Page 99 of Make the Play

She rears back. “What do you mean,no?”

I take a step closer, arms crossed. “I mean, you’re not leaving this apartment in that outfit to chase a mystery rave into the woods by yourself.”

She scowls. “It’s not a rave,Dad.”

“Same fucking thing.”

Her hands fly to her hips. “Why do you even care?”

“Because you’re my girlfriend.”

Her mouth opens and closes. And there it is—the exact moment she realizes I’ve checkmated her with our own bullshit.

“Right,” she huffs, crossing her arms to mirror mine. “I get it, Walton, we’re fake dating. But it’ll be fine.”

I don’t blink. “If you wereactuallymy girl, I wouldn’t let you do it either.”

That seems to land. Because for all her sass and spitfire, Zoeknows. She might joke and chirp and push my buttons on purpose, but she knows she’s been spooked ever since that guy followed her home last week. Even if she won’t admit it.

“It’s been quiet,” she says, voice softer now. “No more weird messages. Nothing since the morning after the… that night.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s over.”

She doesn’t argue. Just looks at me for one long moment, before turning back to her pile of clothing.

I lower my voice, eyes tracking her movements. “You’re not going alone.”

Zoe exhales hard, pacing back toward the mirror. “I wasn’t even gonna go, but there’s a rumor the Vinyl Saints are headlining and—”

“You’re not going alone.”

She whirls around. “So what, you’re coming with me now?”

“Yeah. I fucking am.”

She laughs loudly. “You won’t survive ten minutes.”

“Try me.”

“You’re a hockey player, Walton.”

I take a step closer. “And you’re the woman every guy in a ten-mile radius is going to be staring at.”

Her brows lift, eyes gleaming with challenge. “So?”

I hold her gaze. “So, I’m not letting you walk into the woods alone while every drunk idiot with a heartbeat gets to orbit you like they’ve got a shot.”

I say it carefully, because I’m not trying to suggest what she’s wearing is an issue. If I did, she’d castrate me on the spot, and rightly so. She could walk in wearing a damn snowsuit and I’d still be out of my mind. It’s not the skirt—though the skirt is fucking phenomenal—it’sher.

It’s the way she moves. The way she laughs. The way she walks into a room, and people lean toward her because they can’t help it.

And yeah, it makes me feral. Not because I think she can’t handle herself, but because I’ve had a taste of being the one she looks at, and I’m not interested in sharing.

Zoe doesn’t move for a second, then she slowly shifts her eyes away, enough to break the charge between us.

“You don’t have to fake it this hard.”

I shake my head once. “I’m not.”