Page 38 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

I post another black screen, but with a skull emoji. Caption: Dead.

“Rain for another week,” Grand mutters without looking up from her crossword, glasses slipping down her nose as I skitter past, gripping my wastebasket of shame.

“Good morning to you, too,” I call back, voice a little too high-pitched. “Don’t worry about the weather—you’re all the sunshine I need.”

She snorts. “Boy, don’t flatter me when your feet are doing the guilt shuffle. I may not see great, but I can hear shame in your steps like thunder before a storm.”

“Just cleaning up,” I say as casually as I can manage. “Keeping my space tidy.”

“Uh-huh,” she hums, tapping her pencil thoughtfully. “Seems to me the only thing getting well-used around here is that poor tissue box. And last I checked, no one ever fell in love with a man known for his strong right hand.”

I groan. “Grand.”

She folds her paper and gives me that look, the one that’s seen through every excuse since I was old enough to lie about brushing my teeth. “You know what I think?”

I brace.

“I think whatever has you walking around here like you’ve got a storm cloud in your pants and a love letter in your chest needs to be handled the old-fashioned way.”

“What’s that?”

She leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “Get your ass on a plane. Go see her. The fish’ll still be biting when you get back. But that girl?” She pauses. “She might not wait around forever.”

I nod, running a hand through my hair, already knowing she’s right. Grand always is.

“And Griffon?” she adds, voice softening.

“Yeah?”

She points toward the trash can. “Take that with you. We keep trophies, not mementos of your emotional crisis.”

Grand promised she’d consider getting jacked up on Benadryl and fly out to see me someday soon, but what really matters is what she said next.

That she promised —and her promises always mean everything—that she’d come visit me during the season.

And again in the off-season. She swore she’s still allergic to snow, though.

When I didn’t flinch at the word allergic , she just pressed a hand to her chest, right over her heart. Didn’t have to say a word. I got it.

“Remember that online therapy session I told you about?” I ask, glancing her way.

She lowers her tea and narrows her eyes. “College? That girl you called a puck bunny?”

I laugh, dragging a hand over my face. “Yeah, her. Can’t believe I never told you I ran into her husband after the Philly game when we got diverted to New York. He FaceTimed her. She popped up on the screen wearing damn bunny ears.”

Grand blinks. “That’s either very odd or very sweet.”

“Both, honestly.” I shrug. “But that therapy session? It stuck with me. I felt like shit about the way I talked to her, the way I used to talk about women in general back then. We dug into that. Real deep. And eventually … we landed on it being about Mom. Not just the anger I had toward her. It was the guilt. The weight I still carried, even when I told myself I didn’t. ”

I roll up my sleeve and show her the outer bicep. The familiar Roman numerals inked into my skin.

Angela’s birth and death year.

“I remember,” Grand whispers, reaching out like she might trace the numbers. “You got that the minute you turned eighteen.”

I nod then turn my arm to show her the newer ink on the inside—two more sets of Roman numerals.

“The year I started therapy. And the year I finished.”

Grand’s eyes go glassy.

“I know her death wasn’t my fault. Not really. But this?” I tap the tattoo. “It’s a reminder of what I went through to believe that. On the days when it still creeps in, when I start to forget that I made it through, I look at this, and I remember I already buried it.”

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Just takes my hand in hers and squeezes. I don’t need her to say anything, though. The look in her eyes says it all.

It’s not easy to leave, maybe even harder now that I know what it feels like not to be near the person who holds your heart. And even though she told me to stay there, I told her I’d be back before the season began, because she and I haven’t gone fishing yet.

I park in the same spot I did the first time I came here, feeling like a damn fool but not really giving a shit. I’m falling for Izzy Ross, and it’s like the big drop on a rollercoaster—your stomach flips, everything feels out of your control … and then you realize it’s the best part of the ride.

