Page 24 of Make the Play

Hair messed. Lips dry from kissing.So much kissing.Throat covered in bite marks.

For fuck’s sake, is this man a hockey player or a goddamn vampire?

I tilt my head to inspect the bruised skin, feeling the faint tingle of where he sank his teeth into me, dragging his mouth down my throat, kissing and biting his way down to my—

No. Absolutely the fuck not.

My fingers tap against the sink, my brain cycling through every possible consequence, scanning for an excuse that doesn’t exist.

I look like a woman who made bad decisions. Like a woman who definitely, absolutely should not have slept with Chase Walton.

This is fine.This is fine.

Except it’s not.

Because this was never supposed to happen. Because I can’t afford to let it happen again. And especially because I fucking liked it.

I push that thought out of my head. Irrelevant. Instead, I try to recall my meditation words, the ones I started practicing last year after a particularly bad PR scandal nearly shaved years off my life. I try to summon the calm I need because of people like the one currently lying naked in a bed on the other side of this wall.

The one that made me come so hard last night, I saw stars.

The one I knew would ruin me, and I let him anyway.

I swallow hard, my pulse spiking again. Think. Strategize. Use your fucking PR brain, Zoe. What’s the play here?

Option A: Burn the hotel down. Probably too much flame and brimstone, even for me. Option B: Disappear into the mountains and live off-grid. Ew. I need Wi-Fi. Option C: Leave immediately and never, ever speak of this again.

Right. C. It’s definitely C.

No one can ever know about this. Not Charlie. Not a single one of the Storm. Notanyone.Because if this gets out, if people even suspect something happened between us, I’ll lose my job. I will never be taken seriously in sports again. I will be just another mistake tied to Chase Walton’s name.

The thought makes my stomach twist.

I reach for my hair on instinct, gathering it over one shoulder, fingers twisting the ends into something neat and presentable. Somethingnormal. But it’s too much of a mess. Too tangled.

I smooth it down and try again, but no matter how I run my fingers through it, I can still feel him there. His hands fisting in it, his breath at my neck. The way he tilted my head back so he could kiss medeeper, trying to memorize every part of me.

My heart thunders.

I turn and slam the shower on so hard the pipes rattle, step under the scorching water, and press my forehead against the tiles.

This was nothing. Just sex. A reckless, stupid, alcohol-fueled mistake. We got it out of our systems and will never speak of it again. All I need to do is wash the scent of him from my skin, brush the feel of his tongue out of my mouth, and not think of him every time I try to get off with my vibe for the next few weeks.

Easy.

Rinsing off, I step out of the shower and grab a fresh, fluffy towel to wrap around me. I curse the fact I didn’t bring my dress into the bathroom with me, but it’s fine. I’m feeling marginally more human, and that’s what matters.

Inhaling deeply, I turn the lock on the door and re-emerge into the hotel room, bracing for too much eye contact, innuendo, and smart-ass jokes.

But the first thing I notice is the empty bed. No naked Chase sprawled out as I left him. No evidence he was just there, stretched out and arrogant as hell.

Good.

Maybe I’ve gotten lucky. Maybe he went and showered in a different room. I speed-walk toward the armchair in the corner, where my dress is draped like a crime scene.

Grab it. Get dressed. Get the fuck out of here.

I reach for the fabric—

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