Page 194 of Make the Play

But it’s not, none of this is fine.

“I should head out,” I say abruptly, pulling my coat up with fingers that aren’t quite steady. “Long day.”

He stands immediately, too fast and way too eager.

“I’ll walk you out. You parked out front?”

I shake my head too quickly. “No, it’s fine. I took a rideshare.”

He nods. “I’ll drive you back.”

Just like that. No pause, not a question. Just a decision he’s already made for me.

I force a smile that's tight and overly polite as I pull on my coat. “I’m good, thanks. I’ll just order one.”

His eyes flick over my face, searching for something, but I’m already slipping out of the booth. My legs are steady, but the bar feels louder than it did a minute ago, like all the conversations have turned up a notch. The air is thick.

I head straight for the door, my boots hitting the sidewalk as the cool air slaps me in the face. It helps a little, but something’s off. I’m a fraction too warm and my skin feels wrong.

I dig into my bag, pulling out the zipper I always keep closed, the one where I keep my phone.

My breath catches as I realize it's not there. I check again. Then the main compartment, the back one. Nothing.

Shit.

I must've left in the cab on the way over. I glance over my shoulder at The Matchstick. I’ll go back in, ask them to call one for me. It’ll be fine.

I turn back toward the door—and nearly collide with him.

Nate.

He’s already outside, but I didn’t even hear him come out.

“Problem?” he asks, all calm concern.

My heart kicks hard. “No. I just forgot my phone. Think I left it in the first cab.”

He hums. “That’s annoying.”

“I’m gonna go back inside, ask the bartender—”

“I’ll drive you,” he says smoothly. “It’s not a big deal. My car’s just around the corner.”

The sidewalk tilts slightly beneath me, or maybe it’s the world. I blink hard, steadying myself. My limbs feel slower now, heavier than they should.

I try to smile as my heartbeat ratchets up, tight in my throat.

“I’m okay. Really.”

But evenIdon’t believe it. My voice is too thin and off-kilter, my words slurring faintly at the edges.

Nate watches me, head tilted. He steps toward me, all polite confidence. His hand grazes the small of my back, lower than it should be. It’s not aggressive or overt, but it feels wrong,and I flinch.

He doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t apologize, and certainly doesn’t pull back. He just keeps walking, guiding me down the pavement. I feel the panic building under my ribs, tight and electric.

As we walk, his words blur together like static and white noise. Something about Chase’s career, the Storm, how badly he’s been playing, and how “real fans” always see the whole picture.

I nod at intervals, trying to keep up the illusion, but my legs feel heavier with each step. My thoughts fuzz around the edges, like my brain’s underwater.

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