Page 68 of Make the Play

Because his grip on the wheel is still tight, and he still won’t look at me.

And that’s what gets to me, because Chase Walton doesn’t do controlled. Not when he’s off the ice. He’s wild and reckless and loud. Not this. And for once, I don’t know what to say.

Shit.

The drive stretches on in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space between us. When we finally pull up to my building, Chase doesn’t make a move to get out, doesn’t unbuckle his seatbelt, doesn’t do any of the things he usually would.

No lingering, no teasing. Nosweet dreams, sweetheart,or some brazen innuendo about coming up for a nightcap.

Just a quick, intense look before his eyes flick to the dashboard. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Zo.”

I should have some kind of snappy reply, something sharp to throw back at him.

But instead, I just nod, fingers curling around the door handle as I step out into the night. Chase’s SUV idles for a moment longer before he pulls away.

As I watch his taillights disappear down the street, I can’t shake the feeling that something just shifted. And I don’t know if I like it.

With a sigh, I make my way up to my apartment, kicking off my heels the second I step inside.

My phone buzzes as I sink onto the couch, the screen lighting up with a flood of notifications. Mentions, comments, tags. All from tonight.

I scroll absently, barely reading as my feed fills with headlines.

“Storm’s Chase Walton Goes Public with PR Exec Zoe Carlson”

“Fake or Real? Fans Weigh in”

“Hockey’s Newest Power Couple?”

I roll my eyes, about to toss my phone onto the table, when a comment catches my eye.

Didn’t think you were the spotlight type, guess I was wrong.

The account name doesn’t ring a bell. Neither does the next comment.

Weird seeing him smile like that in public. She has him wrapped around her finger.

A chill pricks at my skin, and I frown, tapping the profile. No pictures. No followers. Just a generic username—the kind made in seconds. I tell myself it’s nothing, just some random troll on the internet.

But as I scroll back up, re-reading the words, something uneasy settles in my stomach, because they don’t feel random at all. They feel like they’re from someone who’s been paying attention.

Chapter fifteen

She’s in my head and on my mouth

Chase

Ishould’ve kissed her back like it meant nothing.

Should’ve smirked, shrugged, maybe tossed in a line about how I’ve had better. Instead, I drove off with my brain wiped clean and replaced with static.

Now I’m sitting in my kitchen, elbows on the counter, watching ice melt in my whiskey and hoping it might settle the riot in my chest. One cube cracks and splits down the middle, and I flinch like it’s a warning shot.

Zoe Carlson kissed me again tonight. Not drunk and impulsive in a photo booth this time. Not hidden behind a curtain, not something she could laugh off the next morning or blame on too many drinks and not enough sense.

This time, she kissed me in front of the press. In front of the cameras and probably half the damn league. She pulled me in with both hands and kissed me like she meant it, like there was no one else in the world but me. And I kissed her back like Ireallymeant it.

Because I did.

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