Page 136 of Make the Play

Chase leans a hip against the counter and watches me. “How are my disappointment flowers doing?”

I glance at him. “Alive and thriving. Clearly, they haven’t taken the hint.”

He grins. “You should make a chart for me. Pink is admiration. Yellow's disappointment. What else?”

I grab a dish towel and mop a few stray drips from the counter. “Let’s see… Purple’s capriciousness, which feels on brand for you. Peach is gratitude. Red for lust, obviously.”

“Don’t forget the white ones.”

I frown and glance at him. “Why would you mention the white ones?”

“They’re the same ones that were at your…” His voice fades out, like he’s just caught himself in a haphazard confession.

Something prickles beneath my skin. A slow, creeping awareness.

He stares at the carnations in the vase like they might shield him, jaw flexing once as he swallows. For the first time in his life, Chase Walton is perfectly, unnervingly still. A caught animal playing dead, hoping I’ll look away. Hoping I won’t ask.

“Were at my what, Walton?” My voice is steady, but my pulse isn’t.

His eyes flick up, and the apology’s already there. “Zo, I—”

“They’re the same as the ones at mywhat?”

His eyes dart between mine, mouth parting like he’s about to lie, but I lift a brow, and he caves.

“At your Gran’s funeral.” His voice dips. “White ones. There were white carnations everywhere.”

The floor tilts, because hearing it is different than suspecting it.Wonderingif this is where he was going andknowingthat it is—those are two different things entirely. My breath locks in my throat, and I can only stare.

He watches me for a moment, tongue darting out to wet his lip. “White ones mean p-pure love, right? I remember you mentioned it… in her eulogy.”

It’s not fair that he knows that. That he somehow cares enough to remember it. That my eyes are burning, and I should blink, but don’t. I just keep staring, because if I look away, I might fall apart.

“How do you know that?”

He shifts just slightly, enough to close the space between us as if he’s approaching something fragile. Somethingferal.

“I came.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I just—I wanted to be there. You seemed so sad when we saw you at the rink, so I just wanted to… I don’t know.” He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Be there for you, I guess. Quietly make sure you were okay.”

I can’t speak. My ribs are too tight, too small to hold what’s pushing up against them.

“That was during playoffs.”

He looks at me like it’s nothing. As if him quietly attending the funeral of the most important person in my life isn’t something that might actually destroy me.

“You loved her a lot. Everyone knew it from the way you spoke about her.” His eyes hold mine, trying to tell me something else, somethingbigger. “And I think she must’ve been truly special, to be loved so deeply by someone like you.”

And that’s the part that breaks me.

I can handle Chase when he’s cocky. When he’s loud, or teasing, or playing dumb. I know what to do with that version of him.

But I don’t know what to do with this. With the boy who sat in the back row of my Gran’s funeral during the fucking playoffs just to make sure I was okay. With the man who keeps bringing me flowers because he knows exactly what they mean, even when I pretend I don’t care.

So I do the only thing I can.

I scoff. “Am I supposed to be touched? You stalking me now, too?”

He flinches. It’s small, barely even there, but I catch it and hate myself for it.

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