Page 86 of Make the Play

She pushes open my bedroom door and stops, taking in the space.

Her gaze sweeps over everything—California king-size bed, navy sheets, dim lighting. A bottle of cologne on the dresser. A Storm hoodie I forgot to hang up, still flung over the foot of the bed. Hockey gear stacked neatly by the closet. No mess, but no personality either. Just a room built for function.

The air holds that familiar scent of citrus and sea salt, like me.

She drops her bag beside the dresser and throws me one last glance over her shoulder.

“You’re seriously sleeping on the couch?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, well… it’s late, so see you in the morning, roomie.” She smiles and closes the door in my face, because of course she does.

It’s so perfectly Zoe. One minute she’s laughing with her whole chest, letting me swipe tiny pieces of sawdust off her skin, and the next she’s pretending she doesn’t feel a thing, sliding her mask back into place and slamming my bedroom door in my face.

I wander back into the living room and stare at the couch I’m supposed to sleep on. The damn thing was left by the stylistwho staged the condo when I bought it, and it looks expensive and trendy in that straight-line, mid-century, bad-for-your-back kind of way. The cushions are too firm. The arms are at a weird angle. And I know for a fact it’s five-foot-seven long, tops.

I sigh and grab a throw blanket from the ottoman, then lower myself slowly, thinking maybe if I treat it with respect, it won’t destroy my spine.

Fifteen minutes in, I’ve adjusted my legs at least three times, rotated my neck twice, and I’m convinced I’m going to need a chiropractor in the morning. The blanket keeps sliding off. One of the decorative buttons on the cushion has made contact with my kidney. I close my eyes and try to breathe through it, cursing myself for being a noble idiot.

The only upside, theonlything keeping me tethered, is the sound of her. Quiet movements drifting from my bedroom down the hall. The soft rustle of her rummaging in her bag. The low, steady hum of running water. At one point, the mutedthunkof a drawer opening. The rhythm of it all is weirdly soothing. Domestic, almost.

Another thirty minutes crawl by, maybe more. Long enough that the house starts to creak a little under the weight of the quiet. I stare into the dark, watching shadows creep along the ceiling from the streetlights outside, wondering if she’s okay. If she’s sleeping. If she’s lying there wide awake, staring at the ceiling, too.

I’m halfway through convincing myself not to go check on her when I hear the bedroom door creak open. And then footsteps, bare feet padding against hardwood.

I glance toward the hallway just as Zoe steps into view.

Her hair’s a little mussed, arms crossed over her chest, one hip cocked. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts, my old team logo faded across the front, sleeves nearly to her elbows, and barelegs in black sleep shorts that I clock immediately and then spend the next several seconds pretending I didn’t.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just gives me a long, silent once-over on the couch like I’m the biggest dumbass she’s ever seen.

“You look ridiculous.”

“I feel worse.”

She tilts her head. “You’re actually trying to sleep on that thing?”

“Chivalry, baby.” I gesture weakly. “Can’t have your fake boyfriend getting too comfortable.”

Zoe rolls her eyes and exhales through her nose. “You’ve folded yourself onto that couch like a broken Transformer.”

“You’re underestimating my flexibility.”

“Gross.”

I grin. “You’re the one who brought up folding.”

She doesn’t laugh, just stares at me for another beat.

“Come to bed.”

My heart skips.

“…Sorry?”

She sighs, sharp and tired. “I can’t sleep. Your bed is massive, and you’re on a couch made for toddlers. Stop being a dumbass and just come share it.”

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