Page 3 of Make the Play

“Nothing,” I sing-song with a grin.

I leave Logan to his crisis and head for the bar, where Chase is unfortunatelystillwatching me. He leans back with a grin as I sidle up next to him.

Resting my forearms on the bar, I ignore him for half a second longer than necessary before sighing deeply.

His grin just stretches wider. “Had a feeling you’d come over here eventually.”

“Considering we’re at a wedding and you’re blocking the bar, it was a solid bet.” I slide onto the barstool next to him, flagging down the bartender for a flute of champagne.

“See? You and I—we get each other.”

I side-eye him. “That’s aboldclaim.”

“And yet…” He winks.

The bartender places my drink in front of me, and I take a much-needed sip before surveying him. “You seem suspiciously well-behaved tonight, Walton.”

He rests a hand over his chest in mock offence. “Zoe Carlson, are you implying I’m not normally well-behaved?”

“Youhavebeen in more PR crisis talks than actual team meetings.”

As a defenseman for the Colorado Storm and the patron saint of PR disasters, he’s easily their most chaotic liability—and has been ruining my professional life with alarming enthusiasm since the day I was contracted to the Storm account three years ago.

Chase tips his beer like it’s some sort of accomplishment. “The difference is, PR meetings are optional. Team meetings are mandatory.”

My scoff is automatic, but his eyes stay on me, too steady and deliberate and distractingly blue. He’s daring me to pick up on what he’s actually saying, wants me to acknowledge it’s no coincidence.

I don’t. Instead, I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and pretend I don’t feel the weight of his attention.

My fingers tighten around my glass as I glance past him. Past the neat rows of liquor bottles reflecting the fairy lights of the dancefloor, past the polished silver taps…

To the white carnations again.

A flicker of a memory cuts through me. A ghost of a moment slipping through my ribs, piercing my heart before I can stop it. I almost wince at the sting but swallow it down, forcing my face to stay still.

Chase quietly follows my gaze.

His beer hovers just shy of his mouth, brows pulling together before his voice drops. “You okay?”

I freeze for half a second too long.

Not because of the question, but because of how he asks it. It’s not casual. He’s not teasing. He’s asking like he means it, and he’s been doing that a lot lately.

I lift my glass, take a slow sip, then roll my shoulders back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Chase watches me, eyes lingering like he knew I wouldn’t answer honestly but needed to check anyway.

And this is what unnerves me about him. Not the flirting. Not the smirking or the relentless teasing.

This.

The way he so easily peels back my mask and sees things he’s not supposed to—things I keep hidden behind a perfectly timed joke or one-liner. He’s looking at me like he’s weighing whether to push or not.

“Carnations,” I say finally, turning the glass in my hands. “They last a long time.”

He lifts his beer to his lips again with a nod, watching me over the rim. “Yeah. They do.”

There’s a beat too long between us, just enough to make my fingers twitch against my glass. I clear my throat, shifting in my seat.

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