Page 23 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)
Almost Busted
Griffon
T he first thing I hear is Iz groaning.
The second is the low rumble of voices outside the bedroom.
Then …
“Shit. Shit. Shit !”
She launches upright, her hair an actual crime scene of tangles and chaos, but still sexy as hell. The blanket drops, and I try not to look at everything I shouldn’t be looking at—but I do. Of course I do. Because I’m a man, not a monk.
She’s across the room in two seconds flat, scrambling for a hoodie while simultaneously shoving my leg under the covers. “Do not move. Do not make a sound. And if you breathe too loud, I swear to God I will suffocate you with that pillow.”
I salute her, mouth twitching. “Morning to you, too, sunshine.”
The bedroom door clicks shut a split-second before voices echo in Iz’s place. Male voices. Loud. Friendly. Military sharp with small-town charm and absolutely zero volume control.
I lean back, hands behind my head, and listen to what’s going on. The boys are here.
CJ says, “Izzy girl, you in there?”
Matthew’s voice interrupts. “We brought donuts. And an industrial-sized container of black coffee to welcome you, just you , to the neighborhood.”
Shit, shit, shit is right.
Remington adds, “Also a shovel. Not for snow. For burying whatever poor bastard you dragged home from the internet.”
Iz snaps, “Are you three out of your fu?—”
“Please say it’s not another banjo-playing folk singer named Zane,” CJ cuts Iz off.
Matthew chuckles. “Zayn with a Y. And a ‘this song is about the moon and capitalism’ SoundCloud account.”
Remington huffs, “He wore moccasins in winter. I haven’t recovered.”
CJ takes over. “Or what about that one guy—what was his name? Teddy? Told you he was a vegetarian then ordered steak on your second date and said it was a blood moon ritual and cows were ‘spiritual sacrifices.’”
Matthew again, “Or the yoga bro. The one who said deodorant ‘clogged his natural aura’ and told you women shouldn’t wear bras because ‘the patriarchy?’”
Remington snarls, “You dated that guy?”
CJ gives a sharp, “Yep, she did. Briefly. Until he tried to convince her to open a kombucha stand out of the back of his Prius.”
“Swear to God above, you three?—”
“And then there was Barry the Bird Guy,” Matthew cuts her off.
Remington roars out in a laugh, “ Fucking Barry !”
CJ adds, “The guy had a parrot who repeated everything he said in therapy.”
Matthew continues, “We’re still not convinced it wasn’t a wire.”
Remington snorts. “What kind of man brings a bird to a brunch date with your family, Iz?”
CJ answers for her, “A man with criminal intentions , that’s who.”
Something hits the wall, and then Iz yells, “Okay, first of all, none of those guys came home with me because?—”
“He read erotic poetry while playing a ukulele,” Matthew cuts her off again.
I need to brush up on my piano playing. Who am I kidding? I took lessons for two years and totally sucked.
Remington laughs again, obviously enjoying himself. “God, Izzy, I just … I just want more for you.”
CJ’s voice is softer now when he states, “You deserve a man who doesn’t name his bicycle after a Greek goddess.”
Matthew’s next. “Or one who doesn’t have a gluten intolerance so severe he carries around his own toaster.”
Remington chimes in again, “Or one who doesn’t say ‘I love you’ on the third date after asking to borrow rent money.”
CJ’s next. “Jesus, Iz, your dating history is a federal indictment.”
Iz again, this time flat-out pleading, “I just moved in. Let me live. Also, none of you are actually neighbors; you’re just camped in the building next-door because you can’t stay out of mine or each other’s business. Anyone’s actually. And?—”
“Yeah, well,” Remington talks over the last bit, “we had to build a privacy fence after Barry showed up with birdseed in your yard.”
CJ corrects him, “Birdseed and a ukulele.”
Matthew snickers. “Barry was a two-for-one trauma combo.”
Remington chuckles. “I was ready to call animal control and a therapist.”
“You three are such?—”
“Point is,” CJ cuts her off again, “we’re thrilled you’re here. But also, if you’re hiding some new internet rando in there, we will find out.”
Matthew inserts, “And interrogate him—thoroughly.”
Remington adds, “Starting with: does he have a job, a license, and the ability to name all four Ninja Turtles?”
What the fuck?
“Get! Out!” Iz yells.
But CJ keeps on going. “Does he know CPR? Basic knots? Has he ever fought a bear?”
“Have you ever fought a bear, CJ?” she snaps.
“I have,” Remington states like its fact. I bet it is.
Matthew states, “If his shoes are off, we’re checking the sock situation.”
Remington agrees, “We also need to check out his Spotify Wrapped. No man who ranked ‘creepy flutes’ or any instrumental pieces deserves a second date.”
Iz’s muffled scream of embarrassment and fury is everything.
