Page 34 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Flight

Griffon

T he flight from Syracuse was bad. The layover in Charlotte? Somehow worse.

A kid with a Knights hoodie spots me first. Then his dad. Then the guy behind the smoothie kiosk. I see it in their eyes before they even say anything—recognition, followed by something darker.

“Hey, you played in that Philly game, right?” one guy asks, phone already up like I’m about to do a TED Talk in Terminal B.

“Yeah, man. Hell of a game,” I offer, easy smile.

“Hell of a robbery, you mean,” the smoothie guy says. “Refs were blind or bought. Who was paid off, Philly—the refs, or you guys?”

I clench my jaw, still smiling. “Tough game. No comment.”

He snorts and turns away, like I’ve disappointed him. Like I called the play.

Another guy, probably college-aged, leans in. “So, was it really rigged? Or are you guys just choking again this year?”

I shake my head. “No comment. Appreciate you watching, though.”

That ends it. Kind of. Mostly.

I turn and walk away toward the far end of the terminal, where there’s less of a crowd and no one’s trying to get a photo of me buying trail mix.

My phone buzzes.

Notification from IG. No new message. Just … me checking. Again. Like Iz might suddenly decide to text me something sarcastic or worse … No. We left it good. Real fucking good, actually.

God, I miss her already.

I didn’t think I’d get this twisted this fast when I finally fell, but I guess that’s why I avoided it.

Izzy Ross is not one you can actually figure out from a distance.

One minute, she’s all fire and attitude, snapping at you in flannel and dirt-smudged boots, and the next …

she’s curled up next to you, sleepy and bare, smelling like lavender and ink, and maybe—no, definitely, the best night of your life.

Maybe God above made her that way, the way she’s almost unapproachable but still warm.

He knew whoever could get through that, adore who she is, was her guy. Pretty damn sure that guy is me.

And I’m in a damn airport, feeling like I left something more than just New York behind.

I rub the back of my neck, thinking about the way she kissed me before I left. No drama. No tears. But it was there in her eyes, same as mine—that ache, low and quiet. That thing that whispers, This is more.

“Final boarding call for Flight 432 to Gulfport-Biloxi.”

Finally.

I grab my duffel and head to the gate, nodding to the ticket agent like I’m not still mentally replaying her biting my lip and telling me to drive safe before watching me leave.

Iz Ross isa dreamer, and a total dream.

By the time the car turns down the long dirt drive, the sun’s dipped low behind the trees, casting everything in that sleepy gold.

It’s humid. Not that sharp winter bite like in New York—this is soft air, thick with pine and memory. My shirt sticks to my back by the time I step out of the car and take a slow look around.

It’s dusk now—sky lit up in hazy shades of violet and ember, like it’s on fire and fading at the same time. The Gulf shimmers below, calm, wide, and open. For a moment, I just … breathe.

This is where I wanted them. Not that two-bedroom fixer with the sagging porch and the attic fan that never worked right. Here. The best view in Nettle Ridge. No stairs, walk-in everything, and light that pours in through floor-to-ceiling windows like it’s coming home, too.

The house sits wide across the top of the ridge, white with deep green shutters and a wraparound porch that faces the Gulf on one side and the pines on the other.

There’s a porch swing I installed myself—badly—but she still said it’s perfect.

It was … after I hired someone to fix my fuck-up.

Planters brimming with bright red salvia and rosemary line the path to the front door.

When I climb out of the SUV and shut the door behind me, I feel my chest crack open a little. Not from exhaustion or jet lag. Just … arriving.

The door swings open before I can even knock. And there she is.

Grand, in her house shoes and a faded Ole Miss sweatshirt, gray curls pinned up in a loose bun, face still sun-kissed from her morning walk. She doesn’t run to me, doesn’t cry. She smiles like she knew I’d be here, eventually.

“Griffon Elijah Skinner,” she says, folding her arms and raising one brow. “You got tall.”

“You’re shrinking,” I say, voice cracking like a damn rookie.

She doesn’t comment, just pulls me in and wraps those little arms around my middle.

“I missed you,” I mutter, holding on tighter than I should.

“I know, baby,” she says, hand patting my back. “I missed you more.”

I don’t move. Not right away. Because I realize that somewhere between the merch closet, the Philly game, and Iz’s mouth on mine, I forgot how to breathe without feeling like I was burning at both ends.

