Page 44

Chapter twenty-eight

Want you to wear my favorite name on your back

Zoe

I ’ve barely taken a sip of my coffee before my phone buzzes for the third time this morning.

Pulse HQ is already loud with movement—phones ringing, laptops open, game-day banners and promos being double-checked like we’re about to launch a presidential campaign instead of a hockey season.

And in the middle of it all: me, juggling three PR decks, two media prep sheets, and a senior manager who just asked if the players could be “more camera-ready” for the sport where they punch each other in the face for fun. I heave a sigh at my desk, tabbing over to my inbox on my computer.

I’m expecting more internal emails from our PR Slack channel, but it’s a Storm memo.

From: John Raines | Head of PR | Colorado Storm

To: Zoe Carlson, Chase Walton

Subject: Game Day: PR Reminder – Media Conduct + Visibility

Hey team,

Quick reminder ahead of tonight’s home opener—great job on optics so far, media sentiment is net positive after the past few “spontaneous” sightings.

That said, let’s cool off the PDA for the opener itself.

And let’s organize a catch-up at some point soon to discuss an end date for the relationship storyline.

Also, given the recent uptick in social media activity and after your reports of concerning behavior, Zoe, I’ve looped in venue security and Storm ops. They’ll be running elevated checks at both entrances tonight, just in case.

Appreciate you both.

– JR

Great. Nothing says good morning like let’s discuss when you and your fake-but-not-fake boyfriend are breaking up, and also, we think someone might be trying to kill you, so we’ve let security know.

Before I can close the email tab, my phone lights up again.

Chase: We’re not cooling anything, sweetheart. Come home and let me lick you so you can report me to HR

Me: you’re all bark, Walton

Chase: just got home from 4 days away and you’re not here. rude.

Me : Some of us have actual jobs

Chase : Some of us haven’t seen our girl in 4 days and just learned they have a pink luxury vibrator.

Me: You jealous of a toy, big guy?

Chase: Nah. Just ready to show you what Dolce Waltonato can do.

I suck in a sharp laugh and glance around to ensure no one is reading over my shoulder, even though I’m in my office.

Me : It’s the home opener, you’re lucky I don’t block you

Chase : You’ll forgive me when you find what I left you.

I frown, thumb hovering over the screen.

Me : What did you do

Chase : who, Zo. The question is who did I do. And the answer’s you. And I will again tonight. After we win.

I lock my phone and toss it face down on my desk before I can do something unprofessional like combust in the middle of my office.

The day passes in a sprint, and I don’t make it back to the condo until almost four, Pulse lanyard still around my neck and a half-drunk coffee in hand.

I’ve got just enough time to shower, reapply my make-up, and change into something semi-rinkside-appropriate that will have Chase still begging for me later.

Though going off the state of his texts, which have declined into unhinged filth throughout the day, I could wear a paper bag tonight and he’d still get on his knees. Good.

I shake the thought off and toss my bag on the couch, unbuttoning my blouse as I walk toward his bedroom.

I need to keep it in check, especially today.

Especially on the day the Head of PR just reminded us to cool the PDA.

This is the home opener, not an excuse to straddle a Storm player in public, even if every bone in my body wants to.

The bedroom is quiet when I step inside, just how I left it this morning. But now, there’s the faint smell of citrus and cotton in the air, a ghost of a scent to remind me he was here just a few hours ago.

My eyes scan the room, searching for any other little hints of him, when I spot something neatly folded at the foot of the bed. His jersey. Storm navy blue with blocks of white and a burgundy trim.

I walk closer, fingers brushing over the fabric, and see a small note tucked just underneath the hem. The paper’s creased, the handwriting messy and boyish, like he wrote it in a rush before heading to the arena.

Want you to wear my favorite name on your back.

P.S. Also want a photo with nothing under it.

I scoff automatically, because of course he wants me wearing his name. But my thoughts stall the second I flip the jersey and see what’s on the back.

Taped over his last name in white athletic tape is a new one, hand-scrawled in Sharpie pen. Messy and bold and stupidly perfect.

CARLSON

I stare at it, breath catching in my throat, because of course he did. Of course he turned it into this sweet and impossible and devastating moment.

My cheeks heat, and I take a beat to settle my racing heart, which seems to be in some sort of battle with my brain because it hasn’t accepted how fucking in love I am with this man yet.

I’m about to pull the jersey over my head and do exactly what he asked when my phone buzzes.

Pulse Ops – Event Day Chat Hey Zo, can you handle Storm walk-in content tonight? Lee’s out sick. Would be a huge help ?? Reel template + shot list just sent to your inbox.

I exhale through my nose, then tap a quick thumbs-up and toss the phone onto the bed. Walk-in content duty. As if I needed more opportunities to completely lose my shit tonight.

I grab a quick shower to scrub off the day and rinse the tension from my bones.

Then, with a towel wrapped around me, I select a pair of black leather pants and a cream camisole—flattering and easy, just enough bite to feel like armor.

I’ll top it with an oversized blazer, professional enough to look Pulse-sanctioned.

Gold hoops. Nude lipstick and gloss. A little extra mascara to hide the chaos brewing behind my eyes.

It’s giving I’m here to manage optics, but I might also ruin your entire life if you say one wrong thing about my boyfriend .

Before I put everything on, I glance back at the jersey and grab it, pulling it over my head slowly and smoothing it down. It’s oversized, loose, and hangs just past mid-thigh. It smells like him, citrusy and warm, a little spicy, and I instantly feel lighter.

For just a second, I don’t feel like the girl juggling optics and headlines and a media circus.

I just feel like his .