And me? I’m lying in her bed, pillow over my face, trying to process the fact that this woman, who has rocked my world three times now, spent her early twenties dating enough red flags to sew together a uniform for the entire Chiefs’ O line.
And all I can think is, I am going to kill Barry.
There’s a beat of silence after another parrot-poetry insult and then Iz.
“First of all, ninety-nine percent of what you just said was a flat-out lie.”
CJ says, “That parrot guy?—”
“Don’t. You do not get to explain the bird narrative again.”
Matthew snorts. “But he?—”
“No! Shut it! The only thing you’re allowed to say right now is ‘sorry, Izzy, for being a trio of grown-ass men with the emotional maturity of a beanbag.’”
Remington has brass balls because he calmly asks, “So … we’re not meeting the guy?”
“No! Because whoever may or may not be in my room is none of your damn business. If you try to make it your business, I swear to God I will find every single one of your adolescent photos—the braces, the acne, the awkward half-staches—and I will personally fire up the Blue Valley Press and run a commemorative ‘Look At These Bitch Babies’ edition in full color!”
CJ mock gasps, “You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, I would. I still have Remington’s My Little Pony lunchbox photos, and don’t think I won’t lead with that.”
Remington grumbles, “You said you deleted those.”
“I lied! Because, unlike you three, I am strategic! ”
That a girl, Iz , I laugh to myself.
“Oh, and since we’re airing grievances—while we’re here—I still think one of you started the ‘Izzy’s gay’ rumor at BV High.”
“The what?” Matthew asks.
“I didn’t date anyone in high school because of that. Not because I wasn’t interested, but because I had to spend two years defending myself from well-meaning cheerleaders and their poetry slam … playlists. Do you know how many fucking words rhyme with Iz, Izzy, and Ross!”
None of them says a word, and she continues.
“Which, in turn, led to my college Freshman Fuck Feast , which was as fun as it was tragic, and guess whose fault that spiral was? ”
CJ mumbles, “Poetry slam playlists are dangerous.”
“Totally unsafe,” Matthew says quietly.
They’re all quiet now for a beat, and then Remington clears his throat and asks, “So … still want a donut?”
“I’m taking all the jelly-filled, and leave the coffee.”
Then a door slams, and I hear her stalk back toward the bedroom. I sit up.
She looks me over and chucks a damn jelly donut at me.
I catch it and ask, “You good?”
She wipes powdered sugar off her lips. “Better now.”
I pat the bed. “Bring it in, Ross.”
Surprisingly, she does.
I kiss the top of her head and pull her against my chest. “I know you can handle your shit, but I’m not sure that, if that were anyone else, I wouldn’t be getting those special silver bracelets and being carted away.”
“That’s exactly what they were going for,” she says then lets out a sigh that is also a growl.
“I did wanna tell them I have actually fought a Bear.”
She glances up at me, a little skeptical, but kind of impressed.
“ Bears , a whole defensive line of— oof . Hey now.”
“You were supposed to leave last night,” she scolds me lightly.
“Couldn’t find my shirt.” I hold up my donut. “And now that you’ve fed me, I may never leave.”
Iz finishes licking powdered sugar off her thumb, making my brain short-circuit, and slides off the bed, bends down, and comes up with my jeans. “Get dressed; you gotta go.”
I slide on my jeans but leave my dick hanging out. Why? Because she’s eyeballing it, and I wanna let her. My shirt’s somewhere under the bed. I wanna leave it so she finds it, wears it, and maybe gets herself off while she’s …
“Are you going to put that thing away?”
“You done eyeballing it?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes as she turns. “I was trying to figure out a name for it.”
“That’s kind of a big step, you know,” I joke. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of a commitment.”
She twists toward me, hair a mess, oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder like some damn movie scene. “G-Boney?”
I blink. “Come again?”
She grins—slow, devious, just the right amount of twisted. “You heard me.”
“I really don’t think I did. My brain is still in recovery mode.”
“Might work.” She shrugs.
“I’m a little confused about what the hell is happening, but if it involves my dick and you, I’m going to roll with it.”
She taps her chin, all fake innocence. “How do you feel about The Blitz Stick ?”
I cough. “That sounds like an experimental energy drink from hell.”
“Okay, fine. Fourth Down Savior. ”
I throw myself back dramatically. “That one sounds like a playbook and the PornHub anal category.”
She’s laughs now, whole body, the sound rolling through the room and hitting me square in the chest. God help me, I’d listen to her call it The Knight Stick on live radio if it meant I got to be here with her again.
“I can’t wait to whisper it during?—”
“Swear to God, Izzy, if you ever look over your shoulder and whisper 54, pound the tight end,’ I’m gonna come before we get past the coin toss .”
She flings the pillow at me and nods toward the door. “I’m writing that down. Might print it on merch. It would sell.”