Page 52 of The Play Maker

Holy shit.

For a second, I don’t think it’s real. My eyes are betraying me. They have to be.

Because Maisie Wilson—the girl who rolls her eyes and grumbles through every study session—is standing there in a tiny denim skirt that shows way more leg than I’ve ever seen on her, and a strappy pink top that hugs every curve, showing off collarbones and shoulders and all the things I didn’t even realize I was obsessed with until this very moment.

Her hair is loose, shiny, bouncing as she laughs at something someone said, and I swear to God, my chest actually fucking hurts.

What the hell is wrong with me?

She’s Maisie. My tutor. The girl who hands me worksheets and calls me out when I use the wrongyour.

I shouldn’t be looking at her like this.

And yet…

I can’t stop. Can’t tear my eyes away no matter how hard I try. Fuck, she looks beautiful. I always thought she was cute as hell from the moment I first saw those siren eyes, but this? This is different.

I need to stop staring.

I force myself to look away and slam back the last of my beer, hoping the buzz will dull the weird tightness buzzing in my chest. But then I hear her laugh.

Light. Soft.

And it’s aimed at some guy in the crowd who’s clearly got her full attention.

My blood runs cold.

It’s just a laugh. Just a guy talking to her. But something about it feels so fucking wrong.

My eyes snap back, locking on her.

She’s standing way too close to whoever the fuck that is, laughing like they’re sharing some private joke. And that’s when it hits me.

Holy shit. I don’t like this. At fucking all.

My jaw clenches.

I can’t see his face—just the back of his head—but something inside me bristles.

Who the hell is that?

A weird, hot pressure builds in my chest, and before I even think about what I’m doing, I’m moving straight toward her.

She doesn’t notice me at first. She’s still smiling up at him, oblivious to the fact that I’m spiraling over here like a goddamn idiot.

I slide in next to her, closer than I probably should, and let my arm curve around her waist like it belongs there.

It doesn’t. I know it.

But the guy next to her glances up at me, gives me a weird look and that’s good enough for me.

Maisie startles, her whole body jerking under my touch as she spins toward me.

“Austin?” she breathes, eyes wide, looking up at me.

Fuck.

I’ve seen her a hundred times—across the library table, her sleeves pushed up, biting her lip in concentration, hair falling messily over her face as she tries not to laugh at my dumb jokes—but I’ve never seen her like this.