Page 40 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

He grins. “I just want to make sure I understand what I’m signing up for.”

I want to tell him he doesn’t have to come, but seriously, if this doesn’t send him running for the hills—or the airport, or a witness protection program—then nothing will.

Mom, bless her, doesn’t even flinch. “I love this. Let’s get everything together.”

Dad mutters, “I’m bringing earplugs.”

“Rude.”

Griffon links his fingers behind his neck. “I’ll be front row.”

Mom and I are in the back mudroom, sorting through the old closet where the extra gear’s always been kept—jam jars full of screws, two decades of extension cords coiled like sleeping snakes, and somewhere under all of it: the instruments.

I dig out the tambourine first, shake it once to check for spiders, then hand it off. “One musical mood enhancer, check.”

Mom laughs. “God, this takes me back. Didn’t you once ‘accidentally’ bring this to school for show-and-tell three years in a row?”

“Allegedly,” I mutter, leaning into the next crate. “Besides, it wasn’t show-and-tell. It was ‘free expression.’”

She chuckles but doesn’t push; just starts dusting off the cowbell like she’s prepping it for an art exhibit. “You were always the ringleader of these performances. Even before you had rhythm.”

“You saying I have rhythm now?”

“I’m saying you fake it well.”

That earns her a grin.

We’re halfway into the closet, elbow-deep in memories and scuffed-up cases, when she finally speaks again. Softer now. “That boy’s been through it.”

I pause mid-reach. “Yeah.”

She crouches beside me, placing the cowbell gently into the open tote. “And the way he shared it? That wasn’t for show. That was someone who’s been carry something heavy. It would be crippling for most … Showed unimaginable strength.”

I nod slowly. “Vulnerability, too.”

“And how does that make you feel?” she asks, tilting her head.

I blow out a breath and sit back on my heels. “I didn’t plan on this. Him. Any of it. I’m still … figuring out how I should feel.”

She nods, not pressing. Just listening. We always talk best like this—doing something with our hands while everything else sorts itself out in the air between us.

“Do you trust him?” she asks.

I don’t even have to think. “Yes.”

“Do you feel like yourself around him?”

I hesitate then admit, “More than I expected to.”

She smiles, pulling out a beat-up harmonica case and opening it like a treasure chest. “That’s the good stuff. The scary stuff.”

“Tell me about it,” I say, taking it from her and slipping it into the bag.

“You don’t need to explain anything to us,” she adds, standing and brushing off her jeans. “You never have. But if you ever want to talk about it—really talk about it—you know your father and I are here.”

“I know.” I look down at the instruments, now stacked and ready to go. “Thanks for not pushing.”

“When something’s still growing, you don’t pull on it to see how tall it is,” she says, picking up the tote. “You water it, give it sun, and trust that it’ll bloom when it’s damn good and ready.”

I follow her out of the mudroom, toward the kitchen, a little lighter now.

She glances back at me. “Tambourine, cowbell, harmonica; what next? Girl band name?”

“Working title: Hormonal Harmony,” I deadpan.

She snorts. “I love that for you.”

I let out a real laugh and keep moving, reminding myself—quietly, firmly—that whatever this is, whatever it becomes … I’ve got a damn good crew backing me.

When Mom and I come back into the kitchen, Griffon’s gone.

I frown. “Um … where did he go?”

Dad stands, brushing off his hands like something grave just occurred. “Said he had some things to do.”

I narrow my eyes. “He didn’t say goodbye?”

“Said he’d see you later.” Dad shrugs. Then he turns that patented Jake Ross disappointment face on me—chin tilted, arms crossed, all judgment and fatherly righteousness.

To be fair, I’ve only seen it once, maybe twice, which makes it that much more effective.

“I gotta say, Izzy, I’m a little disappointed in you. ”

My stomach twists. “What? Why? What did I do?”

He sighs, slow and theatrical. “I had a whole plan, kid. You know that, right? First guy you brought home? I was gonna be waiting at the table, cleaning one of my guns. Nothing too flashy—just the twelve gauge, something that says I’m approachable but also own land and ammo. ”

“Dad—”

“I had lines , Izzy.” He stares at the ceiling like he’s mourning their loss.

“‘If you hurt her, I’ll hunt you like deer season opened early.’” He points to the spot where Skinner was just sitting.

