Page 111 of Make the Play

I can’t answer, I’m too far gone, my body shaking and lungs full of him. My hands are in his hair, my whole damn soul dissolving into this kiss I’ve tried not to want.

But fuck it, I do. It’s hot and messy and magic. It’s in front of my favorite band of all time. It’s with the boy who wants to keep me safe.

Anactualcore memory, seared into bone.

The crowd moves around us, the music crashing, the bass thrumming through my veins, and I don’t care that people are watching, that this is dangerous and reckless and fucking stupid.

Because right now, there are no rules. We’re not pretending.

I just need his mouth on mine and his hands on my skin.

I just need him.

Chapter twenty-two

I kiss you once, and suddenly you need real estate

Chase

Zoe is everywhere.

My hand skates lower, barely brushing the hem of her skirt, and she shudders, her knees buckling just slightly.

I feel it—the tiny, desperate shift forward. The way she’s half pressed against me, half pressed into my hands, the way her nails dig in, like she’s ready to beg for it.

Christ. I need to get her somewhere else.

I pull back just enough to breathe, and the second her mouth leaves mine, the world snaps back into focus.

Music. Lights. The pulse of bass shaking the air. And phones fucking everywhere. A whole semi-circle of people holding uptheir cameras like they’ve just watched the headliner take the stage. Which, to be fair, they kinda have.

Zoe blinks up at me, breathless and flushed, lips kiss-bitten and perfect. And then, because she’s Zoe, she clocks the phones and exhales hard through her nose. “Walton. We need a tent.”

I blink, still half-dazed. “What?”

She tilts her head toward the phones, completely unbothered, and I see the switch flip in her head.

“You’re a star hockey player making out with his girlfriend at a festival,” she says flatly, pulling away from my arms and smoothing her skirt down. “You need to get us a tent.”

I stare at her. “Do you think I just have one in my back pocket?”

She gestures vaguely toward the far field and outer edges of the VIP zone, where a few high-end glamping setups sit like an oasis away from the chaos.

“Like, a real one. With walls and zippers. And no phones.”

My brows lift. “You mean, for privacy?”

She rolls her eyes, grabs my shirt, and yanks me forward by the collar. “I mean somewhere I can ride your face without ending up on TikTok.”

I make a strangled sound and nearly black out, but I catch her hand before she can fully step away, letting my fingers tangle with hers.

“Jesus, I kiss you once, and suddenly you need real estate.”

Zoe doesn’t even blink. “You literally moaned into my mouth. I think I’ve earned it.”

There’s no arguing with that. Not when her fingers are already flexing in mine like she’s itching to drag me across the damn field. Not when I’m so hard it hurts. Not when every breath I take tastes like her lip gloss and that desperate exhale she made when she finally admitted she needed me to kiss her.

We start moving, kind of. More like stumbling through the crowd in the direction of the VIP tents while I try to keep my hands to myself and fail spectacularly. I can’t stop touching her. Can’t stop pulling her into me like I need her heat just to stay functional. A hand on her waist, then her back, then her hips. She leans into every brush like she needs it too, like we’re both seconds from combusting.

---