She pulls back and cups my cheek. “You hungry?”

Always the question .

I shake my head. “I’m okay. Just wanted to see you.”

She nods like she understands way more than what I’m saying. Then her eyes narrow, sharp in that way that makes me feel twelve again and hiding scraped knees behind too-big jeans.

“Let’s get inside, fix you a plate.”

The smell hits me the second I cross the threshold—freshly baked cornbread, something spicy simmering low.

There’s jazz playing low from a speaker tucked into the bookshelf, the kind of playlist Grand swears by: Coltrane, a little Nina Simone, and that one old-school blues guitarist she claims once kissed her hand at a county fair.

The inside of the house is everything I wanted it to be when I picked it out—high-end, but homey.

Creamy walls, soft lighting, open kitchen with dark quartz counters and brass hardware that shines like it was polished this morning.

The kind of kitchen that says, “Stay a while.” A long farmhouse table sits near a bank of windows overlooking the water, and there’s a blanket tossed casually over the arm of the couch in a way that I can imagine Grand curled up reading a magazine there.

Grand moves like she’s finally comfortable here. Took a beat, but I’m glad it’s there. She gestures for me to sit.

I trail her to the kitchen island, but when I reach for a bowl, she swats my hand gently.

“I cook meals here. You take us—me—out,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” I nod. Us. Her and Gramps.

She fixes the plate with care, heaping spoonful of red bean chili, scoop of her cornbread—the kind that ruins you for all other cornbread—and a little pile of something green and pickled she calls “sassy slaw.” I don’t even ask.

She sets the plate in front of me and leans against the counter with her sweet tea in hand.

Her gaze doesn’t waver, even as I dig in.

“So,” she says, slicing through the quiet, “they really asking y’all not to speak on that hot mess of a game?”

I nod, mouth full. “League wants it buried. Told us no do-over. Fines’ll get dropped if we shut up and move on.”

She tsks. “And what do you want?”

I shrug. “Still figuring that out.”

She hums like she gets it, but then she tilts her head slightly. “You looked rough when you got here. Not tired, just … heart-tired.”

I nearly choke on a spoonful of chili.

“I knew it!” She points the ladle at me.

“Grand,” I groan.

“Don’t you ‘Grand’ me, Griffon Elijah. Spill it.”

I pull out my phone and scroll to Izzy’s Instagram, one of her older posts, my favorite. She’s holding up a tray of canned jam jars, hair in a messy braid, hands stained from berries, freckles bright on her cheeks, eyes crinkled from the size of her smile. I flip it around.

“That’s her?”

I nod. “Izzy.”

“Lord, that girl looks like she could wrangle a tornado and then charm the clouds back into place.”

I huff a laugh. “She could.”

Grand studies the screen a little longer, and then her mouth pulls down in that barely-there way that tells me something’s hit.

“She’s a stunner, and real. Not like those others,” she says softly. “But that smile’s holding something.”

I look down at the photo again.

Yeah, I see it, too.

“She’s been through it,” I murmur.

Grand’s quiet for a moment. Then … “Make sure you see all of her, not just the shine. The shine’s earned. But the cracks … that’s where the real story lives.”

“Plan to, if she’ll let me.”

“And you, Griffon”—she walks around the island—“you need to let her in”—she touches my chest, right over my heart—“here.”

I hold my hand over hers. “Told her some.” I smile. “Told her how Gramps got me into Lincoln. About you.”

“And Angela?”

I run my hand through my hair. “No. But her parents know.”

“Her parents?” she asks, snatching up my phone again and scrolling through what I assume is Izzy’s IG. “You met her parents?” Before I can answer, she gasps. “You work with her?”

I lean over to see what she’s looking at.

It’s a picture someone must’ve tagged Iz in, taken in the merch closet before the meet and greet.

She’s got her hair tied up in that messy- ass bun, half-smile on her face, holding a stack of wristbands like it’s a weapon.

In the background, I’m there, too, behind her, pretending I didn’t just steal a glance at her ass.

“Well … no. But also, yes.”

Grand turns her head slowly, like she’s waiting for the rest.

“She helps with the team’s merch,” I say. “Her family—her parents—they’re part owners. So, technically, she’s around because of that.”

