Page 30 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Grilled

Griffon

T he second I step out onto the rooftop, I see Iz. She’s wearing a damn Carhart and even that looks hella good on her.

I don’t look long, not after the shitshow at her parents, so I survey the space.

Mags is beside me, arms folded, her wind-blown curls whipping around like she lives in a shampoo commercial. “So?” she asks, smirking up at me.

I do a slow circle, taking it in. “Not quite dinner-party-ready yet,” I admit, eyeing the snow-dusted pavers and the short railing that barely screams safety. “But it’s got potential. Big potential.”

Mags shrugs. “We’ll get there.”

I can already see it in my head, a rooftop hot tub bubbling in that corner, an outdoor kitchen tucked near the wall, with a long counter, a smoker, and a wood-fired pizza oven.

Big pots filled with herbs from the Ross greenhouse, planters growing vertically against the brick wall—tomatoes, peppers, fresh greens, all the things you need to make salsa.

String lights zigzag between tall posts, flicking on automatically as the sun goes down.

A mounted outdoor TV to catch summer baseball games, and a table long enough to feed the entire damn town.

“It’s going to be amazing, right?” Mags asks, nudging my arm.

“Oh yeah,” I say, grinning. “Give you girls a hammer and six weekends, it’ll be the best rooftop in Blue Valley.” I lift my chin to Iz. “Happy housewarming, Izzy Ross. We all bought you a grill. Where do you want it?”

“Thanks. Um?” She looks over the side of the building, and although I know she’s safe, smart, capable, my heartbeat kicks up a bit. I tell myself it’s the black pants hugging that ass and not that I am still digging this whole burying myself even deeper.

“Hey, this is my place, too.” Mags elbows me.

“Not till after that damn show.” I chuckle. “I’m sure they’ll have another for you when you come home whole and with a glittery winner’s sash.” I glance back at Iz. “So, where do you want me to put it?”

“Probably the carriage house until it has a home up here.”

“Good idea, but I mean, where can I set up to cook the crab legs and steaks?”

“You’re cooking?” Mags and Iz ask at the same time.

“You’re looking at the grill master.” I head toward the stairs, happy she’s not pissed, or at least that she’s pretending she isn’t. “Let’s roll.”

We end up putting the grill together and set up near the open carriage house. The guys are outside and the girls all inside, making this feel like a middle school dance.

“Fucking cold out here,” Oz grumbles, zipping up his coat.

“We play in colder weather than this.” Hart chuckles.

Oz shivers. “I’m already dialed into the off-season.”

Iz and Lo walk out, one with a tray and one with pot.

“I really think you should let us take the crab legs inside and boil them,” Lo states as she holds it out.

“Then her whole place will smell like crab,” I remind her.

“You do get they’re coming inside, right?” she asks.

“With a lot less stank.” I snap the tongs at her.

“Looks good,” Iz says.

“Best steak you’ll ever have,” I say in the best nonsexual way I can, which isn’t easy for me, at fucking all. Not now. Not with her.

It’s not lost on me that everyone is quiet, and it’s also not lost on me that she hasn’t noticed.

I lean back, take in the old carriage house with its wide doors, exposed rafters, and lofted storage. “What do you see this place turning into?”

She shrugs, but I catch the flicker of something in her eyes—big ideas always brewing behind them. “Maybe a studio. Maybe a farmstand.”

I point toward the upper loft. “Could be apartments. Or townhouses. You’ve got enough space to build out.”

She looks inside, eyes smiling. “It would take a year to declutter. Probably a century’s worth of?—”

“Junk?” Oz asks.

She elbows him. “Treasures.” She looks at me. “You have a time guestimate?”

“Thirty minutes.”

The table looks like something straight out of Grand’s Country Home Magazines, but better—because it’s real.

Candles flicker in mismatched holders, the table runner’s a swath of hand-cut linen, slightly frayed at the edges, like it’s got a story to tell.

Plates are cool as hell in the way they’re old as hell and still being used.

There are dishes—some with covers, some without—filled with roasted veggies, a crisp green salad drizzled with something that smells like lemon and herbs, salted potatoes piled high and still steaming, crusty bread torn into pieces with little shallow bowls of butter scattered between bottles of wine and carafes of water.

Oz leans over my shoulder. “Pretty sure if I even look at another carb after this meal, I’m gonna need compression socks for my flight.”

I sit down across from Iz. “Worth it.”

“Can we get a blood sugar monitor for the table?” Hart asks, eyeing the bread.

Grimes shrugs and grabs three rolls. “Bulk season.”

Hudson chuckles. “You used to say that at Lincoln every time you were near carbs and emotionally unstable.”

