Page 161 of Make the Play

From the kitchen to the couch, to the shower, and then to the bedroom.

By the time we collapse into bed, my body feels like it’s been ruined in the most delicious way. I drift off tangled in him, aching and bare beneath the blankets, with his lips pressed between my shoulder blades like a vow.

It’s hours later when I stir. The condo is quiet now, thick with the kind of stillness that only happens between three and four in the morning. I shift slowly, peeling myself out of bed with the kind of sore that makes me blush just thinking about how ithappened. Chase doesn’t move. He’s sprawled on his stomach, arm thrown across my side of the bed, unconsciously reaching for me.

I tiptoe into the ensuite, flick the light on, and wince as it floods the small space. My phone is still on the bathroom counter where I left it hours ago, and I pick it up, planning to check the time and scroll half-heartedly while I pee.

One notification is sitting on the lock screen. It’s an Instagram message from an account I don’t recognize. I frown, thumb hovering, and something sharp and cold fluttering in my stomach as I swipe it open. And then I stop breathing.

It’s a photo of me from tonight, standing rink side in Chase’s jersey, mid-cheer. Arms in the air and smile wide.

The photo’s taken from behind me in the stands, close enough to see the stitching on his name across my back.

You looked so pretty in his name tonight. Too bad it won’t last.

Frozen, I stare at the screen. The ache in my thighs, the hum in my bloodstream, the warmth I’ve been floating in since Chase scored that goal and pointed straight at me—it all ices over.

A slow, crawling awareness prickles at the back of my neck as I finish peeing and stand to wash my hands. I should go back to bed. I should forget the message, turn the light off, and crawl back under the covers into Chase’s arms.

I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until the silence fractures behind me with soft footsteps. Chase presses his chest to my back, arms winding around my waist as he nuzzles into the crook of my neck.

“I missed you,” he says hoarse with sleep, even though we’ve spent the last three hours wrapped around each other.

His hands skim lower, fingers splaying over my hips, then his mouth dips to the pulse point beneath my jaw, the one he always goes for first. As his tongue dips out against my skin, he pauses.

Blue eyes find mine in the reflection, eyebrows pulling together.

“Zo?”

I try to nod, to lie or do something, but I’m too slow. His gaze drops to the phone still clutched in my hand. His frown deepens as he sees the screen, grip tightening at my waist.

“What’s that?”

“DM,” I say softly. “Just now.”

He turns me around gently, stepping between my legs. “Let me see.”

“It’s nothing,” I whisper, but I’m a terrible liar. I don’t even sound convincing to myself.

His hand comes up, palm open, waiting. I hesitate for a beat too long.

“Zoe.”

I hand it over. His eyes scan the screen, but he doesn’t say a word. I can feel the rage vibrating off him in waves—his jaw grinding, one hand tightening on my hip, anchoring himself to me. His whole body is one breath away from violence. Instead, he finally speaks.

“Where the fuck did this come from?”

“It’s just another DM,” I say quickly.

“This is aphoto, Zoe.”

His eyes are wild now. He tosses the phone on the counter and runs a hand through his hair before gripping the edge of the sink hard enough to make it creak.

“They werethere.”

I don’t say anything, just stare off into the void, trying to decide what to do next. I exhale, then cross my arms to steady myself.

“You know,” I start lightly. “I always thought I’d be the kind of woman who’d kick a stalker in the balls and laugh about it on the ride home.”

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