Page 22 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Post O

Izzy

I don’t panic often. Not the freeze-in-place kind, at least. But lying here, bare as sin and tangled up with Griffon Skinner on a half-unpacked throw rug, and a traumatized Wile watching, I realize something important.

I have no snacks.

No chips. No pretzels. No chocolate stashed in a drawer or emergency trail mix hidden in a sock drawer.

The fridge? Just bottles of water, not even a jar of questionable pickles.

My pantry? There’s nothing here. Nothing edible.

Nothing host-like. Nothing that says, “I am a functioning adult who planned to have a post-O man in my space.”

And worse—he’s rubbing my lower back like I didn’t just shatter into a thousand delicious pieces five minutes ago, and my brain is screaming something close to danger, danger .

Not because of the sex—we covered that. It’s not a big deal …

I mean, it is good—no, great sex. Finally. I’m stressing because I’m … unprepared.

I sit up fast, covering my chest with the nearest hoodie, and blurt out, “I don’t have anything. Like food. Drinks. Nothing.”

Skinner props himself up on one elbow, those moss-green eyes blinking at me in amusement. “Izzy Ross isn’t prepared for a post-O charcuterie picnic?”

I blink at him. “Don’t say post-O like that’s a normal phrase.”

He smirks. “It is now. Post-O. Like hangry, but hornier. Horgy.”

I groan and faceplant into my hoodie. “Please leave.”

He chuckles, stands up, starts tugging on his jeans. “I probably should.”

That makes me whip around. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, grabbing his wallet off the floor. “A man whose entire nervous system just got scrambled starts thinking real unhinged shit when he’s also horgy . Dangerous combo. I’m gonna go before I say something insane, like asking if you want to decorate a Christmas tree together.”

I scowl, but he’s already pulling on his boots. He’s seriously leaving. I mean, that’s sticking to our … plan?

So we have a plan?

No, no, none at all. We’re not making plans.

He shrugs, not cocky, not cold—all Skinner. “No snacks. That’s a red flag, Iz.” And then he walks toward the door, pausing to give Wile just a little attention, before he is then out the door.

Just like that.

No kiss. No wink. No drama.

He’s just … gone.

I stare at the door for a full thirty seconds, not sure if I’m annoyed, humiliated, or relieved.

I should be relieved, right? I said I don’t want to do the whole clingy thing. But this … this feels like he got everything he wanted and bailed … even though it totally isn’t, ’cause we’re not pretending this is a thing.

I get up, grab my leggings, and pull them on as I hop toward Wile. “I’m sorry, boy.” I squat down and kiss his head.

He sighs.

“Okay, I will never do that to you again.”

Which is, of course, when I hear boots on the stairs.

The door swings back open, and Skinner walks in, holding up a brown paper bag with the Brooks Brewery Logo stamped on it. “Relax, Izzy Ross. I went to grab the takeout I got earlier, not for a getaway car.”

I blink at him.

He drops the bag on the counter, opens it like he’s home, and pulls out two burgers, a side of loaded fries, a salad, and—oh my God—a slice of that salted caramel pie from Brooks.

“How—”

“I overheard a conversation Mags and Lexi were having at the brewery earlier,” he says, sliding me a plastic fork.

“I overheard the whole ‘Iz is moving in’ thing. I also received the full rundown on your business plan for BV Press, as well as the merchandise shop for broke-ass student athletes. Was one, Iz, and I wanna support in any way I can.”

I stare at him, wondering if I should be annoyed at that or at the fact that it makes me feel seen in a way I’m not sure anyone but Mom and Dad sees me.

He offers me a bite of his burger.

“Does it have caramelized onions?” I ask, as if, if it doesn’t, I won’t take a bite, which I totally will.

Amusement dances in his eyes. “I know exactly what Izzy Ross likes on her burger; it happens to be all the things Griffon Skinner likes on his.”

I take a bite despite the way he just talked about himself in the third person.

“But I also like a bit of barbeque sauce.”

I make a face when I taste it, and then it hits. I place my hand in front of my mouth and murmur, “So freaking good.”

“Don’t tell your girls,” he whispers as he leans in, “but Grands homemade BBQ is better.”

I nod as I cross my heart.

“Fun Griffon Skinner fact?”

I cover my mouth and answer, “Only if you promise not to ever speak of yourself in the third person again.”

He smirks. “My grands lived off retirement. Gear was”—he shakes his head—“a lot.”

I smile as he looks up.

“I bought used cleats. Still have them.”

