Page 3 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Tight Pants

Griffon

W alking into Brooks Brewery before five o’clock is like stepping into one of those home improvement shows where the final reveal is somehow both rustic and intimidating.

Exposed beams. Industrial lights. A chalkboard menu that uses the word “artisanal” unironically.

It smells like hops and freedom. Or maybe that’s just how I feel since Izzy Ross isn’t currently trying to end me with a label gun …

again, or sending signals that I don’t wanna read.

She’s nothing like the girls I used to take as dates to events required through the team or my agent, which she’s quick to point out. Model-of-the-month changed to model-of-the-moment.

“Miss December?” she asked.

“Nah, none of that around here. She does commercials and fashion shows locally.”

She rolled her baby blues and clarified, “Miss December of Skinner’s Hooters calendar tour.” Then she walked away, chewing on a carrot stick like it was a cigar. She wasn’t even trying to look sexy, which was precisely when I realized how hot she is.

She’s blonde, and not salon blonde. Not the get your-roots-done-and-hair-styled, but the kind that lightens in the sun and darkens at the roots. Ponytail, messy bun—doesn’t matter. Somehow, it always looks like she could outrun a mountain lion, or a knight, and handle the press at the same time.

She doesn’t wear makeup unless there’s a camera involved or one of the MILFs from Blue Valley corners her with blush and a mission.

Her eyes are the kind of blue that sparkle like sapphires in the sun and look like the deep parts of the ocean, holding all sorts of secrets at night.

And her body? Soft in the right places. Strong in the rest. She eats like a lineman and moves like a damn forest nymph.

Nymph …

I’ve played football my whole life. I’ve been tackled by the best. But nothing—and I mean nothing—hits like Izzy Ross brushing past me with her coffee and a muttered, “Move it, skinned knee .”

She’s not my type.

She’s better.

“Skinner! Get your ass over here and sit down. I need an audience before I start shit-talking your generation.”

Awesome. Jake Ross is calling me to the table as I figuratively jerk it to the thought of his daughter in those tight jeans that flair out to fit over her boots.

I force a smile and take the open seat at the table with Jake and Alex Ross, Ryan Brooks, and Lucas Links.

“You know,” Jake says, holding up his coffee cup, “we used to ride our bikes twelve miles to school in the snow with a Walkman strapped to our hip and no damn helmet.”

Lucas nods solemnly. “That was before people got soft. Before gluten-free bread and participation trophies.”

“Back when MTV played actual music videos,” Ryan adds, wiping the smirk off his face. “You know, Nirvana, Pearl Jam. Not whatever that auto-tuned TikTok shit is.”

Lucas takes a drink and raises an eyebrow at me. “You even know what a mixtape is, Skinner?”

I open my mouth to answer, but Jake cuts in.

“Probably thinks it’s a new protein powder.”

Laughter erupts around the table, and I just sit there, taking it like a rookie at my first team dinner.

Jake leans in, elbow on the table. “We’re just messing with you, son. But seriously, your generation is too busy journaling and manifesting to learn how to change a flat tire.”

I fight a smile as I tell him, “I’ll have you know I once changed a flat while journaling . ” I lean in. “In cursive.”

That earns me a round of approving grunts. For Gen X, these guys in particularly, sarcasm is their love language.

“I like this one,” Jake says, jerking his thumb at me. “He’s got jokes. Still wouldn’t last five minutes in a Blockbuster after-school rush.”

Jake stretches his arm over the booth like he’s settling in for a long story that no one asked for but everyone’s about to get. “You know what else used to be better?” he asks then answers. “Football.”

Here we go.

“Oh, absolutely,” Lucas jumps in like he’s been waiting for this topic. “Helmet to helmet? Legal. Sideline hits? Encouraged. If your brain wasn’t rattling like a can of spray paint by the end of the fourth quarter, were you even trying?”

They all chuckle.

“Now they’ve got these rules,” Jake states, setting his mug down like he’s dotting an exclamation point. “You can’t even look at a quarterback the wrong way without getting flagged for emotional targeting or some bullsh?—”

“Can’t even celebrate without a fine,” Lucas adds, shaking his head like someone’s canceled Christmas. “Back in the 90s, we earned our concussions. And the glory.”

“Players today have nutritionists and hyperbaric chambers,” Ryan mutters. “We had orange slices and Motrin.”

Jake lifts his mug. “We were raised on turf burn, not turf toe. Played in the mud, not on these fancy ‘non-abrasive surfaces.’ Hell, one time, I dislocated my shoulder and popped it back in using a car door.”

I blink. “A … car door?”

“Mid-game,” he says proudly. “And we won. Overtime. Thanksgiving weekend. Snowing. No gloves. That’s football.”

