Page 39 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Such An Ass

Izzy

I sit unusually close to Dad. Like, suspiciously close.

Like I’m trying to physically fuse with the man just so I don’t have to make direct eye contact with the guy across the island who just poured his soul out in the same kitchen where I learned how to make French toast and melted down when I almost failed poetry.

Griffon sits diagonally across from me, infuriatingly relaxed, that little half-smile on his lips like he hasn’t just burned my entire emotional equilibrium to the ground. His bicep flexes as he lifts his glass, and my eyes betray me—watching the way his throat moves when he swallows.

Get it together, Ross.

“So,” Dad says, rocking slightly on his stool, tone light but unmistakably teasing, “I gotta say, those IG stories? Real subtle.”

My stomach flips.

Griffon grins like he’s been waiting for this moment. “You like the basil thirst trap?”

Mom rolls her eyes. “That one was sweet. But the football and back porch? Captioned Take Me There , that was a whole damn Hallmark movie.”

Dad nods solemnly. “Cheesy. Extra sharp cheddar.”

“I stand by it.” Griffon shrugs. “Grand says they’re love letters.”

Grand, I think I love her … but never want to play cards with her.

Mom gives me side-eye, definitely clocking that I’ve been radiating feral panic energy ever since I walked in.

Under the island, Griffon’s foot nudges mine.

I ignore it. Not because I want to. But if I look at him, I’ll either crack … or melt. And I cannot be that girl. Not here. Not when every organ in my body is currently screaming variations of love him and jump him . And that’s saying nothing about my lower half.

“Anyway,” Mom says, leaning against the counter like she’s trying to smooth the moment over, “it’s sweet. Truly. Not unexpected, but sweet.”

Dad lets out a long sigh, glancing over at me like he’s watching something shift.

“What?”

“Not long before you’re on the Hen List,” he says cryptically.

“The what now?” I ask warily.

“Meeting under full moons and speaking names into the heavens,” he adds.

Mom chokes on her tea and waves a hand while Dad pats her back, pleased with himself.

“Come again?” Griffon chuckles, clearly entertained.

“No,” Mom croaks, still recovering. “Don’t ask.”

Dad’s just getting warmed up. “It’s like fantasy football, but with no football and twice the players. A draft, and then once couples start forming, the real fun begins.”

“Jake Ross, don’t you dare,” Mom warns.

“As long as it’s not Wilderness Warriors , I’m game,” Griffon adds dryly.

“Oh, it’s worse.” Dad smirks. “You’ll be involved, too. Midnight dinner parties. Secret ballots. Once ‘the chosen’ are coupled up?—”

“Your sister, Phoebe, and Jade will kill you,” Mom warns. “Then who’ll plow the fields?”

“Is that literal or metaphorical?” Griffon asks. “Because I’m totally down to get my John Deere license.”

“Griffon Skinner!” I bark, scandalized.

Dad laughs—like truly belly-laughs—and turns to Mom. “Tell your daughter what you meddling women have been up to since this all started.”

It hits me then, and now I remember all the hints Riley has dropped that have to be exactly this. “Oh my God, Mom!”

She just smiles into her mug. “What? He was my first-round pick.”

“Wasn’t mine,” Dad says, grinning.

“You liked Hunt’s last name,” Mom huffs.

“Really?” I squint at Dad like have you ever truly known me ?

“I’m part of this family now—someone needs to catch me up,” Griffon says like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“You can’t just claim that,” I scold, eyes wide.

“Why not?” he replies, completely unfazed.

Mom giggles. Dad chuckles. And I? I combust slowly from the inside out.

“Three weeks, and you’re claiming ‘part of the family?’”

He leans in, grinning like he already owns the place. “Trust me, Iz; you’ve been mine in one way or another since I met you, just took me some time to figure it out. Now it’s time for you to catch up.”

Dad and Mom both laugh. I refuse, so I glare instead.

Looking at the man across the island, at home in my home, I realize with a terrifying clarity that … this is happening. And it’s so much easier when it’s just a maybe.

So, yeah, I stay close to Dad. Because I don’t need protection from Griffon Skinner.

I need protection from my own goddamn heart.

Dad leans back in his chair, smirking as he sips his coffee like he’s not about to ruin my life with a single question. “So … what exactly did you mean by ‘I win?’”

I choke on air. Actually, breathing air.

Skinner doesn’t miss a beat. “It means she was the one to crack by communicating first. Now she owes me anything I ask of her, and she can’t tell me no.”

My face catches fire. Like, full-on sunburn.

“What the hell, Griffon,” I hiss, eyes again wide. “These are my parents ?”

Mom sets her cup down gently, but I swear she’s trying not to laugh.

Griffon just leans forward with a shit-eating grin and shrugs. “About that debt?—”

“No,” I snap.

