Page 187 of Make the Play

“It’s not just bad for you, it’s bad for her, and it’s bad for the team. I’m not here to babysit, Walton, but I’m also not gonna stand by while you self-destruct.”

He looks at me one last time, eyes scanning the blood on my tape, the bruises on my face, thenothingin my expression.

Then he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself, “Jesus. If this is howyou’redoing… I hope she’s okay.”

And he’s gone, clipboard clattering into the bench behind him.

I don’t move for a second, just try to regulate my breathing—or try to. Jake claps a hand against my shoulder, just enough to anchor me.

“You done?”

“No.”

“Well, get there,” he mutters. “Because if Zoe knew you were out there fighting with your shooting hand, she’d kick your ass herself.”

He starts to walk away, then stops and turns.

“She’s not mad at you,” he says, voice lowering. “She’s just scared… and hurting. Which is funny, because that’s exactly how you look right now, too.”

I don’t answer him because I have nothing left to say. Instead, I head for the showers.

The hot water stings when it hits my skin, and I just stand there for a long time, letting it burn down my back, over my busted hand, into the cuts I’m not sure I deserve to feel.

I brace one hand against the tile and bow my head. I see her face, the way she flinched when I reached for her. The way she suggested that she was just another notch in my PR circus.

I could’ve fixed this. Should’ve fixed it before she walked out.

But I didn’t, and now I’m standing here bleeding and bruised, waiting to hear back from my fucking condo security about the elevator footage, and all I want is her.

Not just her body or her mouth.

I want Zoe. Her fire, her chaos, her quiet. Her everything.

And I want her to want me back.

***

The condo is quiet when I get in. Too quiet, the way it’s been for days.

I kick off my shoes, then sit down hard on the couch, staring at nothing. My knuckles throb under the tape, but I don’t bother unwrapping them. The pain’s good. It gives shape to everything else.

I’m still sitting there twenty minutes later when my phone lights up.

Incoming call: Mom

I stare at the screen and almost let it go. She doesn’t call often because she knows I hate it, but she still tries sometimes, especially when I’m spiraling in public. I think about the game—me flying off the handle, blood on the ice, Coach screaming behind the bench. She would’ve been watching.

“Hey.”

There’s a pause, like she wasn’t sure I’d answer. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Her voice is soft. Careful.

“I, uh…” she clears her throat. “I saw the game.”

I shut my eyes and wait.

“You okay?”

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