Page 117 of Make the Play

Tamara:girl, that man is courting you like it’s the 1800s

Claire:just tell us when we’re getting bridesmaid dresses because I want satin.

I stare at the screen for a second, then shove my phone back in my bag with more force than necessary. I can’t deal with this right now. Can’t deal with star charts or almond croissants. Or the vision I just had of a beach and me in a light, silky dress, Chase standing at the end of a sandy make-shift aisle with linen shorts and hockey calves on show.

Instead, I push the condo door open, intent on changing into comfy clothes and zoning out with truly questionable TV—until I spot them.

Carnations, sitting on the dining table, are visible through the door at the end of the hallway.

Peach this time. A little brighter than the last bunch and a little messier, like he shoved them into the vase in a rush before heading out the door. One of the stems is lopsided, leaning just a little to the left like it’s drunk. It’s stupidly endearing.

The sun catches the tips of the petals through the window, making them glow a little.

That’s when it hits me—this isn’t new anymore. This is the second time he’s done this since the festival.

That makes it a habit.

Which means Chase Walton is the kind of guy who buys me flowers, unprompted, without making a big thing of it. Who pays enough attention to pick a different color every time just so he can ask me what they mean. Who, apparently, stops at a florist between training drills and post-skate protein shakes to make sure there’s something waiting for me when I get home.

It’s gentle. Thoughtful. Fucking dangerous.

Because we haven’t talked about the festival, or the tent-gasm situation. Or the fact that, since we got back ten days ago, we’ve somehow slipped into the rhythm of a couple who’ve lived together foryears, instead of just over a month.

He walked straight back into the start of training camp like nothing happened. And sure, he’s focused—he always is when it comes to hockey—but he’s also been steady. Present.

We haven’t talked about what it means or what happens next, but he’s acting like everything’s fine and we’re just friends who are still faking it. As if he can just keep doing these quiet, sweet little things, and I won’t ask questions.

Like it’snormal.

And I’m starting to run out of excuses for why it’s not, or why I shouldn’t jump him the next time I see him.

I leave my keys on the hook and kick off my heels, passing the bathroom and hearing the shower running. He’s home. Good.

The second I think it, I want to slap myself. What do I even mean—good? Am I hoping we’ll finally talk? Hoping he’ll look at me the way he did in that tent and forget that he’s trying to be noble or focused or whatever the fuck it is he’s doing right now?

Hoping he’ll pin me to the wall and end this unbearable uncertainty the old-fashioned way?

Obviously.

But I’m not expecting that from him. It’s quietly infuriating how hands-off he’s being.

I enter my room to quickly get changed, then head into the kitchen for water. The shower cuts off, and I hear the sound of water slapping tile. The soft thud as he moves around the bathroom.

A minute later, he walks into the hallway in nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, chest flushed from the heat, rivulets of water trailing down his abs in ways that should be illegal. He scrubs another towel over his face, then pauses when he spots me in the kitchen.

His eyes skim me once, tracing over his hoodie I claimed weeks ago, bare legs, socks with tiny daisies on them. His mouth quirks like he’s trying not to smile too wide.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough from the steam.

“Hey.” I try to sound neutral, but damn it, I sound breathless.

He disappears into his room for a beat, then returns with gray sweats on, his damp hair curling at the ends, and heads to the pantry like we do this every day. Which we kind of do.

We’ve somehow slipped into a rhythm—me in his hoodie, drinking his bottled water, him half-naked and eating protein bars—and neither of us acknowledging the absurdity of it.

That we’ve slept together once. Hooked up twice. That I’ve woken up tangled in his arms on three separate occasions. That I somehow, unconsciously, until this very moment, have a running count of those particular things, and we live together but sleep in separate rooms.

He rips the wrapper of his bar open with his teeth and leans a hip against the counter. “Long day?”

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