Page 79 of The Wrong Play

Jace’s grin was never-ending as he steered me forward again, his arm a warm weight I couldn’t shake. “We’ll see, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dipping low, teasing and sure. “We’ll see.”

A thrill shot through me, curling low in my stomach.

I shouldn’t have liked this—him pushing, teasing, refusing to back down no matter how much distance I tried to put between us. But I did. More than I should. More than I wanted to admit.

I tucked my lip between my teeth, trying to suppress the smile threatening to break free, but the warmth was already spreading through me, traitorous and undeniable. He made me feel wanted. Chased. Like he had no intention of letting me slip through his fingers.

And maybe—just maybe—I didn’t want to slip through.

Not when it was him.

As we wove through the chaos of the bonfire party, the night pulsed around us, wild and loud, like it had a heartbeat of its own. People shouted Jace’s name from every direction—teammates in sweat-stained jerseys, girls in tight sorority crop tops giggling too loud, random guys waving for a fist bump, their voices slurring over the crackle of the fire. Every few steps, someone lunged into our path, trying to snag him for a laugh or a story, their red cups sloshing beer onto the grass. The air smelled like smoke, spilled liquor, and the faint sweetness of burning wood. It pressed in, heavy and warm, making my head spin a little.

Jace barely slowed, his long strides cutting through the crowd like it was nothing. His arm stayed locked around my shoulders, firm and steady, his fingers brushing my collarbone through my hoodie every time he shifted. It was like he was binding me to him, keeping me from floating away in the mess of bodies and noise. I clung to that feeling with all my might, my sneakers scuffing the uneven ground.

“This is Riley,” he said, over and over, his voice smooth and sure, introducing me to every single person we passed—some linebacker with a goofy grin, a girl with glitter on her cheeks, a guy balancing four cups like a circus act. No hesitation. No secrecy. Just Jace, tossing my name out like it belonged there, loud and proud, his smile flashing in the firelight.

“Hey, Jace, man, come take a shot with us!” some guy hollered from behind a makeshift bar where kegs and coolers were stacked in the dirt, a folding table wobbling under bottles. His voice was thick, half-drunk, cutting through the music blaring from a truck nearby.

Jace didn’t even turn his head as we kept moving, his grip on me tightening a fraction. “Can’t. I’m with my girl,” he called back, casual as anything, like it was the easiest thing in the world to say.

My girl.

The words hit me like a jolt, and I stumbled, my sneaker catching on a clump of grass. My heart did a quick, clumsy flip as it thudded hard against my ribs. I glanced up at him, wide-eyed, searching his face. He wasn’t looking at me; he just kept steering us forward, cool and composed, his golden hair up in some kind of half-up, half-down hot messy bun that I was pretty sure no other man could make so incredibly sexy, his jaw sharp and unbothered. Like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in my chest and walked away whistling.

It kind of seemed like Jace Thatcher—one of the gods of UT football, the star wide receiver, the guy everyone wanted a piece of—was introducing me,me, as his girlfriend. Proudly. Casually. Like it was obvious. Like it was no big deal. With him, I wasn’t some dirty secret he’d tuck away when the spotlight got too bright.

A pang twisted in my chest, tight and sudden, stealing my breath.

With Callum, I’d been hidden away, kept quiet, made to feel like I wasn’tworthyof being acknowledged. I’d been something to control, to keep in the dark, shoved in the shadows until he wanted me. Someone who washis, but only behind closed doors.

Like that one night…

The house was alive with the murmur of conversation,the clinking of glasses,and the low hum of classical music piped through the sound system.My mother’s voice rang out in a practiced laugh as she charmed some politician’s wife,and my father stood near the bar,swirling a glass of whiskey,looking entirely disinterested in his own event.

I’d been told to dress appropriately.Which,in my mother’s language,meant something elegant but demure.Something that wouldn’t draw attention in the wrong way but would still present me as the perfect daughter in the St. James family.

I’d spent the evening like a ghost,floating from room to room,sipping a watered-down drink,pretending to be fascinated by whatever conversation was happening around me.But my stomach had been in knots since the second I saw him.

Callum.Withher.

Age-appropriate her.The kind of woman Callum should be with.She was perfect.Polished.Laughing in all the right places,touching his arm with an ease that made my stomach churn.

And Callum?

He seemed to be eating it up.Smiling at her,leaning in,whispering something that made her blush.

I told myself I didn’t care.I told myself it didn’t matter.That he didn’t love her, not like he loved me. But the sharp edge of jealousy was a knife in my ribs every time I saw his hand skim the small of her back.Every time she smiled up at him like he was hers.

I was supposed to be used to this.To watching him parade around with her,a woman who fit the mold perfectly.To seeing him be the man he was expected to be while I stood in the shadows.

It didn’t matter that I was the one he really wanted.It didn’t matter that it was my bed he’d crawled into countless nights before.

None of it mattered.

Because Callum belonged to this world,and I belonged to him.And he never let me forget it.He never let me be free.

I spent the night avoiding him.I tried to pretend I was fine,that the sight of his hand ghosting over her hip didn’t make my skin crawl.I avoided his eyes,avoided being in the same room with him when I could.

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