Lo snorts. “Welcome to the carbocalypse, gentlemen. Bread’s fresh, potatoes are salted, salad’s optional. You’re welcome.”

“Tell me again why we’re not eating like this every day?” I mutter.

“Because this was made by women who actually give a damn about flavor,” Boone states.

“I feel attacked, since all of you eat at the brewery three or four days a week.” Riley pouts.

Iz points a fork at her. “Let Skinner off the hook; he specifically mentioned the brewery to that food influencer on Fan Appreciation Day. He loves your food, Riley Mae.”

Silence. She feels it.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this,” I groan like it’s killing me, “but Izzy’s right.”

Thinking that would help was a fucking mistake, because if silence could get any quieter, that’s the level we’re at.

“Holy shit.” Mags springs up and rushes to the window. “Did you see that?” She runs to another.

“What?” Syd asks in near panic.

Mags turns and looks at us, most half-out of our seats. “Pigs flying.”

Lauren throws a napkin at her. “You’re an asshole.”

“I mean”—she takes her seat—“so?”

“It’ll work out good for you when you’re on that show.” I chuckle. “Which, by the way, I stand by what I said when we were all grounded. You should be on Love Villa or Catfight Cabins . Not that shit show.”

I nearly choke on my salted potato when Oz leans back in his chair and smirks across the table at Mags. “So, what’s this wilderness show all about? You gonna be surviving off pinecones and sass?”

She wipes her mouth and sits up straighter, already half-grinning. “It’s called Wilderness Warrior ,thank you very much, and it’s not all pinecones and sass. Although, I will absolutely be packing both.”

“You’ve seen Hunger Games , right, Oz?” I ask.

“This year’s different,” Mags starts. “They’re doing a younger cohort—seventeen to twenty.

Usually, it’s a bunch of gritty thirty-somethings who’ve spent half their lives scaling ice walls and boiling pine needles for tea.

But this time, it’s the ‘next generation of outdoor leaders,’ or whatever the casting call said. ”

I cough around my water. “So … Gen Z Survivor with more glitter and less liability insurance?”

“Basically.” She smiles sweetly. “It’s four weeks, in the middle of the Cascade Mountains. Think lush forests, glacial lakes, and enough rain to drown a duck.”

“How many people?” I ask.

“Sixteen contestants. We get dropped in, no phones, no outside contact, just a single GoPro each and the camera crew lurking like creepy trolls.”

“They let you keep the GoPro?” Oz asks.

“They say it’s for ‘personal perspective.’” She air quotes. “But mostly so they can use all our breakdowns for dramatic montages.”

Izzy laughs into her wine. “I’ll be waiting for your slow-mo cry-face in the teaser trailer.”

Mags grins. “There are team challenges and solo ones—fire building, shelter making, orienteering, meal prepping, and these leadership things where you have to convince your group not to mutiny on you. We all live together in base camps—two big canvas tents, guys and girls separate—but if you win certain challenges, you can earn private rest days, better rations, even gear upgrades.”

“And how do they vote people off?” Boone asks, genuinely curious now.

She takes a long sip of cider. “Every few days, we have elimination councils. Your team can nominate someone, or the bottom performers go into a sudden death challenge. Whoever tanks it, goes home.”

“Damn,” Grimes mutters. “That’s brutal.”

“Yep,” Mags say brightly. “Which is why I’m training, planning, and fully ready to dominate.”

I shake my head. “Still think you’d be better off on Love Villa- Chainsaws Edition. ”

“I’d win that, too.” She smiles. “But I’m going to Wilderness Warrior to show them what a field hockey captain slash co-op farm girl slash cottagecore baddie can really do with a survival knife and zero sleep.”

Oz leans in again, mock serious. “Promise us one thing.”

“Name it.”

“If you have to eat bugs on camera, at least wink first.”

“I’ll blow a kiss,” she deadpans, “with cricket legs stuck in my teeth.”

Everyone laughs—everyone. And not because it’s funny, but anyone who’s spent time with her knows that’s exactly what she’s going to do.

“You gonna be a shit stirrer, Mags?” I ask.

“Of course I am. There is no one, not one person, who can smell shit stirring from a mile away before the fart even happens.”

“Fucking dead.” I laugh.

I should be focusing on the food, on the laughter, the casual teasing, the way this whole night somehow feels like we stumbled into a family setting, one that feels damn good.

But I can’t.

Because of Iz, who’s been way fucking different tonight than up at her parents’ place.

I like BV Pub Izobel Ross. No bullshit, I more than like her.

Right now, sweet, casually lethal, smart-mouthed Iz is sitting across from me with a pile of crab legs, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into her signature messy half-thing that looks like it took zero effort, but even more than that, her neck looks edible.