Page 49 of Make the Play

The room is deadly silent. I stare at him, my stomach twisting. He doesn’t have to do this. He should care about his own career first, his own reputation. He shouldn’t be fighting for me like this.

But he is.

Neil’s face is several shades of rage. “You are an NHL—”

“I don’t give a fuck if I’m the damn muffin man,” Chase says coolly, leaning back again. “No one touches her.”

No one says a word. I’m supposed to be the one in control here. I’m the one who fixes things. I’m the one who steps in, takes the heat, and makes sure the optics are handled. But Chase just did that for me with no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just casually put his entire reputation on the line.

And the worst part is, I think he means every word.

John exhales through his nose, adjusting his tie. “No one is looking to ‘touch’ her, Walton.” And then he turns to Neil with a nod. “Let’s add the clause.”

Chase holds his gaze. “Good.”

Silence stretches. The room is waiting for Chase to crack a joke, waiting for him to go back to being the guy who never takes anything seriously, but he doesn’t.

And then, like this entire thing isn’t the hottest display of male attention I’ve ever been on the receiving end of, he leans back again.

“Because I’m telling you right now, Johnny”—he finally grins, stretching his arms behind his head again—“I’m a fucking drama queen when I don’t get my way.”

I feel every single pair of eyes flick to me, and my stomach turns over.

Chase finally turns to me, too, smirking like he didn’t just strong-arm an entire NHL front office into protecting me.

“There,” he murmurs. “Now we’re equals, baby.”

And somehow, this is the moment I know I’m completely, irreversibly fucked.

***

The door to my office closes with a solid click.

I look up from where I’ve been staring blankly at my desk, trying to process the absolute chaos of the last hour, and find Chase leaning against the door with his arms crossed.

My stomach tightens. “Shouldn’t you be skating off your stupidity or something?”

He ignores that. “You good?”

I blink. Am Igood?No. I’m not fucking good.

I spent an entire meeting trying to act unaffected while he casually threw his entire reputation on the line for me. Now I’m sitting here, trying to get my brain to compute what just happened. Because what he did was unnecessary. Stupidly reckless.

I shake my head, shifting in my chair. “Why did you do that?”

He lifts a brow. “Do what?”

“That.” I gesture vaguely at him, still trying to find the words. “You didn’t need to fight for me like that.”

His face goes carefully neutral. “Yeah, I did.”

I stare at him. My pulse ticks and I search his face, waiting for the joke, the punchline, the Walton-style grin that means he’s about to mess with me.

It doesn’t come.

“No, you really didn’t.”

I watch the muscle in his jaw twitch. “Then why the fuck wasn’t it in writing?”

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