Page 213 of Make the Play

There’s only one person in this world I wanna marry.

“Fuck off.”

“Nah, seriously. That was solid, man.”

“I wasn’t about to let some kid get trampled by skates.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Chase Walton?” he mutters, snapping his helmet into place as we line up again.

“Self-growth,” I say flatly.

“Gross.”

Zoe’s text flashes behind my eyes. “Try not to lose any teeth.”

I shift my grip on my stick and anchor down, drive the puck hard along the boards, and make clean passes. I block a shot with my thigh and feel it bruise instantly, but don’t wince. When their left wing tries to stick me in the heel, I don’t bite. Just push past him and keep skating.

Logan bumps me on the bench. “You sick?”

Lovesick.

“Maybe.”

We win 4–2. I make it through the handshake line with barely any blood on my jersey and my ribs screaming under the weight of every breath.

In the locker room, everyone’s buzzing, but I’m quiet. Still waiting. Maybe for her name on my screen, maybe for something I can’t name. Instead, I get reporters.

The usual suspects crowd in, lobbing questions about line changes and playoff positions and whether I’mfinally maturing out of my fight phase.

I play nice and give them the soundbites, just like Zoe has trained us all to do. Everything is going fine until one of them pipes up, squinting.

“You seemed stiff out there tonight, Walton. Especially first period. From the fight—or something else?”

I blink and consider revealing the tattoo on national television for everyone to see. So they know how much I fucking love her.

But I don’t.

This isn’t for them.

It’s for her.

Chapter forty-two

Phil the eye bruise

Zoe

The apartment is quiet in that soft, golden-hour kind of way, sunlight pooling against the couch cushions and warming the hardwood floor. I haven’t turned the TV off yet, haven’t even moved from my spot on the couch, legs curled beneath me, one of Chase’s hoodies swallowing my frame. It still smells like him—clean and warm and stupidly comforting.

It’s been over a week since the assault. Ten days since I came home with my fury and bruises and a heart so sore I wasn’t sure it would ever beat normally again.

But I’m okay.

I pressed charges against Nate the morning after, and Charlie came with me. I was still in a daze, but I signed every formand gave my statement. Let them take photos of the bruises I couldn’t even look at.

The officer handling the case told me Chase won’t be facing anything. Apparently the footage, the markings on my wrists, and the emergency alert data were more than enough to label it self-defense. Reasonable force. Necessary, even.

As for Nate, he’s in custody. They’ve found more screenshots, logs, a burner account that traces back months. DMs he never sent. A draft folder full of messages he wrote and rewrote like he was having a one-sided conversation with a version of me that never existed. The officer said he fixated on me because I was visible. Accessible. Because I got too close to someone Nate idolized and didn’t believe I deserved.

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