Page 214 of Make the Play

I wasn’t a person to him, I was a symbol. A threat. He wanted to humiliate me, ruin me. Scare me into leaving Chase alone for good.

He’s being held without bail. There’s talk of more charges, especially after they traced activity back to Pulse’s private servers. That part still makes me sick—how easily he got in, how long he watched. But it’s not my job to carry that anymore. My job is healing. Living. Reclaiming everything he tried to make me afraid of.

I try not to think about what could’ve happened if Chase hadn’t found me.

Instead, I think about the coffee.

The cinnamon rolls and the bagels.

The little bottles of nail polish that started showing up on my doorstep with handwritten tags. Soft lilac. Seafoam green. Not a single red.

I think about the banana bread. The fruit salad I pretended to hate but ate in two sittings. The way every small delivery made me feel anchored again, if only for a moment. Seen and remembered. Wanted.

And through it all, he’s never pushed. Not once.

He just keeps showing me he's here. So quiet and constant andChase.

It’s been over a week of soft contact. Texts with jokes and GIFs and “Good luck, Walton” texts before his games. Ten days of him reminding me, in the most unassuming ways, that I’m still Zoe. That I’m still allowed to want and still someone worth wanting.

And I want him, more than anything.

I do.

But there’s a tight coil of fear in my chest that hasn’t gone away, because the girl he fell for, the one who made him laugh until he nearly dropped his stick, who snapped back at every chirp with a better one… that girl hasn’t felt real in days.

I miss her, and I hate that I don’t know if she’s coming back. I don’t want to see him when I’m like this. Quieter, dimmer. Half-me. And I don’t know how to explain that I’m trying to come back to her, but right now, I don’t feel like enough.

The TV hums low in the background now while Charlie fusses in the kitchen, trying to find a clean bottle for Theo. We’ve just finished dinner—she said she wanted to watch the game with me since her parents are babysitting Noah and Meadow. But I know the truth. She’s here to make sure I don’t fall apart when no one’s looking.

Chase played well tonight. Two points and no fights. He did catch a stray fist when he jumped in to protect a rookie on the other team, though. It was reckless and noble and entirelyhim.

“Chase Walton, two points tonight and one hell of a fight in the second—”

My head snaps toward the screen, and there he is.

Hair damp, bruise curling under one eye, still in his jersey with a towel around his neck. He looks wrecked and beautiful.

Mine.

The reporter throws a question about the altercation, about composure and aggression, and how he balances the two.

“Some things get under your skin,” Chase says. “Make you play harder. Hit heavier. Stay in the game longer than you probably should.”

There’s a pause, and then the reporter asks if there’s anything else he’d like to say. Chase’s gaze sharpens. He nods, and then he locks onto the camera. My heart lurches, because I know—I know—he’s looking at me.

“Still here,” he says softly. “Still showing up, every game.” I swear my heart stops as he pauses for another beat, his signature smirk curling at the side. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

I lean back into the couch and stare at the screen even after the interview cuts to highlights, Chase’s words echoing in my head.

“You gonna go see him now?” Charlie asks, her voice gentle. “Talk it out?”

I don’t answer right away because I don’t know how. I want to, but I’m terrified. Because I’m not sure if I’ll shatter or come alive the second I’m close to him again.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

***

I’m lying in the dark, phone resting on my chest, weighing a ton more than it should. Charlie and Theo left hours ago, and I still can’t rest. The clip of Chase’s blue eyes boring through the camera and into my soul keeps playing on repeat in my head.

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