Page 24 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

My internal monologue is spouting off as I shove my feet into my boots, throw on my coat, and watch Iz do the same.

I am not okay. I was just in a bed full of powdered sugar, unspoken feelings, tripping on Barry the Bird Bitch, and post-O or whatever serotonin. This is how good men die—laughing, horny, and entirely at the mercy of a woman who names dicks like fantasy football teams.

I glance at Iz, who’s standing at that elevator, calling Wile, who looks up at me like, Help a brother out . I scoop him up and head down the stairs.

“You can’t spoil him like that; he has to get used to?—”

“This isn’t spoiling; this is saving his dignity, doing him a solid so when I sneak in one night to lick you from head to toe, he doesn’t bark—he just gives me the paw and nods in your direction.”

“He would never,” she huffs as she passes me and opens the door to Blue Valley Publishing then closes it behind us.

Before I can say anything else stupid, we hear voices in the hallway, just beyond the door. Several voices.

The boss babes. Loud as hell.

Iz freezes and mouths. “ Oh no .”

As they make their way up the stairs, she looks at me, panicked. “We have to sneak you out.”

“Seriously?”

“This is not a thing, so of course I’m being serious.”

I sigh. “Fine. What’s the plan?”

She nods toward the dog, currently looking at me like, You can set me down man?

“You’re going to carry Wile.”

I blink. “What?”

“He’s cute. He’s a distraction. Everyone loves him. No one will see you. ”

“You think I can just walk out of here with an eighty-pound senior dog and not get clocked?”

She shrugs. “You’re huge. They’ll assume you’re a pet delivery service.”

“This is the worst plan I’ve ever heard,” I mutter, looking at Wile. “You hear that, buddy? We’re going full Mission Im-paw-sible.”

Wile just blinks, licks my face, and stretches into my legs like this is his moment.

We move fast through the narrow hall behind the press, past stacks of papers and that big-ass printer. It smells like a mixture of machine oil, ink, and paper.

She leads me through a creaky back door that connects to the coffee shop’s rear hall, and then finally out onto the street through a side exit flanked by recycling bins.

I set Wile down gently.

Iz wipes snow off her hoodie sleeve. “Change of plans. Hood up and walk away.”

“Yeah? You mean leave your dog with you ?”

“Shush.”

We’re quiet for a second, and then she says two simple words. “Text me?”

“Absolutely,” I say and lean in just enough to kiss her temple. “Later, Miss Freshman Fuck Feast.”

She gasps, “ Griffon !”

I’m grinning like a jackass as I walk away, hood up, set to cut through some lots and head to my vehicle, which is two blocks away, to honor my promise that this stays between us … and now Wile.

That dog is cool as fuck.

I’m showered. I’m dressed. I’m waiting for Hunt to come out of his meeting so I can head in.

I’m not thinking about football right now.

I’m trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I just snuck out of a girl’s apartment with an eighty-pound dog in my arms like I was a goddamn football Disney prince.

My brain? Still in Izzy Ross territory.

As the door creaks open and Hunt steps out, he pulls it shut behind him.

His eyes land on me, and despite the exhaustion in them, he grins. “Yo, when we gettin’ the crew together for a getaway? You know, like last year.”

He tosses it out casually, but I can already see the wheels turning. The man lives for off-season.

Immediately, my brain flashes to last year —a not-so-classy, all-too-legendary trip to some overpriced villa in the Bahamas where shirts were optional, drinks were unlimited, and it was wall-to-wall tits and tequila.

Vegas the year before that had been worse.

Or better, depending on your tolerance for pool parties that turned into strip poker tournaments with bottle girls named after Greek goddesses.

I run a hand down my face, smothering the groan. “We should do something chill this year,” I tell him as we pass each other. “Low-key. Cabin or something.”

Oz snorts. “Cabin? Who hurt you?”

