Page 36 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

No tag. No context. Which makes it worse. Because I know the damn view isn’t the only thing on his mind. Is there a girl on the beach?

And then I see something … on his wrist. Three bracelets that look suspiciously like mine.

I check my nightstand drawer, where I toss all my jewelry at night, and yep, the three wood-beaded bracelets I got the first time we went to Africa are gone.

He posted to get me to cave, and I being the competitor I am, I wouldn’t even question taking that bait, but those are special. Not that he knows that, but still.

My fingers itch to message him that if he loses them, I will seriously kill him or injure him, because jail and Jesus .

So, my story is a blurry shot of the hoodie—his—on the hanger in my closet. I hope he reads into what I want him to—take care of them.

My caption: Could go feral. Will try not to.

The next morning, I have five reactions to that story from girls I don’t even talk to, venting about the game. Oops.

I also have a DM from Ava that just reads: Subtle.

I don’t respond. I mean, maybe she thinks I’m trying to stir up shit that we’ve been forbidden to stir up? This is perfect since now I don’t have to make a list of whose life I’m going to ruin for telling Ava.

Morning two, I beat him by posting first.

I post a video that was supposed to be Wile entering the lift— customized accessibility solution is just too long a phrase — but ended up with me begging him to get in, and then tossing in some jerky and tricking him.

Caption: When all else fails: jerky.

His story? A picture of the gym, but not just any gym—the empty, echoing kind. There’s a lone barbell in the middle of the mat. A towel draped on the edge.

Caption: Cleared my head. Miss the noise.

Miss the noise? Is that me?

I stare at the screen until Wile licks my knee, and then I snap out of it.

With nothing to do today at the greenhouse, I spend the day planning what equipment I need to make this merch idea.

Heat presses, vinyl cutters, sublimation printers, and laugh at the name of another printer everyone says is expensive but worth it—the DTF.

I have a list of twenty kids who our coaches in varsity sports think have a better chance of being successful in furthering their education, which would change their lives if they continued playing collegiate sports.

I post a video of Blue Valley Publishing as is.

Caption: Time to start something new.

He posts nothing.

And that? That hits.

So my evening post is of the inside of Wile’s crate since he still doesn’t love the whole thing, and I aim to change that.

The video shows my artistic vision of a cozy cabin car of an old-fashioned train—warm wood-toned trim, tiny golden sconces (motion-sensor lights, obviously), and a landscape rolling past the “windows” made of soft green fields and blue skies.

There’s even a doggy butler in a little conductor hat painted in the corner, holding a menu of treats.

A custom treat tray is bolted to the side at perfect Wile height in the shape of a dining car table, complete with a rawhide and a peanut-butter-filled Kong.

Caption: Quiet days make weird art. The Wile Express line to Snuggle City.

And then, at 11:59 p.m.—one minute before the day resets—he posts a black screen. Nothing but a song title: “Scared to Start.”

Him or me?

Day three, I post a selfie. Hair in braids, hoodie zipped, Wile at my feet. I’ve got a power drill in one hand and a defiant look on my face.

Caption: Who needs sleep when you have plans?

His story is of the sky—clouds drifting above the Gulf. No filter, just the natural soft grays and pinks that look like a dream.

He writes: Storm’s rolling in. But it’s still beautiful.

That evening, I post a video of the carriage house with portable spotlights. Mags’s voice is in the background, laughing about how I electrocuted myself twice.

Over it, I write: She lives.

He posts a screenshot of a Spotify playlist titled “ Off-Season Vibes .” The first visible track is one I know. “Light On.”

No caption. Just that.

He. Posted. Maggie!

On day four, he posts first—a sunrise over the field I assume he used to practice on in high school, cleats slung over his shoulder. No caption.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about what it could mean for over an hour. So long, in fact, that I forgot to post.

After toweling the dirt off my hands, I walk outside and take a photo of the greenhouse windows, the condensation still clinging to the glass.

Caption: Something about mornings makes everything feel possible.

Mags makes a pie on day four. I film us arguing about how much cinnamon is “too much.” She steals the camera and pans to my face. I look flushed, laughing, happy.

I almost delete it. Instead, I caption: We laugh loud here.

His story is of the pier. Footsteps in sand. Wind noise in the mic. And just four words: Wish you were here.

The next day, he posts a video of his Grand dancing in the kitchen to old-school Motown. He pans to himself in the reflection of the microwave door. He’s shirtless. Gaw !

Caption: This house has soul.

I slam my phone facedown and yell into a pillow.

Ten minutes later, I post a boomerang of me stirring coffee in a giant mug with “ DO NOT ENGAGE ” Sharpied on the side.

No caption. Just that.

He posts late on day five. A candle burning next to a notebook. A scribbled mess of X’s and O’s. Caption: Nothing’s changed. But everything’s different.

I don’t even pretend not to stare at it for twenty full seconds.

I post a still shot of Wile curled up next to my leg, my notebook open, the same song from his story playing “Feeling Good” faint in the background.

I don’t tag him.

I don’t have to.

The next morning, he posts a video of the weight rack at a small local gym, a slow pan to a handwritten sign taped to the wall:“ GRIND IN SILENCE, LET THEM WONDER .” His reflection in the mirror—head down, sweat-slicked, focused.

Oh, we’re doing bro inspiration now?

I roll my eyes then pause it again to catch that reflection. He’s in a tee, sleeves cut off, sides wide open. So hot.

My post: a photo of my muddy boots in front of the door. Caption: Some people’s‘happy’ involves power tools and poop bags.

He posts a close-up of his plate at dinner the next night: venison steak, charred greens, cornbread with butter melting into every groove. Caption: She taught me better than takeout. The corner of his other’s hand is visible across the table.

I feel that one. More than I expected to. He’s not flexing. He’s grounding himself.

Is he making it clear who he’s anchoring to while he’s not here?

I stare at the photo longer than I mean to, zooming in on the way he plated the meal. There’s care in it. Deliberateness.

I post a flat lay of Aunt Isobel’s old handwritten recipe cards, dog-eared and tea-stained, next to a fresh batch of biscuits. Caption: Some of us treasure what’s important. Others? I wouldn’t know. We’re not friends.