I know Izzy’s not home. I saw the brewery’s IG story a half-hour ago. But I need to do this now … before I chicken out. Before I talk myself into handling this the old way: avoid, deflect, shut down.

I knock. Jake answers like he was expecting me, just chuckling and stepping back, waving me in.

I toe off my boots and follow him to the kitchen.

Sarah’s back is to us, music playing low, a wooden spoon in her hand. Wile trots over, tail wagging, and as I crouch to greet him, Sarah turns.

“Well, hello, Griffon,” she says with a smile. “How was your trip?”

I scratch behind Wile’s ears. “It was good. Grand’s good.”

“Perfect. You want coffee? Tea?”

I don’t answer. I just open my damn mouth and word vomit all over their kitchen.

“I’m falling in love with your daughter.”

Jake’s brow lifts slightly. Sarah pauses.

“I know that probably sounds … sudden. But it’s not. It’s solid. I’ve never felt anything like this before. And yeah, the chemistry is insane—but it’s more than that. Way more. She sees me. Not the jersey, not the job. Me.” I laugh, awkward and nervous. “It’s kind of everything, actually.”

My fingers find the back of my neck. “The truth is, until Izzy, I couldn’t even look at pregnant women without my stomach flipping.

Kids? No way. Not after …” I trail off. Swallow hard.

Keep going. “When we lived in Okinawa—my dad was stationed there—I was five, Angela was three. There was a street vendor handing out free samples, and I gave her one. Nobody knew she was allergic. Nuts. She ate it. She went into anaphylaxis. And she didn’t make it. ”

Sarah sets the spoon down.

“My parents didn’t know she had allergies. I didn’t, either. But I was the one who gave it to her.” I’m repeating myself. “And I’ve spent most of my life believing I was cursed, that I didn’t deserve love or responsibility, and I sure as hell couldn’t be trusted with either.”

Jake’s face shifts—stoic, but not unmoved.

“But Iz?” I shake my head. “She makes me want all of it. Her. The future. The dog elevator. Community. Dirt to dig in. Roots to grow. All the things that used to terrify me.”

They’re still silent. So, of course, I just keep going.

“She mentioned FOMO once. Said I was probably feeling left out, since all the guys are pairing off. And yeah, maybe. But it’s more than that. I know who I want. Since day one. Her sass. Her strength. And damn, those genes”—I motion vaguely between them—“well done.”

That gets a faint smile from Sarah. Jake just nods, letting me go on.

“My parents and I don’t talk. Haven’t really since Angela died.

The guilt tore us all up, but instead of healing, they drank and whispered shit when they thought I couldn’t hear.

Stuff about how maybe I should’ve done something, maybe I let it happen.

Maybe I was born messed up in the head. When I was six or seven, the physical stuff started.

Never left bruises. Just shoves, slaps, reminders that nothing I did was ever good enough. ”

Sarah presses a hand to her chest.

“When I was twelve, he shoved me hard enough I dislocated my shoulder. I told him if he didn’t leave me alone, I’d tell the ER how it happened. I didn’t even know where I’d go, but I knew I couldn’t stay.”

“Good for you, kid,” Jake says, voice rough.

“Mom had a rare sober moment or just didn’t want to lose her officer’s wife image. She called Grand, said I was good at sports, that maybe I needed Gramps to guide me. She sent me away, and I never went back.”

A tear slides down my cheek before I can stop it.

Sarah crosses the kitchen and pulls me into a hug like a weighted blanket. Like forgiveness in human form.

“You know none of that was your fault.”

I nod. “I do. I’m good. Real good.”

And then I hear it …

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Iz rounds the corner, eyes wide with attitude … until she sees my face. Her expression softens instantly.

“Move,” she says, low and firm.

Sarah steps aside, and Iz wraps her arms around me, tight and fierce, and all her. I bury my face in her hair, letting the weight lift from my chest with one breath.

And what’s the first thing I say to Izzy Ross after nearly two weeks apart?

“I win.”