Page 181 of The Play Maker

No clue how we got from the rink to my driveway. Couldn’t tell you what street we turned on, what music was playing, if I even stopped at red lights.

All I know is Maisie Wilson—girl of my fucking dreams—is sitting in my passenger seat in her leggings and a puffy jacket. Her lipstick’s faded, just a hint of color left on her mouth, and I’ve got a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel because if I look at her too long, I might crash the damn car.

We pull up outside the house and I kill the engine. For a second I just stare at her. She blinks back at me, her cheeks the cutest shade of pink. But before she can say anything, I climb out, jog around to her side, and open the door for her.

I keep her hand in mine as we head up the drive. The porch light’s already off, since it’s past midnight, and everything’s quiet.

I unlock the front door and push it open, letting her go first. She slips past me, and I follow close behind, reaching back to pull the door shut with a soft thud.

I toss my keys somewhere on the counter—don’t even look. They clatter and land on something that’s probably not meant to be used as a key dish, but I don’t care.

I step behind her, press a hand to her lower back, and lean in close.

“C’mon,” I say quietly. “Upstairs.”

I guide her down the hall and up the stairs and push open my bedroom door, letting her step inside first before closing the door behind us.

She’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

I just stand there like an idiot, watching her like I don’t already know every inch of her face. And then I cross the space between us, slow, and hook my thumb under her chin, tilting her face toward mine.

“You were fucking incredible tonight, baby,” I say.

She lets out a tiny breathy laugh. “You already said that.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “I meant it then. Still mean it now.”

Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, and she tugs the sleeves of the hoodie down again, trying to disappear into it.

“You’re really bad at taking compliments, you know that?” I tilt my head at her. “You deflect every time.”

“I’m not deflecting,” she mumbles. “I just… I’m still kind of recovering from seeing my mom, I guess.” Her eyes flick up to mine—bright, nervous, blue as hell—and it knocks the wind out of me. “Thank you,” she adds. “For everything.”

“Anytime, baby.” I slide my hand to her cheek, thumb stroking her skin. I love holding her like this. Her face fits in my palm like it was made for it.

Maisie gives a quiet little chuckle. “She liked you, by the way,” she says.

My eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

“She called you sweet,” she says, scrunching her nose. “She doesn’t know how annoying you are sometimes,” she teases.

“Charming, baby,” I say, nudging her gently with my nose. “The word you’re looking for ischarming.”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile stretches. “She also said I was lucky. For having someone like you.”

That stops me.

Her voice is quiet now. Honest. No teasing in sight.

I brush my thumb along her jaw, tilting her face back to mine.

“You are,” I say, unable to help myself. “I’m a fucking catch.”

She scoffs, but she’s smiling, and it’s the kind of smile that makes my knees feel a little weak.

I grin, my hands finding her hips. Her fingers bunch into the front of my t-shirt, and she pulls me closer, just slightly, like she’s not totally sure she’s allowed to want this.

“You tired?” I murmur, brushing my thumb along the dip of her waist.