Page 147 of Make the Play

Me:Wish you were here.

Delivered.

And then I set my phone on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling like a fucking idiot. Because I really, really do.

***

It’s late, and the hotel room’s dark. Too fucking quiet.

I’m floating somewhere between sleep and static, sweat at the back of my neck, my brain trying to claw itself out of a memory I don’t want to relive.

The ice on the rink is cracking. My skates won’t move, I see Logan’s stick snap, except it’s not Logan—it’s Jordan.

My lungs burn, and then I’m under the ice.

I bolt upright, gasping like I’ve surfaced from a lake in the dead of winter. I drag in air, trying to ground myself, fisting the sheet where it’s tangled around my legs. My whole body shakes, breath ragged, chest tight like I just finished a bag skate.

I scrub a hand down my face, trying to remember the fucking counting exercises.

Five things I can see: The hotel lamp and bedside clock. My shaking hand. The duffel bag in the corner. My phone screen blinking.

Four things I can touch: Scratchy sheets. Sweat-soaked hair. Tension in my fists. The towel I never moved.

Three things I can hear: The hum of the AC. A car outside. My own damn heartbeat.

Two things I can smell: Chlorine from the post-game soak. Disinfectant. Nothing grounding.

One thing I can taste… Her. Even without her here, I can still taste her. Strawberry lip gloss and breathy laughter and the way she whispersfuck, Chaselike she means it.

I reach for my phone before I can talk myself out of it. Her name’s already on the screen with an unread message:You too.

I hit the video call, because fuck it. I just need to see her.

Zoe’s face fills my phone screen, lit only by a bedside lamp. Her eyes are sleep-heavy, and the second I see her, the pressure in my chest loosens just a little.

“Did you seriously just video call me at”—she squints—“two a.m.?”

I sit up straighter and blink hard. “You’re in my bed.”

She exhales, dropping her head back to the pillow. Her hair’s a total mess, the collar of my T-shirt is stretched wide over her shoulder, and the sheets are bunched around her.

“It smells like you,” she mutters, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I swear to God something in my chest fucking shatters, but I swallow hard. Try to play it cool.

“Yeah? My scent turning you on a little, sweetheart?”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it. “How’s the jaw?”

“Fine. How’s your attitude?”

“Still better than yours.”

God, I love your mouth.

I settle deeper into the pillows, letting the moment stretch as I watch her. That earns me a soft smile. “You miss me, Walton?”

“Every fucking second.”

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