Grand doesn’t say anything for a second then raises both eyebrows. “Jesus, Griffon, you’re sleeping with the boss’s daughter?”

“I could lie and say I didn’t know that at first,” I mutter. “But yeah, I guess I am.”

Her lips press together, not judging exactly, but calculating. “That’s a mess.”

“I know.”

She sets the phone down, folding her arms over the counter. “Is she worth it?”

I exhale, slow and steady, but the answer rises up like it’s always been waiting.

“I’m already in deep, Grand.”

She waits.

“I’m falling.”

I try to figure out how to explain, and that triggers the memory of when I first came to live with them. Like Iz, Grand’s eyes, if you learn how to read them, they tell you everything you need to know.

There’s a beat of silence, and then her whole face softens. “Lord, help us. You finish eating, but then it’s me and you on the porch swing with sweet tea and Jesus.”

“I’m not thirteen anymore, Grand, and if you want me to give it to you undiluted, I’m gonna need you to make me one of your old fashions.”

“Am I gonna need to make them doubles?”

“Oh yeah,” I answer.

Due to the heat and drink, I don’t dilute much at all. Obviously, I leave out the fuck-hot details, but not about the fact I’ve never felt the same with anyone else ever.

“You should have dragged her here. She sounds like a hoot!”

“Need some distance to make sure this isn’t just …” I shrug. “You know.”

“Yes, I know! I know it as well as I know you!” She laughs. Hell, we’ve been laughing the entire conversation.

Grand pats my knee like she’s sealing a deal. “Well, now that you’ve had your confession, what are you gonna do about it?”

I swirl the last of the old fashion in my glass and watch the orange peel stick to the side like it’s got regrets. “I’m letting her live her life. I’ve got to let this breathe. Can’t trap something wild if you want it to, you know, fall, too.”

She hums. “That’s a pretty metaphor, baby, but don’t forget—if you wait too long to pick a peach, it’s gonna rot right there on the branch.”

I blink. “That … was dark, Grand.”

“It’s true.” She shrugs, sipping her drink like she didn’t just drop a bomb of Southern wisdom coated in subtle dare. “Love requires timing. And intention. You can’t just hover at the edge of her life and expect her to wait with her door cracked.”

I groan, leaning my head back against the porch swing. “She’s got her hands in a hundred things—her family, her business, her community. She’s building something.”

“And what are you building?” she asks gently.

“Hell if I know,” I admit. “I’ve always had football.

It was everything. But now … I see her planning gardens, and youth programs, and a rooftop covered in vertically-grown vegetables, and I’m sitting there, wondering if I’m enough.

If showing up and offering to carry heavy things counts as contribution. ”

“You’re more than that,” she says firmly. “You show up for people. You take care of what you love. And you wouldn’t be asking yourself that question if she wasn’t worth the answer.”

I look at her, jaw clenched. “So, what do I do?”

She sets her glass down and reaches over, pressing her warm, veiny hand to my cheek.

“You keep showing up. Not like a shadow, but like a man who means to be there. Don’t crowd her, don’t claim her.

But don’t disappear, either. You want that girl to be your partner? Show her what partnership looks like.”

I blink back something suspicious in my eyes. “Why you gotta be so damn good at this?”

She smiles slow, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “Because I’ve lived a love that real—bone-deep, messy, and beautiful.”

The wind shifts, warm with salt and Gulf breeze, and I swear I can already smell her shampoo on it. My girl. My Iz.

“All right then,” I whisper.

“Grand?” I speak quietly because, as much as I don’t wanna hurt her, I need to know.

She tilts her head in question.

“Would you do it all over again, knowing you were going to lose him?”

Tears fill her eyes, and I feel like an ass for asking until she smiles.

“Yes, a million times over.” She hugs me tight. “And you, my boy, need to remind yourself that your sister’s, my granddaughter’s, death was not your fault.”

“Know that,” I say, eyes stinging. And I do, even though they made me feel like it was.

“You were five, a baby yourself. They blamed you because they are?—”

“I know.”

We sit there long enough that the sun has disappeared.

Grand smiles and leans back into the swing, “Now tell me, baby, does she eat like a bird, or does she eat like someone I could trust with my deviled egg recipe?”

I grin. “Let’s just say … you better make a double batch.”