Page 32 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Evening Invasion

Izzy

L exi’s curled into the armchair with one of Aunt Isobel’s old quilts, her legs tucked up like a cat, lazily swiping through photos from the night on her phone. Mags is lying on the floor, dramatically sprawled like a martyr, a cold seltzer balanced on her forehead.

“I hate everyone,” Mags says to the ceiling.

Lexi doesn’t even look up. “Cool. Specificity is important.”

“Not hate. But, I mean, Lo, and Riley, and Syd,” she groans.

“Like, Iz, you and I were totally screwed out of the silo house, and they didn’t know we had a place.

But worse than that—they’re never around anymore.

They’ve got babies, and broody husbands, and professional athletes to jump on whenever they want.

Lexi’s going back in two days to do God only knows what, but I bet it’s fun as hell.

And now you ”—she lifts her seltzer toward me without sitting up—“soon, you’ll be off, too.

Which leavesme, where? And like … what’s left of girls’ night?

Of Mondays in pajama pants with no makeup and a bowl of whipped cream and a spoon. ”

“First of all,” I say, sliding down the wall until I’m on the floor next to her, “you’re not left. You’re here , with me, with Lex. With this couch that sags a little too hard in the middle but still smells like cinnamon.”

“Like the legendary Aunt Isobel,” Lexi adds helpfully.

“Exactly. History.” I nudge Mags’ knee. “Second, you’re only upset about the silo house because it happens to be located at the brewery.”

“I love it there,” she admits quietly.

“Same, but not the point. No one’s disappearing. We’re just evolving.”

Lexi finally looks up. “Ooo, are we in our Pokémon phase?”

I snort. “I hope so. I want sparkles when I level up.”

Mags groans again. “I don’t want anyone to evolve. I want everyone to stay in their pre-marriage, pre-baby, pre-too-busy-to-breathe era. I want girls’ trips. I want midnight snacks and truth-or-dare games in ski lodges and summer vacations on the Cape. I want us.”

“You still have us,” Lexi says, a little softer now.

“It just looks different sometimes. And one day, when we’re forty with laugh lines, and career chaos, and hopefully fewer period cramps, we’ll still have us.

It’ll be brunch instead of bar crawls. It’ll be FaceTime check-ins with kids throwing waffles in the background. It’ll be real.”

Mags sits up now, squinting at us. “So what you’re saying is … I need to emotionally prepare for the end of an era.”

“I’m saying,” I counter, “it’s only an end if we stop showing up.”

Lexi grins and tips her head. “And last I checked, we never stop showing up.”

There’s a beat. A pause.

Then Mags narrows her eyes. “You’ve been different lately.”

My heart skips. “ Me ?”

She nods slowly. “Like … secretive. Glowy. Suspicious.”

Lexi raises a brow then hides her smirk behind her phone. “Hmm.”

I roll my eyes. “I am not glowy.”

“You are ,” Mags insists. “I’ve seen it. You’ve got … post-make-out energy.”

Lexi coughs. “Maybe she just switched to a better moisturizer.”

“Exactly,” I say quickly. “It’s all hyaluronic acid and denial.”

“And hello, the girls’ trip isn’t just rescheduling because Riley’s got a little Hart growing inside her—you’re going on a freaking reality show, Margret Sawyer,” Lexi scolds her.

Mags grumbles something unintelligible but lets it go as she sits up. “I know, I know. Also, I have to pee.”

She dramatically stomps away, and Lexi looks at me. “You good?”

“Yeah. You?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, but when you’re ready to have the conversation and I’m not here, it better not be a damn text or phone call. I wanna see that face when I say, I knew it, and you’re welcome.”

“Welcome for what?” I laugh.

“You know, Izzy Ross, you know.”

I already threw my bedding in after the whole smells-like-boy comments, and the laundry room is set up on the third floor, so I officially moved up from Aunt Isobel’s old room. And they bought my excuse that I slept down there for Wile. I did catch an exchanged look, but they didn’t press.

Mags is tucked in her room just next to mine, Lexi’s next to Mags in her room, and the texts stopped about an hour ago.

And now?

Now I’m alone in bed, flipping my phone between my fingers, trying not to scroll, not to check socials, not to overthink.

I fail spectacularly.

Instead, I swipe to messages and type:

Me:

Hope you have a great time with your Grandand friends in Bama. Thanks for cooking for us tonight, and for the grill. It will have a home on the rooftop soon. Safe travels, Skinner.

It’s not loaded, not needy. Just … there. Honest.

