Page 32 of Make the Play

Behind me, the door creaks closed, and John looks up. “Zoe. Good, you’re here. Have a seat.”

I scan the room, my stomach twisting. “Where’s Walton?”

“He’s on his way,” John mutters.

I roll my eyes. Of course he’s late to his own goddamn crisis.

I slide into a chair near the end of the table and fold my hands on top, keeping my expression neutral. I might be close with the Storm players, might be in Chase’s inner circle, but in this room, I’m a professional PR executive.

John clears his throat. “Let’s get started.”

He nods to the social media manager, who turns his laptop around, and my brain short-circuits, because it’s a video.

A very fucking naked video.

The image is blurred, muted, paused before anything explicit, but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done.

For one horrifying second, my vision tunnels.

No.

We were careful. We didn’t film anything. Chase wouldn’t do this to me.

My lungs seize, and my mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, scrambling for any explanation I can think of. Then I register the blonde. The location. The time stamp.

I exhale so hard I nearly pass out.

It’s not us.

I go from paralyzed with terror to murderous in record time.

Beside me, the assistant GM scrunches his eyes closed. “Jesus Christ, Walton.”

Not my words, but I echo the sentiment.

John sighs heavily. “It’s old footage, but it’s already a disaster. It’s been circulating for hours. We’ve issued takedown notices, but”—he gestures vaguely—“it’s the internet.”

I know what that means. This isn’t going away.

“Before we move forward,” legal chimes in, “we need to confirm if there are any additional tapes. Any potential future leaks.”

I don’t move, and neither does anyone else. Because the seat across from me, the one that’s supposed to be filled by the man at the center of this fucking sex tape nightmare, is still empty.

Coach Benson exhales, jaw tightening. “Where the hell is Walton?”

Then, as if summoned by the devil himself, the door suddenly swings open, and there he is. Casual as all hell.

Every head turns, and the room shifts.

Chase Walton doesn’t just walk into a room, he tilts the gravity of it. Storm hoodie and sweatpants on, just-rolled-out-of-bed hair, his cocky grin already in place. Every damn thing about him is effortless and so infuriatingly at odds with this PR disaster that has the entire Storm front office sweating.

And that’s part of the problem, because it’s all an act.

This is serious, he should look at least mildly concerned. But instead, he drops into the seat across from me, leans back, and stretches his legs.

John’s eye twitches. “Nice of you to join us.”

Chase shrugs. “Sorry, didn’t realize we were having a full-blown intervention over my personal life.”

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