Page 104 of Make the Play

“ONLY IF YOU LOSE!” he roars, charging straight at me for the second time.

I don’t move this time, I wait. And then, with all the grace of a man who plays a contact sport for a living and is desperately trying not to break someone’s collarbone with a pool noodle, I sidestep him and give him a light bop on the back of the shoulder. It makes a squeakythwompsound.

The knight spins around, eyes blazing with foam-sword bloodlust. Zoe is cackling from the sidelines, completely enthralled by this amateur version of liveGladiator.

“Oh my god,” she shouts, doubled over laughing. “You’reso serious!You look like you’re training for war!”

I ignore her. Mostly because I can’t afford to look over. Not with the knight now fake-snarling at me, eyes gleaming with unhinged foam-sword fury.

But I spin and duck, then swing wide and hit his chest. Then his shoulder. Then, with one final pivot and a very undignified grunt, I catch the top of his helmet.

He stumbles back, drops to his knees, and performs the most dramatic death scene in Denver’s bowling alley parking lot history.

“I YIELD!” he cries. “THE CHALLENGER HAS PROVEN HIMSELF WORTHY.”

The crowd erupts again. Someone throws biodegradable confetti. Zoe’s laughing, but it’s breathless now, almost stunned.

I drop the foam sword and turn to her, but she’s already in front of me.

Her eyes flick down to my leg. “Did he actually hurt you?”

“It was a foam sword, Zo.”

“Chase.” She says my first name for the second time in as many minutes, voice low and suddenly very serious. “Training camp starts next week. If you pull something fighting a man named Greg in chainmail, I amneverliving that down.”

I smirk. “Ohh, so youdocare.”

She rolls her eyes, but then she steps closer, and her hand grazes my waist. She’s checking my leg, but she’s close enough that I can smell her perfume, can feel the warmth of her fingers through my shirt as they slide up to rest lightly against my chest.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks again, quieter this time.

I nod, caught in the way her thumb brushes against me. “I’ve had worse.”

Zoe’s gaze dips, then drags back up to meet mine.

“Okay,” she says.

For one suspended second, she doesn’t move, and neither do I. With her hand still pressed against me, I swear to God, I almost lean in.

Almost.

The knight, still kneeling nearby, clears his throat loudly and tosses a rolled-up clue in our direction.

Zoe startles, grabs it, and mutters something about the location for the festival as she reads it quietly to herself.

With a grin, she looks back up at me, but she doesn’t step away.

We’ve won. Which, quite honestly, is shocking.

Because the only thing harder than me fighting a medieval foam knight on a truck is spending four straight hours watching Zoe exist in this fucking outfit.

***

The second we step into the clearing, the whole world shifts. We cross some invisible barrier, and the early evening blooms around us, pulsing with light and sound.

Flashing strobes slice through the trees, catching on smoke and glitter and streaks of movement. The music is deep and low, reverberating under our feet, through the trunks, into my chest. People are everywhere dancing, shimmering in metallics and mesh, bodies moving under UV paint and fairy lights.

And Zoe glows.

---