Page 20 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Her Place

Griffon

S he disappears around the corner, ponytail bouncing, hands still flailing like the last words didn’t land right, and damn if it doesn’t make me smile. Not the smug kind. Not the “I win” kind. The real kind—the kind that’s been showing up more often lately and catching me off guard every damn time.

Wile’s still camped out on my foot like he’s claimed me, and I crouch to scratch behind his ear again. “You and I might have a problem,” I mutter. “Because if you’re Team Iz, I’m screwed.”

He lets out a dog version of a sigh and leans harder into my hand.

I get it. Same.

I stand slowly, heart now kicking harder than it should.

Because the truth is, I didn’t just come here to say we needed to talk.

I came here because after everything—after last night, the parade, the bus ride where she avoided my eyes, and the flight where she was just …

gone—I couldn’t go another hour wondering if I imagined what last night meant.

I start toward the living room, the worn floor creaking just slightly beneath my boots.

There’s a small box of tools by the fireplace, a candle flickering on the mantle, and an old pair of gloves drying by the radiator.

It’s lived-in. Her. And somehow, just stepping into this space feels like more of a risk than anything I’ve done on a field.

Because if she shuts this down, I’m not sure I’ll recover. And if she doesn’t—if this is something real—I’ve got a whole different set of problems. Ones I think I might finally be ready for.

I see her trying to busy herself. Iz always seems to be set on go. Well, last night she wasn’t, so I ask her, “Tell me if I’m wrong. Unless you’re?—”

“You’re wrong,” she fires back without even looking at me, rifling through a box of kitchen stuff like she’s suddenly deeply invested in the organizational fate of spatulas.

I cross my arms. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Doesn’t matter. Still wrong.”

I step closer. “What if I was gonna say you looked cute with bedhead when you walked away last night?”

“Then you’d still be wrong. I looked like I lost a cage match with a feral raccoon.”

I take another step. “You think I care about that?”

She lifts a hand in the air, still facing the counter. “Oh no, I’m aware you don’t care. I’m just saying, if I were looking for compliments, I’d at least expect a man to lie better.”

That makes me grin. “You think I’m lying?”

“I think you’re dangerous when you’re charming.”

“And yet,” I murmur, stepping behind her, voice low near her ear, “you still let me in.”

She freezes for half a second, just long enough to let me know she felt that, too, then turns around slowly, cocking a hip and a brow. “Don’t get cocky, Skinner.”

“Too late.” My gaze dips briefly, deliberately. “Can’t help it. It’s kind of my thing.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile.

I step even closer, not touching her, not yet. “Just say it, Iz,” I whisper, tilting my head. “You missed me.”

“Maybe I just missed Wile being more aware of who is a friend or who is a foe.”

“Nah, he’s a good judge of character,” I shoot back. “Knows a keeper when he sees one.”

Her smile fades just a little—still soft, but quieter. “Yeah, well … I’m not the kind of girl who wants to be kept.” She turns, giving me her back again, shoulders pulled tight. “You might wanna get back on Models ’R’ Us if you’re catching that bug going around.”

Not angry. Guarded.

I don’t move closer. Not yet. Instead, I lean one hip against the edge of the counter and keep my voice level, easy.

“Okay,” I say. “Noted. You’re not a girl who wants to be kept.”

She doesn’t turn, but I see the pause in her hands, like she’s waiting for me to react the way guys usually do—get pouty, defensive, retreat into ego.

But I’m not most guys.

“I’m not looking to turn you into anyone’s housewife, Iz. Least of all mine,” I add lightly.

That gets her to glance back, just enough for me to see the curve of her mouth, the guarded look in her eyes.

“Then what are you looking for?” she asks quietly. Curious.

I scratch the back of my neck. “Something that doesn’t get in the way of who you are … or who I am. I’ve seen what happens when one person gives up their life for someone else’s. It’s not the way I’ll ever live.”

The way her face softens, just for a second, makes me want to tell her all the things I’ve spent a year shoving into my back pocket, so I keep going.

“We have a free minute, a need. We have a play date .”

A laugh escapes her, low and reluctant, and way too sexy.

Izzy’s head tilts, wary but interested. I can practically see the gears grinding behind her eyes, recalculating her escape route, revising the equations. “A play date, huh?” she repeats, but the edge of her mouth twitches.

