Page 37 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

One Week

Griffon

“ Y ou better send your love note,” Grand remarks as she lines up to swing.

I pull my phone out and record her railing the golf ball farther than mine. Caption: Where my athletic ability comes from.

Izzy’s morning post—or love note, as Grand calls them—was a video of her greenhouse, foggy glass behind a tangle of green vines crawling up. Caption: She’s a little wild, but that’s how she grows.

Will I make the thirty days? We’ll see.

Every day, it gets harder to stay away, and we’re only seven days—fucking seven, man. I’m so whipped.

I thought I got why Iz said she was never leaving Blue Valley. It’s beautiful, and her whole life is there. But it hits deeper now. As bad as I wanna go back, I know Grand needs me. Her best friend, Miss Lissette, told me Grand only fully lights up like the old her when I’m around.

I know she loves Mississippi, the Ridge, her friends, which is why I would never ask her to move.

But the fucking headtrip I’m on, one I’m looking at my future in a way I never have, I want Grand there, need her there.

Maybe not all the time, but fuck, I miss her and Gramps coming to games.

I can’t imagine having little Grizzes—oh yeah, I shipped us, fucking hard, too—one day and her not being part of it.

Grand refuses to fly. She told me that every time she visited my parents when we were a family, or at least that’s what I thought family was.

The plane had some issue, and she’s just not doing it anymore.

Can’t blame her, but have thought about giving her some bennies—Benadryl doesn’t make her drowsy as hell, not that other shit — and dragging her on a plane.

I suspect there’s another reason she doesn’t fly anymore. The last flight she and Gramps took was a long one. They came to be with my mother and flew back with us from Okinawa to bring my sister home.

It’s day eight, and Grand informs me that Tuesday afternoons in Nettle Ridge have not changed because I’m home.

What that means is there will be iced tea sweating on the table, something peachy cooling on the stove, and three retired Southern women getting ready to demolish me at cards like it’s their personal mission.

“Miss Lissette,” I greet as she walks in wearing a visor that reads“ Queen of Hearts ” in rhinestones. “You takin’ it easy on me today, or are we goin’ full-contact?”

“Don’t sass me, Griffon Skinner,” she says, setting her purse down and pulling out a deck like it’s a weapon. “You’re not too pretty to lose.”

Grand cackles from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “He gets that lip from his daddy’s side. Sit your butt down—we’re playin’ Spite and Malice.”

I take the seat between Miss Dottie and Miss Lissette, Grand across from me, the keeper of the discard pile.

“Now, remind me the rules again,” I say, knowing full well that the minute I ask, they smell blood in the water.

Miss Dottie leans in, whispering, “It’s like Solitaire if Solitaire had a mean older sister.”

I barely get my cards sorted before Miss Lissette is already throwing down a wild and beaming like she just scored a touchdown.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Grand scolds, even as she slaps down a queen and robs me of any chance of building my pile.

“You know what this game is?” I say, leaning back, half-laughing. “It’s emotionally rigged Uno.”

“Oh, hush,” Grand says, sipping her tea. “It builds character.”

“Character? Or lifelong trust issues?”

Miss Lissette waves her hand. “You big bad football boys crumble under pressure, but one retired church pianist plays a six, and you get all up in your feelings.”

“I am absolutely up in my feelings, Miss Lissette,” I deadpan. “You cut me deep.”

Grand’s eyes twinkle across the table. “He gets dramatic when he’s losing.”

“I am not—” I look at my pitiful hand. “Okay, I might be losing.”

Miss Dottie pats my forearm. “At least you’re pretty, sweetheart.”

I keep a smile on for the ladies, despite the fact I’m getting my ass handed to me. They deserve the full dose of Skinner charm. Hell, I even know Grand’s stacking the deck, and I don’t even care.

I post a video in my stories of the “Big Game” and pan in on Grand. Caption: She still cheats.

I check to see if Iz posted, and she hasn’t. But a couple of minutes later, I get a notification because, of course, I set it up so when she posts, I’m alerted.

She posts a picture of her when she was little—like before boobs age—mud-covered with a trophy nearly as big as her. Caption: Still play to win. Still covered in dirt. Still …

Grand asks, “Love note?”

I turn the phone around and show her little Iz. “Look at her, Grand. She was pretty even then.”

“She’s a keeper.” Grand winks.

“You settled down?” Lissette laughs then she slaps down a card. “Boom, and that, sugar, is how you clear a build pile and ruin a man’s fragile ego in one move.”