I huff out a laugh, but my brain’s already somewhere else. Someone else. Blue eyes. Sharp tongue. Perfect tits. She’s the reason I’m suddenly picturing bonfires instead of bottle service, slow mornings instead of sunrise hangovers.

“It’s been a year,” I mutter. “We could all use a reset.”

He claps my shoulder and mutters something about, “Therapy via marshmallows,” then disappears down the hall.

And me? I steel myself and push the door open, trying real hard not to picture Izzy Ross in a cabin … in my hoodie … with nothing underneath.

I walk into the film room where my exit meeting is scheduled and feel like I’ve just stepped into a job interview with four versions of the same disappointed father. I get it, fucking bullshit way to end a season.

Coach Cohen’s already seated, arms crossed and eyes sharp. Lucas, the face of the owners; José Cox, my offensive line coach, leaned back, chewing a toothpick and staring like he’s trying to x-ray my soul; and Logan has a manila folder open and a pen tapping like a ticking clock.

“Thought we’d officially introduce you to our new GM. Logan is stepping into the position,” Lucas says, beaming with pride.

“Congrats, man.” I reach over and shake his hand.

“I’m nothing but a figurehead, Skinner. Same day, different name plaque.” He nods to his dad. “Less problematic in the league than this one.”

I expect Lucas to jab back at him, but he simply shrugs. “He’s not wrong.”

“Whatever this team needs, off season or not, put me in, Coach.”

“Appreciate that, kid.” Lucas nods once.

“Skinner,” Cohen says without looking up from the sheet he’s reading. “Hell of a year. Top three guard rankings. Played through three injuries. Not a single missed practice. You got better as the season got worse.”

Lucas adds, “Tough as hell, consistent, and not a walking HR concern.”

I blink. “Thanks?”

Cox smirks. “Don’t let it go to your head. We know what this is.”

I arch a brow. “What is this?”

“This”—Cox gestures broadly at me like I’m a science experiment—“you … all … energized. Glowing. Not punching reporters. Blocking like you found Jesus.”

Lucas raises a brow. “You been doing yoga or something?”

“Nope.”

“Pilates?”

I blink. “What?”

Cohen finally looks up. “Someone lit a fire under you in Philly, Skinner. And for once, it wasn’t rage. That game in Philly? You were a damn machine.”

I shrug. “It was personal.”

Cohen flips a page. “Whatever it was, keep doing it.”

Lucas leans forward, tapping the edge of a folder. “You were named captain, too. Might have been as a show of strength, but we’d like to make it official.”

“For real?” I ask.

“Not that it wasn’t earned—it was—but we also need to make sure we have a few unconnected to the team, if you know what I mean.” Cohen chuckles.

Well, fuck.

He continues, “You’ve earned time off, but don’t disappear. The team needs this version of you to come back in April.”

Cox grunts. “We’ve seen you at your worst. This … this is your best.”

I nod slowly, not saying a damn word more than I have to.

Because the truth? They’re not wrong. I’ve been sharper.

Calmer. More present. And it’s not because of protein shakes or more sleep.

It’s the connections, the tighter bond formed with the team after Vegas, and all but forged when with the whole damn organization was under lock and key.

And, yeah, my fantasy became reality with Izzy Ross. They don’t need to know that … not yet

Coach Cohen finishes flipping through the notes. “Take a couple of weeks. Heal up. No downhill skiing, no rodeo, and for the love of God, don’t sign up for any reality shows.”

Cox deadpans, “Or date anyone questionable.”

I smirk. “No comment.”

Lucas stands, offering a handshake. “Get some rest. The next season starts sooner than you think.”

I shake his hand, then Cohen’s. Cox just slaps my shoulder like I’m still fifteen and trying to earn a helmet sticker.

“Don’t screw it up, Skinner,” he says.

I’m halfway out the door when I hear Cox mutter, “Definitely a woman.”

And Cohen replies, “We’ll know who by training camp.”

They won’t. Not unless she wants them to.

Because she’s not a story I’m telling.

She’s the one I’m still figuring out how to handle.