.

Zoe is absolutely in her element.

Elbows resting on the railing, her long legs crossed at the ankle, she’s soaking it all in and completely at home in the madness. She’s been deep in negotiations with the cowboy for ten minutes.

“I’m just saying,” she says, brow furrowed, “a song from your soul doesn’thaveto be sad. It can be joyful. It can be about resilience. Or longing. Or… brunch!”

The cowboy, a bearded mountain of a man with glitter under his eyes, lets out a slow, dramatic breath. His eyes close. He’s clearly deep in his method.

“The soul,” he says gravely, “hurts.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Holy shit.”

Zoe shoots me a look, but then perks up. “Oh! What aboutIris?!”

Cowboy Man’s eyes fly open. “Yeah… That’s gotdepth.”

“No,” I say immediately. “Nope. There’s a line, andthatis the line.”

I’ve had to listen to this song one too many times. It’s Jake and Charlie’s thing, some emotional past-and-future nonsense, and he played it constantly in the locker room last season like a love-sick puppy. But it’s too late.

He steps forward, lifts one arm to the night sky, summoning the spirits of emotionally repressed cowboys past, and begins to sing.

He sings the first line, dragging out the “you” longer than necessary.

Then he goes full tilt. Full volume, full emotion. On a fucking rooftop in the middle of downtown Denver. With backup dancers in alien goggles joining in with an interpretive dance.

Zoe gasps and grabs my forearm, the biggest grin plastered on her face. “Oh mygod, this is magic.”

I glance at her, ready to make some smart-ass comment, but she leans into me, her arm sliding against mine and her shoulder pressing into my chest. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. Her hand stays wrapped around my wrist, thumb absently brushing across my skin.

And I stop thinking altogether, because she’s not looking at me. She’s watching the damn cowboy, her face lit up in the glow of the cowboy’s hat, all sparkly and weird and wild. No masks,no filters. Just joy. Exactly herself in a way I don’t get to witness nearly enough. Completely, unapologetically delighted.

And all I can do is stare at her, every rational thought drowned out, because she’s the performance. This whole goddamn city could disappear, and I’d still be right here, locked in this moment. Locked on her.

I barely register the crowd singing along. Or the fact that the cowboy is now doing an Irish jig, which doesn’t stay true to the genre of the songorhis outfit. All I know is that Zoe is against me, and she hasn’t moved.

I’m not even annoyed, I’m just… fuckinggone.

When the cowboy finally bows with one hand over his heart, the other pointed to the sky, she claps like she means it.

“Okay,” he says, walking over to us, breathless. “You were right. That was cathartic as fuck.”

I nod with a confused grimace, but Zoe grins. “Told you. Soulful joy.”

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a crumpled note. “Here’s your next clue.”

She takes it with a nod. “Thank you for your service.”

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