Page 14 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

NYC

Griffon

I ’m hard, I’m hungry, and yeah, for food, but also, I oddly have a craving for beets. The fact she talks about them, or herself like that … nah, like I said, to be continued.

Lucas stands in the front of the bus and claps his hands twice. The low rumble of hushed conversation dies instantly.

“All right, Knights, listen up. Just got word—airport’s a complete shit show. Flights are delayed due to a storm heading from our direction. Traffic’s gridlocked, and some protestors have made it their new hangout.”

A groan rolls through the back.

“But,” he says, “Dean Costello has graciously invited us to use his hockey arena facilities, ice baths”—several of the guys groan, obviously looking forward to it—“and staff of masseuses and physical therapists, along with our own, at the Brooklyn Bears’ home base.

He’s putting us up in his hotel for the night.

Warren and Grimes will be transferred and receive proper medical care in NYC.

The security team is sticking with us. We’re a little over an hour out, so get cozy. ”

“Fuck, man.” Bricks leans over, elbows on his knees, and sits there a minute.

“You good, man?” I ask.

“Bag,” he groans.

“Bag?”

He moans and holds his hand over his stomach.

“Oh fuck, like … yeah, bag.”

I grab the barf bag from behind my seat and hand it to him, and he fucking hurls.

I stand up and call, “Hey, Iz.”

She looks up from her phone, eyebrows pinched, already annoyed with me on principle. I nod toward Bricks. Her expression shifts immediately. Not panic—focus as she heads this way.

She kneels in front of him without hesitation, brushing her curls back, eyes all business now. “Tell me what’s going on, big guy.”

“Headache,” Bricks groans. “Nausea. Light hurts. Noise is making me want to puke.”

Iz shines a little penlight from her bag right into his eyes, watching the reaction. “Pupils are sluggish. Dizzy?”

He nods, but then freezes, looking worried. “You ain’t gonna sideline me, are you?”

“You need a brain to play. Right now, yours is swelling like a balloon animal.”

Even Bricks lets out a weak laugh, which she counts as a win, as she should.

“Concussion protocol,” she murmurs, making a quick note in her phone. “We’ll keep you still and monitored till we hit the city. If you hurl again, you get a throne in the aisle.”

“Izzy Ross, you are both terrifying and kinda hot right now,” Bricks mumbles.

Dick … but he’s not wrong .

She rolls her eyes and helps him lean back safely.

I watch her—efficient, calm, every move calculated. And it hits me.

It’s not just the way her voice steadies chaos, or that she’s beautiful. It’s that she doesn’t just know how, but wants to take care of people in a way that’s gut-deep. Even when she’s pretending to be all sass and sarcasm.

I shift in my seat, uneasy. This was supposed to be simple. Hot girl. Banter. Some chemistry. A little heat to take the edge off a brutal season.

But watching her kneel there, muttering something quietly to Bricks to make him smile while keeping track of his vitals, I feel it.

That slow tug.

Not lust.

Not just lust, anyway.

Something I did not sign up for.

I especially did not expect to get fired up.

She hadn’t told me someone had been tailing them on the drive down. But maybe … maybe that wasn’t about fear or annoyance. Maybe it was about something else I’m not ready to unpack yet, or ever.

I pull my beanie down and cover my eyes, lean back, and try like hell to turn it off.

After the ice bath, which was brutal, I check in on Grimes, Warren, and Bricks. All are stable. Warren and Grimes are doped up and cracking jokes from their hospital beds, which helps me breathe easier.

On the way to the hotel, I call Grand instead of answering her text.

I know she hates texting as much as I know she won’t stop worrying until she hears my voice.

Voice wasn’t good enough; she made me switch to a video call.

She ended the call, telling me not to look at anything online, because she wants me to rest. As soon as we get off, I of course hit up the web, and anger—no, rage—sets in. I decide to shut it down.

Now I’m posted up at the bar in Costello’s hotel, where he’s hosting some of our crew post-arena recovery.

Dean and his team are mid-season, but he still managed to make space. Pros in season don’t usually mix with outsiders, but Costello’s a Lincoln alum, same as a bunch of us: me, Warren, Hunt, Grimes, and Hart. It’s an unspoken brotherhood.

A handful of his teammates are here, too—Smith, Giulietti, KOK, Sterling, and Theo Rivera. Which would be fine … except Theo’s wife doesn’t much care for me.

And I once called her a puck bunny.

Okay, in my defense, she was on a date with Oz when Theo showed up and made it clear he had dibs. He was hockey, we were football, not ever a big beef, but you stay loyal to your team. I was a cocky college kid. She slapped me—hard. In front of everyone. Did I deserve that? Yep.

