Page 120 of Make the Play

It’s been a few days since she stood three feet from me in the kitchen, looking like she was finally going to say something real. Acknowledge what’s going on here. But she did what she always does. Pivoted. Smiled. Slipped the mask back on.

So I haven’t pushed, I just keep showing up.

“You went for another run before training?” she asks, eyes still on her phone. “Are you okay? Are you training forwar?”

I shrug, sinking down into an armchair next to her. “Better than sitting still and thinking too hard.”

About crawling into your bed.

She lifts a brow but doesn’t look up. “God forbid you sit still and have a feeling.”

“Exactly…” I nod toward her. “Good to see you’re sitting in yours, though.”

It’s a subtle dig, but she ignores it. “And here I thought you were just trying to burn off carbs.”

I reach forward and pop the lid on the smoothie I ordered while I picked up her coffee. “Nah. Just trying to outrun all the poor choices I want to make.”

She finally lifts her head at that, then blinks down at the bouquet. Pale yellow this time. Soft and springy, maybe a little too optimistic. Like me.

Her eyes flick toward me, then back to her screen. “Those for your actual girlfriend or your PR girlfriend?”

I grin. “They’re the same person, sweetheart.”

Taking a sip of my smoothie, I try not to look at her bare legs folded under her. She finally sets her phone down and wraps her arms, swamped in my hoodie, around her knees.

“You’re bribing me with emotional symbolism now?”

“Just thought they summed us up well,” I say, nodding to the bouquet again. “Yellow for joy and friendship, right?”

She bites her lip, slowly shaking her head as a chuckle bubbles out. My favorite sound.

“Actually, yellow carnations tend to mean rejection and disappointment.”

My face falls.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Scout’s honor,” she says, swiping a finger across her chest. “This is a coded floral threat.”

“Goddammit,” I mutter. “That floristdidgive me a look, actually. I thought it was judgment… turns out it wasconcern.”

Zoe tilts her head back and lets out a full-blown laugh this time. It shoots straight through me, warm and sharp and so fucking addictive, yanking me right back to the tent. To the way she curled into me and laughed when she realized how far gone I was for her body, her mouth, her fire. All of her.

I must be looking at her like a damn fool, because she blinks once. Twice. Then grabs the coffee I set down in front of her and hides a smile behind the lid.

“How was your run?”

I stretch back in the chair. “Long. Legs are toast. Camp’s ramping up. Coach Benson is pushing hard before pre-season kicks off.”

“Isn’t your first away game, like, Wednesday?”

“Tuesday night,” I correct. “Fly out Monday. Two road games, then we’re back for the opener.”

She nods and takes another sip but doesn’t look at me.

We’ve been like this every morning—easy and light on the surface with something heavier underneath. Me pretending I’m not counting down the seconds until she admits what I already know.

In the meantime, I bring her flowers. I DoorDash her coffee and croissants to work. And she pretends not to notice the message behind them.

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