Then I lift my phone and take the photo. Barefoot, standing in the middle of his bedroom, jersey hem brushing the tops of my thighs, my outfit tossed off to the side. I send it with no caption.

Thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes.

Chase: You’re evil.

Me: I’m wearing pants to the arena. Don’t get any ideas

Chase: Too late. I’m already half hard

Me: Put that energy into scoring goals, Walton

Chase: You ARE my goal, sweetheart.

Me: God, I hate you.

Chase: No you don’t.

I toss my phone back on the bed with a grin and focus on getting dressed. The jersey goes over my camisole and under the blazer, because I decide I should at least remain impartial while on walk-in duty.

Pausing at the front door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My blazer’s on, bag slung over my shoulder, heels in hand. But something tugs at me.

I turn slightly, pulling my blazer off and craning to see my back. My eyes catch on that messy strip of athletic tape with my last name scratched across it, pretending it’s a joke when really, it’s the most serious thing I’ve ever seen.

And I get why he did it. It was his way of handing over control and showing me I could be his without giving up any part of myself.

Which is exactly why I reach back and peel the tape off, tossing it onto the hallway table.

Because I’m still me, and I still won’t wear anyone’s name.

Unless it’s his.

***

The air in the arena is buzzing before the crowd even arrives.

I’m tucked just off to the side of the Storm’s entry hallway, holding my phone steady as I film for the official walk-in reel.

The Pulse social team sent through the shot list, but it’s mostly vibes—they trust me to know what hits.

Tailored suits, swagger, energy. It’s not hard with this team, they know how to sell it.

Each guy gives me something. A chin lift, a grin, a little nod.

Logan spins like he’s on a runway, Ryan throws a wink, Eli blows me a sarcastic kiss just to make my eyes roll.

Reid, as always, just stalks past like he’s been inconvenienced by oxygen.

Jake throws me a smirk and mouths, Nice jersey , and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

Chase is still missing, but I’m not surprised. He always cuts it close.

I’m running on autopilot, lens up, mouth smiling, pretending to be unbothered while my entire body is very bothered under this blazer. The jersey clings to my skin, my heart pounding every time I move and feel it shift.

And then I hear him. The easy swagger of his voice and laughter from down the tunnel before I even see his face.

Chase rounds the corner in a navy suit and white dress shirt, top button undone, collar slightly rumpled like he tugged at it on the drive over.

His hair is swept back, damp at the edges, and his hands are in his pockets like he’s not the sharpest, cockiest motherfucker to ever walk through this tunnel.

And his eyes—those bright, electric blue eyes of his—are locked on mine the second he sees me.

The camera is still rolling, but I’m not sure I’m even holding it steady anymore.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he strolls past, dropping his voice low. “You wearin’ what I think you’re wearin’ under there?”

I lift my chin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He flashes a look that says he does know and that he’s been thinking about it for hours, and then he keeps walking, the rest of the world none the wiser.

By the time the last player’s through, my hands are sweaty.

I manage to hold it together just long enough to finish the reel, but the second my replacement arrives, I hand over the gear and duck out through the staff door, slipping down a quieter corridor toward one of the media rooms we sometimes use for quick interviews.

I lean against the cool wall for a second and then tug open my bag to grab lip gloss and reapply. I’m just heading back out when I pause, glance down at the hem of my blazer, and shrug it off. If I’m sitting rink side for the damn home opener with Tamara and Lulu, I’m wearing this jersey proudly.

Draping the blazer in the crook of my arm, I smooth my hands over my hips—and then freeze when I hear footsteps behind me. I glance over my shoulder, and he’s already there.

Chase leans against the corridor wall, arms folded, his heated gaze locked on me. His eyes drop to the jersey, and his face sharpens.

“You took the tape off.”

I nod once, turning to face him. “I wanted to wear your name.”

He doesn’t move for a beat, just stares as if he’s recalculating his entire life around this moment. Then he pushes off the wall, and in two strides, he drags me to him. One hand cups my jaw as his mouth crashes onto mine, rough and desperate and so goddamn hungry it knocks the breath out of me.

I gasp against his lips, clutching his suit jacket, and he groans into my mouth like he’s been starved for days. Which, technically, he has.

“You’re not allowed,” he mutters, trailing hot kisses along my jaw, “to wear my name like that, say shit like that, and then expect me to fucking behave.”

“PR said no PDA,” I manage, even as my fingers slide under his lapel, dragging him closer.

“Fuck PR.” His hand slips to my waist, dragging me flush against him. “You know what that jersey does to me? Four days without you, and now you’re walking around in my name, wearing fuck-me pants and looking like a wet dream.”

I huff a breathless laugh. “Don’t you have a game to play?”

He nips at my bottom lip. “Gonna score just to get to my celly song faster.”

All I can do is scoff, still hungry for his lips on mine.

“I’m serious.” He drags his mouth to my pulse point. “And after the game, you’re keeping that jersey on while I fuck you in nothing else.”

“Chase,” I whisper, just to watch him lose it.

He groans again. “Keep calling me that, sweetheart, and I’ll do something highly illegal in this hallway.”

I hum a laugh, then press one more kiss to his lips before stepping back to collect as much composure as I can muster. He stands there, hands flexing at his sides in a way that makes me think he’s about to pounce again.

“Save it for the ice, big guy.”

He smirks. “You’re my ice.”

“And you’re cringe.”

“You’re my goal, my reward, my—”

“Go away before I do something I’ll regret.”

His grin is dangerous as he bites his lip, then walks backwards down the hallway like he’s physically incapable of turning his back to me. “You look so fucking good in my name, Zo.”

I throw a look over my shoulder as I turn to leave.

“I know.”