My thrift-loving heart expands. “So, I’m guessing you went to school on a scholarship and that’s?—”

“Another fun Griff?—”

“Don’t do?—”

“Full ride to a D3. Pissed, because I was ranked high as fuck but ended up missing some games due to dislocating my damn shoulder at the end of senior year. Decided fuck it and did an eleventh-hour application to a couple of schools named on a website I stumbled across for student athletes. The article was the top twenty-five colleges for athletes. Applied ’cause it was free.

As soon as I got that acceptance, I told my grands.

” He smiles so big as he continues. “Grandad called the damn coach; told him if he loved the game half as much as his grandson did, he needed to take a look and give me a shot. He looked over everything on me. That’s how we found out I was on the injured list. My dislocation was apparently coded as something else.

He told Grandad he wanted me, but was also honest with him and told him to get my medical info together and go knock on doors.

Grandad”—he chuckles—“negotiated with him for a full damn ride. When he told me, he also told me that Lincoln may not be ranked well, but that Coach T was a good man. I accepted immediately.” He grins. “The rest is history.”

“Griffon should call himself Lucky instead,” I joke.

His face does something—his eyes narrow and his head cocks to the side.

“What?”

“Not sure you’ve ever called me anything but Skinner since that first time I met you in the merch closet, back at the beginning. Kinda like it, Isobel Ross.”

“It’s Iz. My aunt was Isobel. But fine, I’ll call you Lucky from now on.”

“Iz, you can call me anything you want.” He grips the back of my head, and his lips press against mine. This kiss, hot just like the others, but … different.

When we break apart, I turn my back to him and look in the fridge, knowing it’s empty except for a few bottles of sparkling water. “Drink?”

“Yeah, Iz, I’d love one.”

I eat a few fries and, in search of plates, I end up unboxing the kitchen stuff. Within an hour, every box is unpacked, except for those containing my bedroom things.

He picks up the biggest box. “Which room is yours?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” I glance down at Wile, who is so tired from following us around that he’s now just lying by the door. “I need to take him out before I decide.”

“You think he’s going to wanna get back in that wall again?” he asks curiously.

“Um, yes. Otherwise, his bladder will explode.”

“Or he’ll piss all over your floors.” He chuckles.

“Oh no, Wile would hold it forever. He’s only had an accident once, after he was neutered.”

He cringes. “I don’t understand that kind of torture.”

“Visit any animal shelter, and you’ll never question it.”

“In my quest to figure out if I wanted to start a foundation or charity, and which ones I’d support in the meantime, I did.” He shakes his head. “Wrote a check and left fully believing I was going to go all-in.”

“What happened?” I ask as he walks toward Wile.

“Visited a homeless shelter, women’s shelters, cancer wards, veterans, abused kids, women.” He bends down and scoops up Wile.

I cringe, worried Wile’s old bones and joints may hurt being lifted like that, but when he doesn’t balk, I know he’s okay.

He continues, “Elderly, Iz? I can’t narrow it down. Everyone needs a fucking hand once in a while, you know?”

Fuck me .

I nod. “Yeah.” I can’t say much more because Griffon ‘Lucky’ Skinner just gave my heart an orgasm and that … hell, that’s the kind of orgasm I can’t give myself.

“While we boys are out, pick a room.” He looks back. “Leash? Those little shit bags?”

“Downstairs, hanging on a hook.” I begin to move toward them. “I can get?—”

“Pick a room, Iz,” he says as he slides out the door.

While Skinner takes Wile out to pee, grumbling about the snow and muttering sweet nothings to my dog like they’re battle buddies, I’m left staring up the stairs at the three rooms on the third floor.

They’re newer, bigger, with fresh paint and bright windows. One even has a bathroom that looks like it belongs in a boutique hotel—all subway tiles and brass fixtures. Lexi called dibs on the “attic vibe” room for whenever she visits. Mags, the one next to the master.

But when I turn back and look at the second floor—this floor—my eyes land on the door just across the hall from the kitchen. Aunt Isobel’s room. It hasn’t been used since she passed, but Mom and Dad no doubt did something in there.

The walls are still the soft sage green, but the faded quilts have been swapped out for a creamy linen duvet and matching shams. The bookshelves are dusted and organized.

I turn on a little lamp on the nightstand, and it casts golden light across the exposed brick wall.

The fireplace still stands, original and a little cracked, but with fresh logs stacked nearby and a new grate waiting.

I love that about old places like this—the fireplaces in most rooms. I know, I know, save the trees and all, but wood is renewable and nothing beats the smell.

