Page 22

Chapter sixteen

It’ll keep your hand from breaking

Zoe

I wake up to forty-two unread messages, seventeen Instagram tags, and a dull, traitorous ache in my lower back that tells me I slept like a shrimp.

Big shock: I didn’t sleep much. Not because of the paparazzi pictures, or the fact that “Chaz” is trending with some truly feral fan edits already, but because I can’t stop thinking about the kiss.

Still half-buried in the duvet, my phone buzzes and lights up.

That’s between us and God ??????

Claire: Ok, I’ve watched the kiss 15 times and I’m still not over the way he tucked your hair behind your ear like a goddamn romance novel hero.

Tamara: He had a hand on your waist and in your soul.

Lulu: You touched his jacket like it owed you money and he looked like he wanted to die happy.

Charlie: That kiss had plot, Zo. You were literally smiling INTO his mouth

Lulu: Y’all. Tell me why this fan edit has me kicking my feet like I’m 13 again watching One Direction perform in the rain.

She sends the clip, and I know I shouldn’t watch it. So obviously, I press play. I try to laugh it off as I watch the most deranged video footage of us in slow-mo, but my stomach does this weird swoop that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the fact that I liked it .

It’s grainy footage from some Instagram story, cropped vertically with a fake romantic filter slapped on top. The music is low and dramatic—a catchy bridge, of course—and the video is slowed to a crawl right at the moment I grab his lapels.

I watch myself pull Chase in. Watch the way his hand finds my waist, the way he kisses me back like it’s instinct .

And I hate it.

Not because it’s a bad kiss, it’s not. It’s… God, it’s hot.

It’s the kind of kiss that ruins things. Replaying on a loop you can’t scrub out, slipping under your skin and ticking like a bomb.

Lying in bed with my heart racing and my phone still buzzing, I can still feel the echo of his mouth on mine.

I shouldn’t have kissed him. Even worse, I shouldn’t be thinking about kissing him again.

Because the moment it ended, the second he looked at me like he didn’t recognize what just happened, I knew I’d fucked something up.

The whole ride home was quiet and tense, like we’d accidentally pressed play on something we were supposed to keep paused.

He didn’t even make a single joke. It felt way too serious, and it’s supposed to be fake.

I groan and flop dramatically onto my pillow, dragging the phone onto my chest. Half my hair’s doing this Medusa thing, and my mouth tastes like regret and poor choices.

This is a problem. Because Chase is loud and ridiculous and cocky in ways that should irritate the hell out of me, but somehow all he has to do is lean in, flash that stupid grin, and my brain forgets what it was yelling about five seconds earlier.

And it’s not just his stupid pretty face, it’s worse than that. It’s the ease . I’m starting to forget to be defensive when he’s around. He gets under my skin without even trying. Somehow, he makes me feel seen in this awful, inconvenient, soft kind of way. And I hate that I don’t hate it.

I toss the phone onto my bed, ignoring their ridiculous messages, and drag my heavy limbs into the kitchen. I need caffeine. Clarity. Possibly an exorcism.

While the coffee brews, I crack my back and open my Instagram.

Big mistake.

Tags. Reels. Headlines.

@sportsrumorsdaily: Power Couple Alert! Storm’s Chase Walton Makes It Official with PR Exec Zoe Carlson

@hockeyworld: Chaz Have Their First Public Kiss!

@puckbunniesunite: This has enemies-to-lovers energy and I, for one, support women winning.

The last notification isn’t a tag, though. It’s a DM. Blank profile, no picture.

@fridayseatrow4: Didn’t take you for the PDA type

I blink and read it again as my stomach tightens.

Weird. Creepy. Whatever.

Probably some loser troll in a basement with a burner account and too much time. This happens when you date someone famous. People get weird.

It’s not like I’m new to all this, either.

I’ve stood next to players during press scrums. Smoothed over scandals and sat beside the team in VIP boxes.

I’ve ended up in the background of enough photos to know how fast people notice patterns and turn them into stories.

Some fans follow me just for the glimpse they think I can give them.

Some fans treat the wives and girlfriends like collectibles. They catalog outfits and count interactions. Screenshot who’s sitting where and why .

I’ve seen accounts with entire spreadsheets dedicated to who spoke at who during post-game drinks.

So yeah, I know weird. And I know how fast attention can turn into entitlement.

I make my account private, then I close the app and toss my phone aside thinking that’ll keep the world out.

It doesn’t.

Because the thud in my chest hasn’t gone away. I still hear the click of camera shutters and feel the weight of Chase’s hand curling against my waist.

