Page 35 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Day One

Izzy

I wake up at that time of day before dawn breaks. Before I even sit up, I’m reaching for the phone. Rolling on my back, I stare at my screen because I am waiting impatiently for him to crack first and send a message. He hasn’t.

I sure as hell won’t. Why? He made it a competition. First one to crack owes the other a favor to use whenever or wherever they want; nothing can be denied.

Then I do something stupid. I open social media and watch stories.

He posted!

It’s a photo taken last night: Griffon kissing his Grand’s cheek with the sun setting in the background. The light’s golden, soft, warm—stunning.

He captioned it: Sunset, sweet tea, and my favorite girl. Day one. Off-season.

Dagger. Straight to the ovaries.

I stare at it too long. Zoom in. Zoom out. Like it’ll make me feel something different. It doesn’t.

It’s a photo. Golden hour. His arm around his grandma, the two of them on a porch swing, the Gulf behind sky-dyed in amber and pink.

He’s pressing a kiss to her cheek and smiling in that soft, real way he rarely does.

Not the cocky, cleat-stomp grin he wears on the field.

Not the panty-melting smirk he gives me when he’s about to say something to annoy me, on purpose.

This smile is different. Unfiltered. Unarmored.

I’ve seen it a few times now, and it still causes pause.

I clutch my phone to my chest for a second, like a complete loser, before dropping it onto the comforter. So that’s how he’s playing it—sentimental and sweet. Which means he’s trying to melt me down.

Fine. Two can play that game.

I push up, stretch, and mentally prepare to get ready for the day.

I slide out of the Jeep at the perfect time—the sun is just peeking over the greenhouse.

I snap a pic and post: Mornings are beautiful .

Lame? Maybe, but still.

Dad opens the front door of the house, coffee in hand, and Wile trots out to see me. “He missed you, Izzy girl.”

I squat down and rub his ears. “I missed him, too.”

“You got time for a cup, or are you in a hurry?” he asks.

I shield my eyes from the sun. “Where’s Mom?”

He nods to the greenhouse. “I’ll grab you and Mom a cup.”

He steps back inside, and I hang out, petting Wile for a bit, trying to figure out what to say, because the girls know, and it feels kind of wrong since Mom is always the first person I talk to when something is going on in my life.

I suppose it’s a good thing she wasn’t there last night when my brain was still in a post-orgasmic haze and I blurted out everything.

I hover by the doorway for a second, unsure of my footing, even though I’ve stepped into this room a thousand times. Mom’s at the long table under the windows, gently prodding the base of a jade plant with her fingers like she’s asking it questions.

I clear my throat. “Hey.”

Mom looks up with a smile, soft and worn-in like her favorite gardening gloves. “You want coffee?”

“Dad’s bringing us some. Can I sit?”

Mom gestures toward the stool across from her. “Of course.”

I sit, tuck my feet under me, run my finger along a crack in the tabletop, and wait for Dad, because I owe them both after yesterday, and I only wanna do this once.

When he enters the greenhouse and sets the cups down, I thank him.

He walks over and sits next to Mom.

“I’m going through something,” I say quietly. “And I don’t want you to worry. I’m okay, really. I just … need some room to figure it out. Maybe fail. Maybe not. But either way, I’ll be okay.”

Mom’s hand pauses on the soil. “Transplant shock,” she says gently.

I blink. “What?”

“When you take a healthy plant from one pot and move it to another. New soil, more space. Even if it’s good for the roots, the leaves wilt for a bit. They’re just adjusting.”

Dad rests his elbows on the table. “Sometimes it looks worse before it gets better.”

I nod. “I don’t want you to fix anything. Just—if you can—let me try. Support me the way you always have, no matter what this turns into.”

There’s a beat of silence. The hum of the radio fills it.

Mom lifts a little starter tray of baby greens. “Even the strongest seedlings can’t thrive if they’re overwatered. But with enough light and time?—”

“—they grow,” Dad finishes, reaching over to squeeze my hand.

“I’m not saying it’s a big thing,” I rush to clarify. “It might not be. It might be nothing. Or everything. I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to know,” Mom says. “But we’ll be here. If it blossoms or breaks, we’ve got you.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing because she seriously gives great advice. She’s wise so wise, but also a wise ass. I am so sure this is one of those times.

I nod once. “Thanks.”

I look around. “I know we’ve done this before, but my focus was in a lot of different directions.”

Dad chuckles. “When isn’t it?”

Mom elbows him. “Pot meet kettle.”