The dots appear instantly. I blink.

GRIFFON:

Meet me downstairs in ten.

I stare at the screen. Then again. Then one more time.

Because what the hell does that mean?

But my heart already knows. It’s sprinting ahead of logic, tugging at my ribs, my breath.

I don’t even bother fixing my hair. I just tiptoe down the stairs like it’s rigged with motion sensors, careful not to wake either of them. I even pause by the kitchen, debating if I’m insane.

Then I catch my reflection in the window.

Yeah. Insane. But going, anyway.

I head down the stairs and almost jump out of my skin when I see him standing in the doorway between the paper and the stairwell.

“How did you—” I blink up at him, pulse skipping. “Did I leave the door unlocked?”

“I left the one I dipped out earlier unlocked,” Griffon says, his voice low, unapologetic, “hoping to grab a minute with you.”

A minute?

He pulls me into the press space before I can answer and shuts the adjoining door behind us. He then walks over like it’s nothing—like I’m not vibrating inside—and sits on the edge of one of the old desks like he belongs there. Like he belongs here .

My heart is in my throat, punching every syllable of his next words.

“If you told me to pound salt, I’d have locked it back up,” he says. “But I was betting on this. This fucking connection, Iz. It’s no shit. You know it, and so do I.”

I fold my arms across my chest before I even think about it—the only armor I have on. “You were betting on this?”

He chuckles softly. “Hell, Oz asked if you and I were a thing.”

Of course he did.

I make a face. His grin grows.

“Gonna guess so did the girls.”

“Worse,” I mutter, wishing I just pretended to be asleep to avoid this conversation.

He cocks a brow. “Sarah?”

“Dad, actually.”

His laugh is full-bodied, unguarded. It scrapes over every nerve I’ve spent the last twelve hours trying to calm. “Swear to God, Iz, I didn’t plan that,” he says, sobering. “But?—”

“I believe you,” I cut him off. “So yeah, I was a dick and … sorry.”

His eyes soften, but there’s something wild behind them, too. “Gonna circle back and ask what your dad said,” he says, voice rough, “but first, I’m gonna say what I came here to say.”

Oh God . My spine straightens against the wall. I brace.

“I didn’t plan any of this,” he starts, “but when I come back here, and if you’re still looking at me the way you do, and I’m still feeling you the way I do …

” He shakes his head like even he doesn’t believe it.

“Thirty was my number,” he says. “That’s when I told myself I’d be open to something more.

Something real. I’m not thirty yet, Iz. But I found something way more. ”

I don’t know what to say because I am not there in my life, not even close to there.

“Griffon,” I whisper, and?—

“Fuck,” he groans, cutting me off, pounding a fist over his chest. “When you said my name—my actual fucking name—when I was inside you last night? I nearly nutted, Iz. Like, straight up lost my damn mind. What is that even about?”

I suck in a breath. “Please, let me?—”

“I’m not gonna try changing you,” he barrels on. “You’re fucking perfect.”

My heart lurches. Not because I believe him—but because he does .

“Jesus, I thought about the carriage house on the way back from ’Cuse,” he adds, eyes flicking toward the window like he’s picturing it.

“I’ve never sees things like you do. I don’t have a million plans or projects in my head.

I only ever had football. It’s the only thing that made sense, my one and only dream.

” He looks back at me, like I’m next. Like I am the next thing that makes sense.

“I’m always going to be here,” I say, the words surprising even me. “This is where I want to be.”

His jaw ticks. “It’s a great fucking place to be,” he says. “I wanna be here, too.”

God. What do I even do with that?

“You like taking trips with your girls,” he continues, “I like taking trips with my boys. I would love to take a trip with you. You, me, naked …” He closes his eyes briefly and mutters, “Fuck, anywhere … everywhere.”

I laugh. I have to. Because if I don’t, I might start crying.

“I’m not asking you to stop chasing your dreams. I’m asking, when I come back”—he motions between us—“you let me watch you chase them, and then maybe one day you’ll be willing to let me chase them with you.”

That last line- let me chase them with you —is all it takes.

I barely registered my own movement. Did I nod?

It must’ve just been the barest tilt of my chin, or the unspooling of tension in my shoulders, or the way my hands flex and uncurl at my sides.

But he sees it—sees the exact instant I make my choice.

And before I can even think of some smart-ass way to walk it back, Griffon Skinner closes the gap between us in two long strides.

The air shifts. My lungs forget how to function for a hot second. His eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up, and the tiny pause before he kisses me is a slow-motion eternity.