And for a second, I forget it was fake.

***

By the time I make it into Pulse, I’ve run out of shits to give about that weird message.

I’ve compartmentalized it and filed it away to deal with later, if ever.

Right now, all I can think about is the train wreck waiting for me in Conference Room B.

The first follow-up PR meeting with the Storm front office to discuss how our first public outing was received.

The elevator dings, and I step into the office, heels clicking against the polished floors of the foyer, and I’m instantly hit with a wave of excited energy as I enter the office floor.

“Zoe!” one of the junior execs calls from the bullpen, practically bouncing in her chair. “We were just talking about you! You slayed last night.”

Another voice chimes in, Jason from the digital team, half-hanging over the divider of his cubicle. “I’ve got three influencers already shipping you and Chase. One called it a redemption arc. The other said it gave her hope for love again.”

“Glorious,” I mutter, offering a weak smile as I head toward my office.

I don’t even have time to sneak down to Charlie’s office to debrief, because my inbox is a war zone. My Pulse team chat is on fire, and the ten a.m. debrief is glaring at me on my calendar.

Subject: STORM PR RECAP

Location: Conference Room B

Attendees: Zoe, Rachel Cohen (Pulse), John Raines, C. Walton (Storm)

Agenda: Public reception + next media steps

I slide into my chair and pull up the campaign metrics from last night’s post. My fingers move automatically, but my brain’s stuck on a loop of mouths colliding, teeth grazing, and fingers flexing.

Which is dumb, because that’s what the cameras needed. Heat and chemistry and plausibility. Check.

I take a deep breath, glance at the clock, and head down to the conference room.

Rachel’s already there, scrolling through engagement stats on her tablet. “Zoe, you’re a magician.”

“Please. I’m a crisis manager who likes lipstick. Let’s not oversell it.”

She snorts. “Well, whatever you are, the numbers love you. Followers up, sentiment positive. Even Puck Weekly is on board—and they once ran a story about Chase being secretly married to a pop star in Croatia.”

I’m about to make a snide remark when the door swings open.

Chase appears in a black tee and gray fucking joggers. Slightly damp hair indicating he just came from the gym, and that infuriating expression that makes my lungs forget how air works.

He doesn’t even look at me as he slides into the neighboring chair and places a to-go cup on the table in front of me. My eyebrows crease together as I scan the cup and realize it’s from my favorite spot again.

But unlike last time, he doesn’t make it a show—just casually nudges it closer. My traitor stomach flips because this is the second time he’s done it. The first time, I thought it was a joke. Part of the act. A one-off to get under my skin.

This time there’s no smirk. No showmanship, no baby . Just him, knowing and remembering. I hate that my fingers wrap around the warm cardboard without hesitation.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

I don’t look at him. Don’t comment on the damp curl of hair at his temple or the way his knee knocks mine under the table and stays there, swallowing the space between our limbs.

I definitely don’t react to the fact that he still smells faintly like citrus and clean sweat, almost as though he worked out then didn’t quite finish cooling off.

Across from us, John clears his throat, eyes already twinkling. “Well, I think we can all agree that last night was… effective.”

Rachel smiles and nods beside me. “Engagement numbers are through the roof. Press sentiment flipped overnight, and fans love the pairing.”

John huffs a laugh. “Let’s hope you two can keep this charade going until the end of the campaign window.”

“Don’t worry,” I say smoothly. “We can fake just about anything.”

Chase, who has been sitting there not saying a word, finally bristles next to me.

“And here I was thinking we were naturals,” he says, turning to me. “I mean, come on. That kiss was some award-winning shit.”

“Please,” I shoot back. “I was carrying the entire scene.”

He scoffs. “You were mauling me.”

“You were moaning .”

“Allegedly.” He grins at that, but it’s different from his usual easy ones. A little too sharp, a little too forced.

I hate that I know him well enough to notice, hate that I can feel the shift even when he’s smiling. This banter between us feels practiced and performed, and I realize we’re both pretending to be fine when we’re not.

So, I push.

“You’re just lucky I didn’t slip you tongue,” I say lightly, flexing out my fingers to study my nails. Hot pink French tips, today. “Would’ve knocked the smug right off your face.”

Chase’s eyes flick to mine, grin stretching dangerously wider. “Oh, sweetheart. If you’d slipped me tongue, I would’ve come up for a nightcap.”

I arch a brow, cool as ice. “I’m trying to decide if that’s a threat or a promise.”

“Both.”