I pull out my phone and open my Notes app. “We’re at the end of January. For our zone—five—we’ve planted the following seeds … For herbs: parsley, oregano, thyme, chives, and sage.” I glance up, and she smiles and nods. “We transplant in?—”

“April or May, depending on frost,” Dad answers.

“That’s right,” Mom says before taking a sip. “They love cool starts.”

“Staggered starts?”

They both nod.

“Lot of ground to fill,” Dad adds.

“Perfect, perfect.” I continue, “Veggies: onions, leeks, celery, and celeriac. Seeds planted same transplant time.”

“All slow maturing—they need more time.”

I glance up. Surely, she’s not talking about me.

She taps a finger on a packet of heirloom onion seeds.

I look back down. “For flowers: lisianthus, snapdragons, and we are doing eucalyptus, right?”

“We are, and probably more than we’ll need, but …” Mom lifts a shoulder.

I look around. “I just feel like we need to do more.”

“That’s because everything in January has to earn its keep. Nothing fast, nothing flimsy. These are your hardy introverts. They take their time and build strong roots. Just like people, right?” Mom smiles.

I swear to God she’s messing with me.

“We’re also prepping thespace. Sanitizing trays, mixing soil, checking our heat mats and grow lights.

Come February? That’s when we bring in the brassicas—broccoli, cauliflower, kale.

Then March? Tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, zinnias, basil.

That’s when it starts to feel like a party in here.

” Dad chuckles. “And when that field is ready for transplant? We’re going to have waves of color and food.

Lettuce and radishes direct-seeded in April.

Tomatoes and peppers going out in May. Flowers tucked in-between to make the pollinators feel welcome. ”

I feel that excitement I had when we first talked about this coming back. “It’s kind of wild, isn’t it? All of it starting with these teeny, stubborn seeds.”

“All great things do, kid.” Dad winks.

I roll my eyes. “I just feel like now I have all this time and there’s more I can do.”

“There is. You’ve gotta get your people. Co-op, you divide tasks, split resources, share profits if there is any after everyone gets their take. Be good to have extra hands when these go to ground.”

“Especially since Mags won’t be here now,” Mom reminds me.

“I think I’m leaning more toward a farmstand? You know, sell to those with money; give to those who don’t have it?”

“You plan to do all twenty acres? That’s over forty-three thousand square feet. You’ll need six to ten full-time—five for planting, cultivating, and irrigation, one person to manage the greenhouse, a few people to harvest, a few to distribute.”

My mind starts racing.

“You and your mom, you’ve done what five or six people usually do for a program this large.”

Mom places a hand on his. “She goes a hundred miles an hour. You get to that speed and hit nitro, Jake. Iz got this.”

“No doubt she does.” He shrugs like it’s no big thing.

“I like the farmstand idea, giving to those who need help. Aunt Isobel, that’s what she wanted to do here.”

“You’ve always done that,” I remind her.

“In an unintentional way, yes, but this is bigger,” she says. “And we will handle it. Now tell me where you see the farmstand.”

“Skinner and the guys came down.” I pause, realizing what I just said.

“Well, the girls kind of decided instead of girls’ night, they’d surprise me with a housewarming dinner.

They bought Mags and me a grill. They cooked on it.

Set it up in front of the carriage house, and he asked what we were going to do with it.

Farmstand came up. Oddly, so did apartments or townhouses.

” I look up from my phone app. “I said no to the apartments. We have enough on our plates.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Dad shrugs. “Love football, but it plays hell on winter projects.”

“I won’t be at Legacy Field as much if we do the fan merch at BVP. That’ll save ten hours if not more of nonsense work keeping that straight. Yet still, apartments are too much. For now, anyway.”

My phone alarm goes off, and I groan as I slide out of my seat.

“Where’s your next stop?”

“Meeting with some coaches to talk about who they feel is a good fit when we get that up and running.”

“Already?” Dad chuckles.

“I mean, yeah. An idea just sits there; you gotta make a plan and start putting it in action, right?”

Mom laughs. “I think I’ve heard that before.”

Dad stands. “You go do that. I’m going to head down and fix Wile’s third exit.”

“Sweet. Any chance you could make that go up one more? The rooftop is going to be amazing.”

Dad hip-checks me as he walks by. “You got your list; I got mine.” He looks back at Mom. “Need anything in town?”

She smiles at me then him. “I got everything I need right here.”

Skinner’s, I mean Griffon’s , story drops around six p.m. It’s a boomerang of his bare feet propped on the railing, a fire pit in front of him, the Gulf in the background. I freeze it on a single frame—he’s holding a drink in his left hand. His fingers, big, thick, strong … skilled. Gaw !

He wrote: Not a bad view.