Page 1 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Tight Shirts

Izzy

“ I will not cry. I will not cry,” I say to myself as I continue to make sense of the senseless.

I’m in the storage room where all the new gear comes in to get inventoried, a task I took on when I was doing a player a favor by finding a sweatshirt with his name and number for his sister. It was a mess, and I nearly had a meltdown. I’m in just about the same mental state now as I was then.

The room I just cleaned and organized before the playoff season began looks like a merch tornado tore through it.

There are jerseys hanging from hooks that aren’t meant to hold them, a half-toppled box of limited-edition beanies in the corner, and what appears to be a string of used jockstraps slung off the top shelf like fairy lights.

And me? I’m elbow-deep in a tub labeled “ PLAYERS/MISC ,” which I’m pretty sure is code for we didn’t know where else to shove this crap.

“You’re not on fire,” I remind myself. “You’re just probably breathing in polyester toxins, and that’s why you feel like death is literally standing over your shoulder.”

I pull out a crumpled towel with “ SKINNER 54 ” embroidered on it and squint. “Disrespectful. He’s typically not even top twenty on the messiest player list and this?—”

“That’s because I’ve got class, Ross.”

I yelp, falling backward into a pile of foam fingers.

Griffon Skinner leans against the doorframe like sin dressed in black and gold, wearing a smug grin. His sleeves are rolled up, his hat’s on backward, and he’s chewing on something—likely my last nerve.

“You can’t just appear like that,” I hiss, one hand still on my chest. “This is a high-stress environment.”

He scans the room. “Looks more like a crime scene.”

I throw a Knights tumbler at him. He catches it with ease. Show-off .

“What do you want?” I ask, diving back into the mess.

“I was supposed to have my new gear ready before the fan event this weekend. But I walk in here and see the chaos queen?—”

“Chaos queen?” I echo. “Excuse you. I am a high-functioning multi-visionary with a poor sense of belief in others.” I look around. “Even when they always seem to fall short. At least my chaos is organized, until I blink.” I glance back at him. “Now what did you need?”

He walks in fully now, brushing a few wayward foam fingers off a folding chair before dropping into it. “My shirt’s too big.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“The one for the event. It needs to be tighter. Should hug my biceps, show off all these amazing angles.” He links his fingers behind his neck and freaking flexes.

“Give the public something to look at, a distraction while they wait in line for me to sign posters, jerseys, and maybe a titty or two.”

I stare at him, give a slow blink and completely ignore the ‘sign a titty or two’ comment and address the issue he came to me with. “You want a tighter shirt?”

He lifts a shoulder like it’s the most reasonable and normal request in the world. “Gotta use what the Lord gave me.”

“Did the Lord also give you the ego, or was that a custom job?”

He smiles. It’s a little lazy. A little dangerous. Like a cup of cool water on hot summer day…

I hate that I like it.

I turn away and yank another box off the shelf, ignoring how his gaze follows me like a heat seeking missile. Well trying to anyway.

“You know,” he says after a beat, “you really don’t have to do all this alone.”

I huff. “I’m fine.”

“You say that,” he stands, “but you look two seconds away from being buried alive under a pile of jockstraps.” He walks closer, picks up a stack of misprinted hats that I asked to be sent back but clearly someone didn’t do their job, and begins organizing them into a neat row.

I frown. “You’re offering to … help me?”

“I’m invested,” he says with a wink. “I’d like to at least be wearing the right shirt.”

And somehow, that makes me laugh. Which is infuriating. Because I don’t laugh when I’m behind, and sweaty, and sorting through things I’ve already sorted through.

I should tell him to leave. Instead, I hand him a roll of preprinted labels and arch a brow.

“Fine. But if you mislabel anything, I’m going to make your locker smell like … goat cheese.”

He just grins and peels the first sticker.

It’s not two minutes after we find his shirt that his phone goes off.

He pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the screen. “Love to stay and help, but duty calls.” He looks around as he stands up, wiping his hands on his pants … as if he’s even dirtied them.

“Such a prissy, baby-tee wearing girl ,” I mumble under my breath.

His chuckle is dark, deep, and from his chest. “Not what the doctor said before he slapped me on the ass the day I was born. Didn’t even call me a boy.

