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

Jake puffs up like he just won Dad of the Year. Kinda did in my eyes.

Izzy pats his shoulder. “I wasn’t given timeouts. I was told to walk it off or go dig something.”

I chuckle. “You dug?”

Jackson chuckles and confirms, “She dug.”

“I dug ,” she confirms. “Holes. For fencing.” She looks down at Jake, who is laughing silently. “And emotional processing?”

He nods.

“Y’all wanna call yourselves badasses and mess with Gen X?

Fine. But when the grid goes down and you need someone who can fix a diesel generator, preserve tomatoes, and field-dress a deer while explaining the economic collapse of the country and how to rebuild the World Wide Web?

” She gestures to herself. “You’ll be calling me. ”

Jake lifts his mug like he’s saluting a war general. “That’s my girl.”

AJ leans back, clearly impressed. “Okay, damn, I take it back. Gen X did one thing right.”

Izzy shoots him a wink. “Two, actually.” She points at herself. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of saying what the second one is.”

Liam laughs. “Bet he was going to say him.”

Izzy doesn’t answer. She just walks away with that signature Ross strut and calls over her shoulder, “Order wisely. Gen Z digestion’s a little delicate—hope you can handle the spice.”

And just like that, the room erupts in laughter again.

I force myself to lean into the good humor, laugh, smile, but there isn’t a damn thing funny about the thoughts running through my head right now.

Back at the townhouse at The Stables, the silence hits differently than it used to. Not gonna lie, I miss Grimes being right next door, but …

It’s a nice place—two stories, vaulted ceilings, exposed beams. High-end appliances.

Gas fireplace. Big shower with too much pressure, which is preferred over too little.

Everything’s polished, neutral, and designed to impress.

It did—hell, it does—but now it feels like I’m borrowing someone else’s life.

The Stables is what they call the cluster of homes the Knights built for players when reality hit that moving a pro team to bumbfuck CNY was going to be a real estate nightmare. Most of the guys stay during season, disappear during the off. It’s convenient. Safe. Comfortable. Sterile.

I kick off my boots and head straight to the fridge, where I pull out a bottle of water and lean against the counter, staring at nothing.

Izzy Ross is in my head. Again.

That damn girl. All those jobs, her fucking mismatched socks, and that tongue she doesn’t bite for anyone. She barrels into your world, rearranges everything without even noticing, and somehow makes you thank her for it sincerely.

I blow out a breath and head upstairs to shower. Two days until the playoff game and my brain’s a mess. Not because of the game—no. I’ve got that part handled. It’s the after. What happens when the noise fades, the lights go out, and I’m stuck wondering where I belong—here or in Mississippi?

I linger in the shower long after my hair is rinsed clean, letting the water beat against my chest while I conjure her up in my head again : the sly way her mouth curls when she’s about to say something cruel, the clipped, paper-knife movements of her hands, even the gold polish on her thumbs as she scrolled through her phone and ignored me.

I picture her naked now, but not soft and posed—she’s sprawled on my bed, knees up, a finger tracing slow, taunting circles over her own skin, her voice low and mean while she tells me all the things I’m not allowed to do, yet, and what she’d do to me if I tried.

The thought makes my cock twitch, and I wrap my hand around it, squeezing hard, the way I imagine she would if I let her.

My other hand braces against the wall, palm sliding over wet tile while I start to jerk myself off, slow at first, then rougher, chasing the rhythm of her voice in my head, that sharp, delightful sneer: Come on; is that all you’ve got?

I picture her standing over me, arms crossed, rolling her eyes as I get close, daring me to finish before her.

But, of course, I don’t. The shame of it—the knowledge that I’d probably blow it the second she gave in to whatever it is between us—has been between us since go—makes my balls tighten.

I pump faster, the slap of skin drowned under the hiss of the shower.

All my muscles tighten, and I tremble with the need to come.

I’m so deep in the fantasy that I almost don’t recognize my own voice—high, breathless—as I moan her name, stroking myself even harder, imagining it’s her hand instead of mine as hot thick cum jets out in streams against the tiles.

Once my cock is drained, I towel off then pull on a tee-shirt and a pair of joggers. I’m almost afraid to squeegee off the mirror, afraid when I see my reflection, I’ll be completely sunken in, dehydrated due to the number of little Skinners I just blew all over the shower wall.

I pat myself on the back for washing off the wall so that when the cleaning service stops in this week, they won’t have to deal with my mess.

I walk downstairs, inhaling the smell of pine and lemon, which is how it always smells after the cleaners are here on Fridays.