It’s warm, familiar and, more than anything, it’s practical.

Wile doesn’t need to navigate stairs or ride his custom “doggie elevator” every time we move floors. He deserves better.

I inhale the faint scent of lavender and wood polish and nod once to myself. “This is it.”

By the time I hear the door open again, I’m tucking in the corners of my duvet. The closet door is open, one suitcase already unzipped and half-empty beside me. I’m mid-fold with a soft sweater when I hear Wile’s nails on the floor and behind him, Griffon Skinner.

“Well,” Skinner says, a little out of breath, “Wile found his favorite pee spot, so your side walkway is now officially his.”

I glance over my shoulder to find him standing there with snow melting in his hair, cheeks red from the cold. He looks at me, then the room, then back to me.

“You picked it,” he says.

“Easy for Wile. And … it feels right.”

He doesn’t say anything, just steps past me, drops a second box on the foot of the bed, and pulls out a few things. A stack of T-shirts. One hoodie. A number 54 Jersey from his first year. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t make a joke. Just walks over to the closet and starts hanging it up.

Something about that simple act—the quiet normalcy of it—hits me in the sternum.

I swallow, blinking too hard, too fast.

Skinner glances back. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat and reach for the next sweatshirt. “Just … weird seeing this place come back to life.”

He nods, lifts the hoodie to the hanger, then says softly, “Maybe it was missing you.”

I don’t reply, but when he turns back to the closet, I smile.

Because yeah … maybe it did.

All this, him in here, it’s … a lot. Too much. Too … personal.

I turn and look out the window. “The snow is never going to stop, is it?”

“That your hint to send me on my way?” He chuckles.

“I’m sure you have things to do.” I turn and smile. “Pack for your trip home.”

He shakes his head. “Got everything I need down there.”

“Clean out the fridge?”

He shakes his head.

“Cupboards?”

“I can’t let my little crew of cleaners get bored or go hungry. They’ll take care of that.”

“And all your besties are?—”

He looks at his watch. “Gonna guess balls deep in your besties.”

I roll my eyes so hard I almost sprain something. “Classy.”

Skinner just grins, unbothered, as he flops down on the bed like he owns it now. “You know that’s straight truth.”

I toss a pillow at his face. He catches it one-handed, smirking. Of course he does .

“Seriously, though,” I say, pulling the closet door closed and leaning against it, “why are you still here?”

He props his arms behind his head, biceps flexing against my poor, unsuspecting sanity. “Because I want to be.”

“That’s not an answer,” I counter, voice softer now.

“It is,” he says, watching me. “Guessing you’re just not used to hearing it from someone who means it.”

That lands somewhere deep. Too deep.

I shove it aside and cross to the window again, watching the snow swirl past the glass like it’s got nowhere better to be either.

Skinner’s voice drifts from behind me, low and rough around the edges. “You don’t have to freak out. I know I’m leaving soon. I’m not trying to plant a flag here.”

I spin to face him. “Then what are you trying to do?”

He sits up slowly, elbows on his knees, and holds my gaze with a kind of honesty that should come with a warning label. “I’m trying to show up. For you. In the ways I can, while I can.”

I stare at him, breath caught somewhere between panic and something a whole lot worse.

Hope.

“Dammit,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

“What?”

“You’re being perfect, and chill, and hot, and you brought me pie. It’s very inconvenient.”

His grin turns crooked. “I can be less hot. Just give me twenty minutes and a bad haircut.”

“Don’t you dare,” I gasp, shocking myself.

He stands and walks over, stopping just in front of me. “You want me to go?”

I don’t answer right away. Because the truth is, I don’t.

“I lied to my girls; told them I wasn’t staying tonight. And before you say anything, I know it was a shit thing to do, but my point is, I have people who show up.”

“Then you, Izzy Ross, are blessed. You have something …” He pauses, and for a brief second, I see pain ? “You have a big, beautiful family. Me? I have Grand.” He holds up one finger.

“No cousins? No?—”

He stops me by placing a finger over my mouth.

“I have teammates, my …” He pauses for a bit and chuckles.

“What?” I ask.

“What would be better than finding a best friend who you share the hottest sexual chemistry with, who likes the same damn things on their burger and straight up adores who you are, and all you will and want to do?”

Fucking swoon.

“Question?”

“Sure?” I question.

“Do you have a TV. And tell me you’d totally watch highlights with me, because I was otherwise occupied last night and all day. I’d really like to see what that fucking game looked like from a different angle.”