Page 121 of Make the Play

“You’re staring,” she murmurs, leaning forward to grab her phone.

“Appreciating.”

“It’s too early for appreciating.”

“It’s never too early to appreciate your girlfriend.”

Her gaze lifts again, sharp and wary, trying to gauge if I’m joking or if I mean it. Which is hilarious, considering I’ve already worshipped her like a fucking altar. Twice.

“Don’t start,” she says.

I raise both hands. “Just being supportive.”

She narrows her eyes. “This is support? Feels like strategic seduction with caffeine.”

“Okay, but is iteffectivestrategic seduction?”

She doesn’t answer. Just presses her curving lips to the rim of the lid again.

I bite back my own smile and stand up. It takes everything I’ve got not to lean over, cup the back of her neck, and kiss her, just to see if she’d stop me.

But I don’t. Instead, I clear my throat and gesture down the hallway.

“Gonna grab a shower before I head out to training.”

Come join me.

She nods. “Make sure to wash behind your ears, Walton.”

Rolling my eyes, I head for the ensuite, turning the heat up until the spray singes my skin. Hoping it’ll burn away the image of her bare legs making a home on my couch, or the way her nose dips into the neckline of my hoodie, shoulders rising as she inhales the scent. Inhalesme.

I brace both hands on the tiles, letting the steam fill the space while water beats down my back. The silence creeps in, and I let it. I close my eyes and steady my breathing, running through the counting technique she showed me weeks ago. The one I didn’t think would work.

The first time she showed me, lying so soft against me, I almost laughed. Now it’s a routine. A quiet ritual. The only thing that stops me from unraveling when the dreams still come.

And it’s working. Not perfectly, not always, but enough to take the edge off. And yeah, it helps knowing she’s just a door down the hall.

Even if I’d rather have her in my bed.

I jerk off twice before I feel ready to re-join any kind of reality that involves Zoe, then throw my gear together for training.

When I step into the kitchen to grab my protein shake, I freeze.

Zoe’s on one of the barstools now, coffee cup still in hand, face tipped toward her phone. There are tears in her eyes. Real ones.

She sees me and quickly wipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Jesus,” she mutters, trying to laugh. Her voice wobbles. “I hate the algorithm. It knows I’m weak.”

I pause by the counter, voice careful. “Bad take? Celebrity death?”

She lifts her phone and gives me a watery half-smile. “Worse. Daddy-daughter dance at a wedding. He picks her up halfway through the song, and the caption said, ‘For the girl who used to stand on my feet while we danced.’”

Her voice catches on the last word, and she clears her throat like it’ll help.

I don’t move, just watch her. Because in all the years I’ve known Zoe Carlson, I’ve only ever seen her cry once.

And she doesn’t know I was there.

---