Lucas sighs wistfully. “Now it’s all data tracking and heart rate monitors. What happened to good old-fashioned pain tolerance?”

“They’ve got GPS in their cleats now,” Ryan grumbles. “For what? Directions to the end zone?”

I nearly choke on my beer, but I don’t dare laugh too hard. I’m still technically owned by these men.

Jake slaps the table. “Not saying the kids these days don’t have talent, but back in my day, talent was a bonus. You know what counted?”

They all answer in unison, “Grit.”

I nod like I’ve just been inducted into a Gen X cult of pain and glory.

Jake points at me again. “You’ve got talent, Skinner. Big guy like you? Got potential to be one of the greats. But do you have staying power? Do you have grit ? That’s the question.”

Playing along, I give them the most menacing smile I can, one through gritted teeth. “Damn right I do.”

They continue on, and on, and on, and …yeah, you get it.

I’m still trying to process the phrase “ traumatic sports injury turned life lesson ” when I hear chuckles from behind, turn, and see several familiar faces stroll toward us.

Alex’s sons, Liam and AJ; Ryan’s sons, Luke and Jackson; and Lucas Links’ son, Logan. AKA: my unofficial backup.

They’re younger. All played football and still have cartilage in their knees.

“Oh, great,” Jake mutters. “The TikTok generation just showed up.”

“Make room, old men,” Logan says with a grin, sliding into the seat next to me. “We’re here to rep Y and Z.”

Jackson plops down with a dramatic sigh. “Is this the ‘Back in My Day’ table? Are we telling war stories about dial-up internet and how hard it was to rewind VHS tapes?”

AJ grabs a fry from his uncle Jake’s plate without asking. “I love it when y’all talk about the glory days. Like we weren’t born before you figured out how to use Venmo and had to ask your kids.”

Logan chuckles and looks at his father. “Tell me again how walking uphill both ways builds character. I missed that lecture.”

Jake glares at all of them. “We had grit.”

Liam chuckles. “Yeah, we know.”

AJ raises a brow. “Did you guys have to google how to make memes, or did you just sit down with your enemies and make them cry all by yourselves?”

Lucas leans forward. “Back in our day, we didn’t need memes. We had ‘Eye of the Tiger’ and a five-mile run before school.” He points to his eyes with two fingers then back at AJ. “One look brought them to tears.”

Liam snorts. “Back in your day, trauma was a personality trait.”

I try not to laugh—I really do—but Logan’s deadpan kicks it over the edge.

“Back in your day, concussions were called ‘personality resets.’”

Jake points at them all individually. “You punks wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes in the locker rooms we had. Wood benches. One fan. We walked on the field, sweaty with a sliver in our ass, and won. We didn’t dare to complain to a coach who chewed glass for breakfast.”

Logan laughs. “You’re not wrong; we have air conditioning and HR. If a coach breathes too hard in a player’s direction, they start a group chat and ruin his life before lunch.”

I can’t hold back. I’m fueled up now. “Also, hydration. Big fan of that. Didn’t you guys have, like, one orange Gatorade for the whole team?”

Ryan groans. “It built character. ”

Jackson grins. “So did your cholesterol.”

There’s a beat of silence … then Logan delivers the final blow.

“Respectfully, sirs, your entire generation was held together by duct tape, rage, and Capri Suns. Do not lecture us when you created this.”

Even Jake laughs at that one.

As the table devolves into full-on generational warfare, with Jackson pretending to cry into his hoodie about participation trophies and Jake loudly explaining how cassette tapes taught “patience and persistence,” Izzy appears.

She’s got a stack of menus in one hand, a pen tucked behind her ear, and the expression of someone who’s about ten seconds from reminding everyone who actually runs the world.

But she doesn’t. She walks over, casually drops the menus on the table, and then places her hands on her hips like a disappointed older sister who also happens to be in charge of everything.

“Well, well, well,” she says sweetly, “look at all these generational wounds festering.”

Jackson grins. “Don’t worry, Iz; we’ll teach your dad how to use Instagram. Maybe get him a burner TikTok.”

Jake scoffs. “I don’t need TikTok. I have muscle memory and a mortgage.”

Izzy smiles—just barely—and leans on the back of the booth behind her father. “You know, I think I consider myself lucky I was raised by a Gen Xer.”

Everyone quiets. Even AJ looks up from his phone.

“Oh yeah,” she continues, voice sugary sweet.

“Because while some people were being coddled and given allergy-friendly gold stars for trying, I was being raised by a man who taught me how to change a tire in a snowstorm, jump a dead battery, skin a deer, and run a budget with a ballpoint pen and a grudge.”