“Play date,” I agree, “occasionally crash, sometimes pass out on your couch. Maybe paint our nails?” I shrug, letting myself smirk at her. “I’d steal your snacks. Maybe make a snack out of you.”

She laughs then—a low, cautious sound, like she expects it to scald her. “Arrogant.”

“Guilty,” I admit, “but also honest. I want to keep doing this, Izzy. Last night? It wasn’t …” I trail off, because when I remember last night, it was like I left my body and never really came back. “It wasn’t just scratching an itch. It was the kind of sex that rewires your brain.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I’m hoping you do.”

Izzy’s gaze sharpens, then softens, then settles somewhere in-between. “You were a lot,” she said. “I don’t mean that in a bad way.”

I grin, emboldened by her not-bad. “Physically? Yeah. Mentally? Even more. Emotionally? I’m a full-time job with no HR department, but I like to think the benefits are decent.”

She tries to glare, but the corners of her mouth betray her. “Don’t get all sentimental. This is, or could be, just so you know, passing time. I don’t have the bandwidth for a project like you.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, because flirting with this girl is a sport, and I fucking love sports. I take a tiny step closer. She doesn’t move back.

“I’m not a project,” she clarifies, something that doesn’t need to be—I know that. But it’s definitely something to pack away and possibly revisit one day. “And even if I was, you’re not the one who gets to fix me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I lift my hands, palms up in surrender, but my voice is anything but apologetic. “I just want to see how many times we can short-circuit each other.”

Izzy’s smile breaks through then, brief and bright, and so real it makes my damn chest hurt. “You’re going home, remember? For a few weeks. You said so.”

“I am,” I admit. “Family. Decompressing from that disaster on the field. But I meant it. I want to keep seeing you. On your terms, my terms, maybe no terms. Just … more.”

She leans against the counter, arms looped around her ribs, hugging herself. “It will not be a relationship?”

I ignore the way my pulse jumps. “That’s the best part.”

Izzy gives me a long, dubious look, like she’s trying to spot the con in a poker hand. “You talk a lot.”

“I have a lot to say to you.”

She rolls her pretty blue eyes. “You’re impossible.”

I brace my hands on the kitchen island, crowding her space just enough to make a point. “You like impossible.”

“Not as much as you think,” she shoots back, but her body language says otherwise. She’s trying really damn hard not to arch into me.

There’s a long, sparking beat where neither of us speak. Her eyes flick from my mouth to my chest then back up. “This is insane.”

“Highly probable,” I agree.

I see the moment she makes her decision. Her shoulders uncoil. Her lips part. I don’t wait for verbal permission. I get even better.

I step in slowly and deliberately, giving her time to change her mind. Of course, she doesn’t.

Our mouths crash together like last night. She grabs my shirt and yanks me closer, so hard I nearly topple into the fruit bowl. My hands brace on either side of her face, fingers tangling in her gold locks, and she bites my lower lip hard enough to draw a gasp.

I laugh against her mouth, drunk on the taste of her, and she uses the distraction to shove me back a step then hops onto the counter in a move so practiced it’s almost ritual.

“You sure you don’t want to slow down?” I tease, even though I’m already half-hard and totally lost to her.

“If you say another word, I’m going to?—”

I cut her off, nipping the skin below her ear, just to see what sound she makes. She shivers and clamps her thighs around my hips.

We make out like teenagers, all hands and greed, until I have to steady myself with both arms braced on the counter.

She leans back, breathing like she ran a marathon, and says, “You are so much.”

“And you’re addicted,” I fire back, nuzzling into her neck.

She makes a sound halfway between a growl and a laugh then pulls me in for another bruising kiss. I’ve never seen anyone so determined to win at kissing.

We break apart, chests heaving. She grabs my wrists and yanks me between her legs, planting my hands on her hips. “If you let anyone know about us, I’ll kill you,” she warns.

“Noted.”

We kiss again, longer this time, slower but no less intense. I let my hands roam, etching the curves of her body into memory, as if they already aren’t there, refamiliarizing myself with the places that make her tense and the places she melts.

We stay fused like that, trading kisses, nips, and licks until we can’t breathe.

She pulls back first, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and grinning, making her go from pretty to fucking gorgeous.

She arches an eyebrow then pushes her luck. “You want to see who can get the other to tap out first?”

“Loser buys snacks next round,” I say.

“You’re on.”

We stare at each other, giddy and reckless, and a little bit … doomed.