I glance to make sure they haven’t moved the old cleats from the coffee table—where they belong, of course—then fill up my water bottle before heading into the living room to … fuck, I don’t know.

I look at my gaming system and consider booting up Mortal Kombat, but honestly, after being on lockdown due to a threat against the team last week, I’m kind of over it. At least for the rest of the season.

I pull my phone out to look at the time and see it’s eight. Then I hit my top favorite in my contact list.

Gran.

She picks up on the second ring. “You calling because your fridge is empty or your heart is full?”

“Little of both,” I murmur.

“Uh-huh. I saw that look on your face Sunday night on the highlight reel. That was not a man thinking about zone protection.”

I chuckle. “I’m always thinking about protection.”

“Mmhmm. So, who’s the girl?”

I pause because, although she asks this question nearly every time we talk, which is at least five times a week, it’s never after spanking it to the image of an ass or tits that have a face.

She hums knowingly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me now.

Just don’t wait too long to tell her. You Skinner men have a habit of loving too quietly.

Took your grandaddy two years before he asked me out.

Thought about making him wait as long for an answer but, by then, I was already in love with the fool. ”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “And that fool spent the rest of his life making sure you never had to wonder if he loved you.”

“Until his last breath.”

The way she says that—with a smile in her voice—eases some of the worry that she’s in Mississippi alone. I asked her to move here after he passed, and she informed me that she would never live anywhere but Nettle Ridge, Mississippi.

When I signed, I bought them a house. I wanted to buy one that was on the beach, but they didn’t want that.

Too expensive, they’d said. I bought one on the ridge with an ocean view.

They fought like crazy about it, too; made me put it in my name.

Not gonna lie, it pissed me off a bit, because I wanted to do that for them.

Hell, they raised their child, then raised me.

Gramps confessed later he didn’t want my mother and me butting heads over it when they weren’t here anymore.

Wanted to make sure it was mine. I told him that was fine as long as they sold their place and made sure they spent it on themselves.

They never spent a dime frivolously, but he did use a big chunk of it to buy Grand a new engagement ring.

I also bought a fishing boat and slip at the marina.

Neither of them complained about that since they both love to fish.

Gramps last day on earth, we went fishing. Came home so he could take a nap, and then we were all going to golf after. He didn’t wake up.

Glad I was there for Gran. Glad he looked peaceful, too. But fuck, that day sucked.

“You comin’ to the Philly game?” I ask, knowing damn well she won’t fly.

There’s a beat of silence on her end. “No, baby. I’m saving my energy for the big one. I plan on being front row when you knock some poor fool into next week.”

My chest tightens. “You sure? I’ll send a car with a driver and?—”

“I’m not some delicate bird,” she says. “Just conserving fuel. But I’ll be there for the last game, and you better make it count.”

“I will.”

Another pause. Then she says softly, “Your granddad would be so proud of you, Griffon. He was already proud. But this—where you are now?—you did that on your own.”

“Because of the two of you.”

She sighs. “Because of you. I just reminded you you’re worth the trouble.”

We’re both quiet for a second, and then she asks, “Heard from your parents?”

I glance at the photo on my mantle—me at five, arms around my baby sister in a pink hat. She’s beaming. I look like I understand something I shouldn’t.

“No,” I say. “Not since Christmas.”

She clicks her tongue. “They’ll call on your birthday, like always. August eleventh, right on schedule. Probably while your daddy’s standing in some decorated mess hall, making a speech about honor and sacrifice.”

I hold back the anger that Mom hasn’t visited once since Grandpa passed last summer.

She laughs, low and wry. “They’re doing what needs to be done for our country.”

I don’t remind her Grandad and her used to always say God, Family, Country, in that order. Why would I? It would just hurt her.

I close my eyes. “It still sucks.”

“I know it does.”

We sit in that quiet a little while longer, and then she says, “Well, my boy, I am going to head to bed. The ladies and I are going golfing early in the morning to beat the heat.”

“PGA tour in your future?” I ask.

“I’ll leave the pros to you.” She yawns. “Get some rest. I want you playing your best when the girls and I watch you beat those birds on Sunday.”

“For you, I will.”

“And that girl of yours?”

I smile. “She’s not mine, and even if she were, you know you’ll always be my number one.”

“I love you, Griffon. Pro or not, I’m proud of the man you have become.”

“I love you, Grand.”

We say goodnight and hang up.

And even though this place is still silent, it feels a little less empty.

After chugging my water, heading upstairs, taking a piss, and brushing my teeth, I get in bed, stare up at the ceiling, and let her voice echo in my chest, steadying me the way it always has.

One more game. One more win. And then I bring her to the ring.