Page 208 of Make the Play

Not a clean break, a spiderweb fracture that starts beneath my feet and spreads outward, silent and fast. I try to scream, but the sound sticks in my throat as the ice gives way. Cold swallows me whole.

My hands claw at nothing as water slams into my lungs, and Jordan’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Chase. I’ve got you—just hold on.”

But I can’t, I’m slipping.

I see him dive in, feel his grip on my collar yanking me up while the ice pulls at him instead. Only this time, it isn’t Jordan.

It’s Zoe.

She’s the one screaming. She’s the one beneath the surface.

Her arms thrash, her panicked eyes find mine, and I can’t move. I’m frozen while Nate’s hands are on her, dragging her down—

I jolt awake, lungs burning, heart slamming into my ribs like it’s trying to escape. My skin is slick with sweat, my shirt twisted, and the sheets are tangled at my feet. I push upright, press the heels of my hands to my eyes and try to ground myself, but it’s no use.

It’s 3:12 AM, and I can still hear her. Still hearhim.

I drag myself to the kitchen, run the cold tap, and cup the water to my face. I don’t drink it, just let it drip down and anchor me in the silence.

I stare at my phone for a long time, contemplating whether to call her to check in. Or send her a text to let her know I’m thinking about her. But it’s the middle of the fucking night, and hopefully she’s in bed, safe and warm and fast asleep.

So instead, I do something I haven’t done in a long time. I scroll to a name I’ve looked at more times than I’ve touched, and I hit call.

It rings twice before a familiar voice crackles through the line. Low, warm, and completely incredulous.

“Holy shit,” he says instead of hello. “Are you dying?”

I almost laugh. “Not yet.”

“Because this is either the rapture or you finally grew a conscience and decided to call your favorite brother.”

“You’re my only brother.”

“Exactly. And I’m still the favorite. Don’t be jealous of my win percentage.”

I let the banter settle in my chest like warmth. He’s always been like this—sharp, fast, so damn alive. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice in a while and I already feel something loosening in my ribs.

“I didn’t mean to call this late.”

“Bullshit,” he says easily. “You’ve had nightmares. Let me guess—lake?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“How’s the foot?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Still attached,” he says. “Still ugly. Still not scoring hat tricks with it, but you know. I’ve adjusted.”

He says it like it’s a joke, as if it never gutted him, but I know better.

“I, uh…” I pause. “I’ve been thinking about that day a lot.”

There’s silence, and his voice is gentler when he speaks.

“The lake?”

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