” He reaches up before passing through the doorframe, grips the top, and does …

a pull up ? “Couldn’t be just a boy with what I’m packing.

” He drops down, looking over his shoulder. “See you around, Izzy.”

I begin lifting my jaw up off floor while trying to unscramble my brain, because I am never at a loss for words, and he gives me a wink … a freaking wink.

“I’m not alone, Mom.” I look in the rearview window and see CJ and Matthew following me in a black matte SUV. “I have two cousins up my ass.”

“Iz,” she sighs loudly. “With all the gossip sites talking about Blue Valley and everyone being related, it’s probably best you don’t say things like that.”

“Like what?” I ask, but then it hits me. “Ew, Mom. Gross.”

She laughs softly then sighs before finally asking, “Where are you heading now?”

“I’m going to stop at the brewery to see if Lo and Ry need anything from me before hitting the post office to send back all these hats.” I groan. “How the hell the printer left out the N in Knights is un-freaking-explainable to me.”

“People do make mistakes, but yeah.” Mom sighs, frustrated. “A couple maybe? Not two hundred.”

“Right?” I huff.

“What’s the plan after that?” she asks.

“I might head down to see if Sydney and Beau need anything.”

“And then?”

“You do know we’re off lockdown, right?” I ask because, like … we are.

I glance in the rearview and see the twins are still riding my ass. Clearly, Mom’s not the only one still on high alert.

Life has never been what most people consider normal in a small town, so I’ve come to discover, Blue Valley isn’t your typical small town.

I was too young to remember Uncle Lucas playing pro football, and he wasn’t even my uncle then.

Aunt Tessa was married to Uncle Collin then.

And as cringy as it sounds, he was my first “love.” There was just something about his quiet intensity.

He was different from the other uncles, some of whom are actually Dad’s first cousins, but their age being what it is, and how close our family is, they’re aunts and uncles, which is less confusing on all parts.

Dad’s intense, the uncles are intense, but Uncle Collin …

he was always more so, and he never fully relaxed, like ever.

As I got older and learned more about him, I realized why. The man, an MD trained in the military, took Doctors Without Borders to the next level. He was a doctor who took a small self-made army of his choosing—all highly strategic—into communities around the world and legit built borders.

He trained the locals how to survive and protect their communities so that when he was done—typically spending a year in each place—he knew they had a fighting chance against not only the elements and environmental challenges, but the pieces of shit drug lords, war mongers, human traffickers, and those kinds of humans—no screw that—animals.

Unlike the military run by the government, he didn’t dip and leave them high and dry; he trained locals, armed them with not only skills but weapons for protection. And, most importantly, he checked in to make sure they were okay. He supported them.

When he was murdered—my eyes burn at the thought—I was devastated. We all were, the entire town, and the world around us.

His sons, trailing me now—even though their mom, Aunt Tessa, truly tried to get them to go another direction—are following in his footsteps.

They run a security firm and get paid out the ass to protect the rich and famous, and they also look over those communities that Uncle Collin helped.

My cousin Remmington works with them, as well.

Jackson, too, but he is specific about what he takes on.

And what is that? Great question. One in which they never give you an honest answer to when asked.

There was a time that I wanted to join them, but the way my brain works, I was on to the next thing within a week. Now, as I’m thinking about it, that desire is back.

This, too, shall pass …

“Iz, you there?” Mom asks, drawing my attention back. “You know we need to be careful.”

“It’s all got me feeling … caged.”

“I know, I know,” she sighs. “But we all agreed that playing it smart before the last game?—”

I mock gasp. “No, you didn’t! We do not speak of the next game being the last of the season. We’re going to the?—”

“The next game will be in Philly,” she quickly corrects her blunder, “and it will have more security than any other. Well, except the last game … of the season. That will be of presidential proportions. I’m not worried about that one.”

Next week, the Knights play the National Championship game against Philly, in Philly.

“I’m guessing they’ll be traveling with us?”

Mom laughs, and I realize my tone must have been snide, but these asshats are riding my ass just to provoke me.

“You love traveling with your family.”

“Yeah, sure. I just don’t like them up my ass.” I stomp on the brakes and love the shocked expression on Matthew’s face as he narrowly escapes eating shit. CJ, he laughs, like knee-slapping cracks up and the whole nine. Matthew eventually does, too. However, whoever it is in the back does not.