“Yes.” His eyes are warm but a little mischievous. “I’ve never had a Valentine before. Not a real one. No heart-shaped chocolates, or red roses, or awkward public declarations.”

Dad mutters, “You’re welcome to skip those after the two of you have kids.”

“Dad!”

Griffon keeps going, undeterred. “So, this year, I want a real Valentine. One that says yes to a proper date. Dinner. Flowers. Maybe I hold your hand in public without you flinching like I just proposed marriage. Because, Izzy Ross, we are not going to rush into that and bypass the dating part. We deserve that part of our story, too.”

Mom bites her lip to keep from laughing. Dad clears his throat. I’m too busy staring into Griffon’s gorgeous, hopeful eyes while my insides stage a full-blown emotional coup.

“And if that’s too much,” he adds softly, “then maybe just stop hiding me. You and I walk into Brooks Brewery and let them know—even if you’re still figuring it all out—that you’re giving me a chance to prove that I’m worthy of being let in.”

I press my lips together, heart hammering. I glance at Dad, who raises a brow and offers zero rescue, and then at Mom, who looks dangerously close to tearing up.

Skinner leans back, arms crossed, smug as hell. “Tick-tock, Valentine.”

I want to throw a napkin at his face. I want to dive under the table. But I also want to kiss him until he forgets every word he just said.

Instead, I reach for my coffee and mutter, “Fine.”

And he, with this smug, sexy, cocky grin, beams like I just handed him the Lombardi trophy.

Dad grumbles, “Again with the cheese.”

Mom sighs, “In the sweetest way.”

And I curl up a little closer to Dad. Because the way I feel right now? That big, terrifying, this-could-actually-be-something feeling?

Yeah. I’m gonna need backup, and I’m sure the girls would offer a hand while I’m sink, sink, sinking. But Dad would, too, right?

My phone goes off, and I stand to pull it out of my pocket and see it’s from Riley.

Riley:

Mick says the meat’s ready for the rub. BUT, if your mom’s sweet-and-savory dip blend doesn’t make it into my mouth ASAP, Baby Hart and I are taking hostages. Also, tambourine, cowbell, harmonica. We got Maddox talked into playing fiddle in Lexi’s absence.

I blink, reread it, and groan.

Of course. That’s why I came home.

Not for the peace and quiet. Not for a … love intervention.

Nope. I was on a mission.

I fire back a text with one thumb while heading to the spice cupboard.

Me:

On it. If you hear frantic jingling and cursing, it’s me and the tambourine getting reacquainted. You’re welcome.

Another ping.

Riley:

Make sure it’s THE cowbell. a said the other ones sound like they belong at a kindergarten circle time.

Me:

Great. Now I’m afraid of disappointing a. Be there soon.

“You need help finding something?” Mom asks.

“I came here for spice and?—”

Skinner chuckles, and I turn and look at him. “Really?”

He holds his hands up. “So many things I could say, but this is probably not the time and place.”

“You think?” I turn back to the cupboard and see Mom out of the corner of my eye. Her head is bowed, shoulders shaking. I turn to see Dad, who’s looking down, shaking his head, smirk on his face. “Shouldn’t you be, like, cleaning a gun or something to scare him off?”

“Oh, please.” Mom fully laughs. “Your father and Griffon … same exact personality.”

I want to argue—I really do. I should just for the sake of arguing.

“I don’t have time for this right now. I have instruments to procure and spices to gather.”

“Procure,” Skinner says slowly.

Dad chuckles.

I sigh in frustration. “There’s gonna be a jam session.”

Mom tilts her head. “A what?”

“A jam session. Music. You know, like we used to do. Maggie wants to play. Harper convinced Maddox to play fiddle. Lo and Riley are doing tambourine and cowbell. I’m on harmonica. It’s … a whole thing.”

Dad clears his throat. “Is this … for a reason?”

“Yes. No. I mean, it’s mostly because a and Grandpa love it.

But also for the boys who live here. We figured, if they can’t play, they should at least get some entertainment on big game eve from the people who know they were the real winners.

” I hold up my phone. “And Riley’s pregnant and insistent on ‘soothing the vibe’ all day, and if I didn’t show up with the cowbell and your sweet-and-savory spice blend, I’m pretty sure I’ll be disowned.

” I suck in a breath. “And yes, you both still have to come tomorrow, too. We’re having a pre-watch party at the brewery, and closing before the game so everyone can watch in private.

No chance of leaked videos of any of us screaming kill them or shit talking the refs and league. ”

There’s a pause.

Then Skinner speaks, voice low, teasing. “You’re doing a harmonica concert with a pregnant woman, a fiddle-playing retired rock star, and a cowbell. For your grandparents. At a brewery. With spice rub and sweet and savory dip as the mission-critical items?”

I lift my chin. “That’s what you took from all that?”