Miss Dottie cackles behind her cup of sweet tea like it’s gospel. “You better hope the league don’t call her up, Griffon. She’s worse than those Philly boys.”

I grunt and try to play a nine from my hand, but there’s nowhere to put it, and I’ve got no way to block her next play.

Grand fans herself with her discard pile like a blackjack dealer who knows she’s about to win again .

“You know what your problem is, Griffon?” she says sweetly, sliding another card down with the smug precision of a sniper. “You treat your love life like this game. But now you’re holding a good hand, and if you hold it too long, you’re taking unnecessary risks.”

Miss Lissette mmmhmms like she’s the soundtrack to my humiliation. “He hoarding a queen?”

I blink. “Jesus.”

“Mouth,” all three of them say at the same time.

I lift my hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I get it.”

She narrows her eyes and drops a queen on the pile like she’s dropping facts. “Do you? ’Cause you got a girl now, and if you don’t start playing your cards, someone else is gonna flip the deck and sweep her off the damn table.”

Miss Lissette leans forward like a conspirator. “Or worse—she’ll reshuffle herself and decide she’s better off playing solo.”

I sigh and drop my nine in defeat. “I liked it better when we just played Rummy.”

Grand gives me a sugar-sweet smile. “Rummy don’t call you on your shit. Spite and Malice builds character.”

Miss Lissette sips her tea. “And, apparently, exposes all your relationship flaws. Now let me see that queen.”

Day nine, my morning post is a bathroom mirror pic, shaving for the first time since … well, fuck, I don’t even remember. Caption: Clean cuts. New start.

Iz posts a side view of a desk and laptop screen, which shows some sort of design that I assume is for Knights merch. Caption: Branding is just flirting with fonts.

It’s raining again, so Grand and I watch her shows and just chill.

As the sun sets, we take a drive down to the marina, park in front of our slip and the boat, which we still haven’t had a chance to take out and do some fishing.

I snap a pic of the rain pouring down, which masks the boat enough so it’s not recognizable. I don’t want anyone fucking with it. Caption: And they live another day. With a fishing hook emoji.

Iz’s post is an image of a cracked ceramic mug filled with paintbrushes. Caption: Some things are more useful after they break.

Grand leans over and looks at my screen. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“What do you think she’s saying?” I ask, a game we’ve been playing most every damn night.

“You know damn well what she’s saying, and if you don’t do something about it …” She shakes her tiny fist at me.

Day ten, I’m sitting at the table, watching Grand play in her flowers on the porch, bent over a play book, drinking a protein shake because my appetite sucks, but there’s no way I’m not keeping up with my protein intake, because contrary to what people may believe, abs are built in the kitchen, and Izzy Ross is a big fan of my abs.

My notification goes off, and I immediately swipe to open it.

Iz posted a close-up of her hands in soil, palm up, with seeds scattered across her palm. Caption: Every season starts with dirt.

I snap a shitty picture of my playbook, protein shake beside it, and post it. Caption: Don’t forget what got you here.

By day eleven, I’m desperate enough for her to message me, so when I cash in that winning chip, she’s got no choice but to do as I ask. So, what do I do? I post a selfie from my bed, with bedhead, eyes half-closed. Caption: Rest days matter.

Takes Iz a half-hour before she posts, but she does. It’s a photo of Wile sprawled across her lap like a giant heating pad. Caption: Some coworkers take advantage of their benefits package.

It’s almost midnight when I see it.

I’m brushing my teeth, already half-asleep, scrolling one last time like a damn glutton for punishment, and there it is.

Caption: It’s Thirsty Thursday.

The caption’s harmless. Teasing. A joke, probably. But the video?

Iz soaked. Laughing. Darting behind one of the tanks in the brew room, hose in hand like she’s waging war on Lo.

Her hair’s stuck to her cheeks, her jeans dark and clinging, her hoodie showing just enough to imagine everything beneath it.

She shrieks and spins, mouth open wide in laughter, and I swear to God I feel that sound in my chest. Yeah, and other places, too.

Instant. That’s how fast it happens.

My hand tightens around my phone. My chest rises.

She’s fourteen hundred miles away, and I want her like she’s across the room.

I close the app. Shut off the light. But it’s no use. The image is burned behind my eyelids now—her flushed, soaked, wild. So hot.

My body reacts before my mind can reason with it.

By the time it’s over, I’m breathless, sweaty, and spread out like I just played four quarters and left it all on the field. Except, I didn’t. Because nothing about that release satisfies the way she does.

And the worst part? I know damn well she knew what she was doing when she posted that.

Thirsty Thursday.