Page 123 of The Play Maker

I run a hand through my hair and exhale hard through my nose. I’m still reeling, still trying to make the dots connect. But I don’t give myself time to spiral. I push up from the booth before I can second-guess it.

“Where are you going?” Ryan asks, confused.

I don’t answer him. Just mutter, “I’ll be back,” and weave through the crowd on autopilot.

She doesn’t see me at first, but when I step into her space, she turns and her lips part slightly when her eyes find mine.

“Hey,” she says softly, her voice barely audible over the music.

“Hey.” I stop just in front of her, close enough to reach for her if I wanted to. And I do. Christ, I do. “Glad you came.”

She smiles, a small one that tugs at something behind my ribs. “Congrats on the win.”

“Thanks.” I shoot her a grin. “You’re my good luck charm.”

She lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “I’ve been to one game, Austin. That doesn’t exactly qualify me for charm status.”

“Trust me,” I say, my voice dipping lower as my eyes stay locked on hers. “It does.”

She goes still, just for a second. Her lashes lower, then lift again, slower this time, like she’s trying to steady herself.

I step in closer. The space between us narrows, and I can feel the heat coming off her skin. I can smell her—the familiar sweet vanilla scent and that same cherry lip balm I swear I’d recognize anywhere.

“Dance with me,” I murmur.

Her brows lift. “What?”

I don’t explain. Don’t give her room to overthink it, to come up with reasons not to. I just reach for her hand, slipping my fingers between hers, and give the gentlest tug toward the edge of the crowd where people are slow-swaying.

Her hand tenses in mine. A little twitch, like she’s not sure. But she doesn’t pull away.

I guide her into the open space, and when I press my other hand to the small of her back, I feel her stiffen slightly, but then she exhales, and her body eases into mine.

Her cheeks are flushed, eyes flicking down to where our bodies almost touch.

I reach up slowly, brushing my knuckles along her cheek, soft as I can. Her skin is warm under my touch. I tilt her chin gently until her eyes lift to mine, wide and unsure and so fucking pretty it hurts.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Mais.”

Her expression flickers. She draws in a sharp breath and shakes her head. “Don’t say that.”

I tilt my head, my eyes locked on hers. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t mean it,” she says, and fuck, it guts me.

“I mean every word.” I assure her as I lean in, close enough to feel her breath. “I haven’t stopped thinking about these big blue eyes since the day I knocked you in the head.”

She swallows hard, her throat bobbing slightly, and I watch her lashes sweep down, hiding herself from me. I hate that she doesn’t believe it. That no one’s ever made her believe it.

“You don’t like me,” she says quietly, like she’s still trying to convince herself. “You’re just?—”

“Don’t.” I step closer, resting my forehead against hers. My hand slides to the back of her neck, holding her gently. “Please don’t tell me how I feel.”

Her lashes flutter and her breath hitches as she looks up at me again—shy and pink-cheeked and so goddamn breakable I want to wrap her up in my arms and never let go.

Behind us, “The Only Exception” by Paramore drifts through the speakers, and the lyrics might as well be carved into my chest.

Because she’s my exception.