So, I’m parked at the bar, hiding in plain sight, sipping soda water like a coward. Until Theo himself appears at my side, ordering a bourbon. He doesn’t look pissed.

“You avoiding the table or just cutting weight?” he says.

I glance at him. “Hunt at the table?”

Theo nods. “Everything’s chill, man. Come eat.”

Before I can respond, Izzy slides up on my other side with Mags in tow. She senses it instantly—the tension, the shift in the air.

She leans against the bar, eyes flicking between us. “This a standoff, or just a pissing match?”

Theo chuckles. “Neither. It’s an invitation to come chill with alumni. Feed some feels.”

Theo gives me a nod before heading back toward the table. Mags follows, but not before giving me the don’t-blow-it look .

Oh hell yes, Iz has been dishing.

“Skinner, there is food and friends just right over there.” Iz laughs. “Come on, tough guy. You gonna hide back here all night, or are you gonna go be one of the team?”

I look toward the table—old friends, current teammates. Okay, that’s kind of bullshit, but I gather she’s staying, so hell yeah.

I nod. “Let’s go.”

Hate to admit it, but a good time was had. The best part was when Rivera handed me his phone. “For you.”

“Oh yeah?” I chuckle.

I flip it over and see his wife, wearing bunny ears and holding a puck in her hand, tossing it up and catching it. “How have you been, Skinner?”

I shake my head. “Too late to say sorry for being a dick back an LU?”

“It’s never too late to admit you were a giant asshole.”

I chuckle.

She continues, “Not going to say I did the right thing trying to get over my feelings for Rivera by going on a date with Oz, but?—”

“You ended up where you were supposed to. All good.”

“Tough loss or whatever the hell that was tonight for your team. Hope everyone’s okay, Skinner.”

“We’ll deal.”

I hear a baby cry in the background. “Mom duty calls. It was good seeing you, Skinner.”

“You, too.”

I end the call and hand the phone back to Rivera. “You’re a dad.”

“Cutest fucking kids on the planet,” he says, scrolling through his phone and showing me pictures.

“Lemme see those kiddos,” Hart says, and that is how we spent the majority of our time.

The hotel bar is nearly cleared out. Empty glasses and abandoned appetizer plates dot the tables, soft jazz hums from overhead, and the fireplace on the far wall casts a warm flicker across polished wood and faded alumni pride.

A handful of the guys have already left to crash or call home.

Hart got dragged out by Riley, his brother, Rome, and sister, Jillian, still tipsy and trying to get Riley to ride on his back.

Boone left earlier with Syd, arm slung around her shoulders like nothing else mattered but this moment.

Brody Hines entered the scene, took Mag’s and Lexi’s drinks away, not blatantly obvious, but the two of them left with their tails between their legs.

And somehow— somehow —I’m still here.

Izzy Ross is, too.

We’re on opposite ends of the U-shaped leather sectional, knees up, drinks in hand. She’s got something bubbly with lime. I’ve got whatever dark whiskey Costello keeps on reserve.

Leo Stone and Theo Rivera left half an hour ago, muttering something about eight a.m. call times. Smith gave me a fist- bump on the way out and muttered something that might’ve been, “Don’t be dumb,” that I pretended I didn’t hear.

Now it’s just us.

Her boots are off, her little feet tucked beneath her, covered in black socks with the team’s gold Knights emblem stamped all over them. Her long, blonde hair is loose and flowing. It’s free, not twisted up or tied back. It’s hot as fuck.

My suit jacket’s slung over the back of the couch, and I’ve loosened my collar just enough so that I can breathe and relax.

“So …” she says, ice clinking as she takes another sip, “were you this version of Skinner in college?”

“This version?”

She waves a hand at me. “Broody. Bossy. All tight-jawed and mysterious.”

I grin. “You think I’m mysterious?”

“I think you like people thinking that.”

“Well, you clearly don’t.” I chuckle.

She shrugs. “You’re not that hard to read, Skinner. You were kind of an ass in college. And in Blue Valley, you’re all jokes and good times. You changed your armor.”

“Izzy Ross”—I lean in slightly—“you don’t know the half of it.”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Try me.”

And I want to. God, I want to lay it all out—about the weight of expectations and disappointment.

The loss that I still carry. The reasons I don’t have people in the stands.

The shit I buried before I ever signed a pro contract.

But she’s looking at me like she might already know some of it. Hell, she’s already said it.

I changed my armor.

Instead, I change the direction of the conversation. “You ever miss it?”