Page 93 of Make the Play

I hum, tapping a finger to my lip. “Maybe Hutchy’s.”

Chase blinks. “Reid? He’sforty.”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Exactly!”

I smirk. “Maybe I like my men older. That’s calledstability, Walton. Maybe I’m trying to grow.”

He stares at me like I just suggested dating a houseplant. “You’d rather wearHutchison’sname?”

“I mean, he’s emotionally competent. That’s hot.”

Chase steps forward, and I see a little lick of fire behind his eyes. “He’s ourgoalie. He talks less than Pookie’s dog.”

“All the more mysterious.”

“So you like older men now, huh?”

I shrug. “He’s dependable. Disciplined. Probably owns a slow cooker and alphabetizes his spices—but I bet he’d still fold meandmy towels over in the laundry room, if you get what I mean. Moustache and all.”

He exhales through his nose, eyes narrowing. “Disciplined,” he says, voice dropping a note, “is the only part of that sentence saving you right now.”

“Wow. Getting possessive, Walton?”

“Gettingrealistic,” he says, stepping a little closer. “You think anyone at that arena’s gonna look at you wearing someone else’s number and not think I fucked up? What about the optics?”

I blink. Oh.

He tilts his head, knowing he’s won. “But hey, go ahead, wear Hutchy’s. I’ll just make sure everyone knows whose name youreallymoan. Might even give a few details to the reporters.”

I pinch my nose. “This is a fucking nightmare.”

“You said I’m not jersey-worthy!”

“I’m saying I have taste!”

Chase just grins, shameless. “You do. And you drooled on me, so I must be the main course.”

“Oh, you aresodamn cocky.”

He steps in close and looks down at me. “Confident, baby. There’s a difference.”

“Bold of you to think you’re some five-star meal.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice turns silky. “I’m the full tasting menu. Custom-curated. Decadent, and served all night.”

My throat goes dry.

He tilts his head, taking in my expression. “Dessert’s pretty good too. But you already knew that.”

My knees threaten to buckle. “You—”

“—moaned my name,” he finishes, smug as sin. “Every damn time.”

I blink rapidly because my brain has officially short-circuited. Because he’s standing here in those damn joggers with his damn pecs out, voice like honey and heat, and my entire nervous system is screamingjump him. Right here. In this stupid, overlit kitchen.

I can’t do this. Icannotdo this.

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