“‘I’ve got a shovel, a woodchipper, and the kind of buddies who don’t ask questions.

’” He turns to Mom. “Tell me I didn’t practice that one. ”

“You workshopped it for two years,” Mom says, deadpan.

“I even had the ‘You can date her, but remember—I taught her to shoot. Trust me; she’s better than you.’ Locked and loaded.”

“Wow,” I mutter, trying not to laugh. “You really went all-in.”

“And now?” He waves a hand at the empty space where Griffon Skinner was. “The guy’s in here, telling us why he’s going to prove he’s good enough for our daughter, Wile at his feet like he’s been part of this family for years, and I didn’t even get to glare at him properly.”

Mom pats his arm. “He did squeeze your shoulder and thank you for raising her. That kind of diffuses the intimidation factor.”

“I could’ve rallied!” Dad insists. “Talk shit about his tattoos.” He looks at me. “Gold, right?”

“I’m sorry,” I choke out between snorts. “I didn’t know I was supposed to stage the introduction for maximum dramatic effect.”

“You robbed me, kid. That’s all I’m saying.”

I shake my head, trying not to smile because part of me is mortified, part of me is terrified, and the other part? The biggest part?

Relieved.

Because, yeah, I didn’t announce anything.

I didn’t sit them down and prep them for the fact that I’ve fallen hard, and fast, and scary-deep for a man I didn’t plan on loving.

But Griffon Skinner sat here and did the damn thing anyway.

And Dad’s not sharpening knives. He’s spouting rejected one-liners and calling it a tragedy that he actually likes the guy.

Then he smirks. “You may wanna go clue in the girls. Who knows what he’s going to do to prove his worth? I mean, he did take to the Gram already.”

I bite my lip so I don’t smile, but it’s not working.

“There it is.” Mom laughs. “Proof.”

I let myself smile and tell them, “Fine, I think he’s cute.”

I left them still grinning like they just won some parental jackpot. They kind of did, but I really can’t take credit for that. My parents are awesome.

I walk in and head back toward the brewery kitchen, the little brown paper bag with Mom’s spice blend tucked under one arm and the harmonica, tambourine, and cowbell clinking in the tote. I’m like one-woman parade float.

Mick’s at the prep counter, sleeves rolled up, eyebrows arched like he already knows some level of ridiculous is heading his way.

“Special delivery,” I say, holding the bag.

He snatches it with reverence and breathes it in. “Tell your mom thank you and let her know Riley’s cravings aren’t getting any less. It’s going to be the longest pregnancy in the history of pregnancies.”

“Tell her yourself. She’ll love it, and they’re coming for”—I shake my head—“whatever may come of this.”

I head for the office and duck inside.

Mags is draped across the beanbag, scrolling. Lo’s perched on the windowsill, sipping something from a mason jar. And propped on a stack of old menus and a first-aid kit? Lexi’s face beams up from a glowing phone screen.

“There she is,” Lexi chirps, immediately suspicious. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” I set the instruments down on the desk with a clatter.

“Like you’ve just done something deeply reckless and surprisingly wholesome,” she says. “Which, let’s be real, is your entire vibe.”

I hold up a hand. “Where are Riley, Syd, and London?”

“Right here,” Riley says from somewhere behind the desk.

I walk around the desk and see her lying down, head on Syd’s lap, Harper rubbing her freaking feet.

“Okay, I have something to say, and I do not want any shit about it.”

Lo straightens. Mags tosses her phone aside. Lexi’s pixelated brow arches higher.

“I found him in my parents’ kitchen,” I blurt. “Griffon. Talking to them. About me.”

Dead silence. Then …

“Oh my God,” Mags breathes.

“Wait, wait,” Lexi says, adjusting her phone like she needs a better angle to absorb this tea. “You didn’t bring him?”

“No. He was at his home and came back.”

“From Mississippi?” Syd asks.

“You didn’t know he was coming back?” London asks.

I shake my head.

Lo whistles low. “Ballsy.”

“Extremely,” I say. “And then he told them everything. Like, his whole backstory. And then he just … left.”

“You okay?” Mags’s eyes are wide.

“No,” I say honestly. “I think I’m going to fall into stupid freaking love with him!”

Lexi throws both hands up in victory. “I knew it! I’ve been saying it since Philly.”

Mags sits up straighter. “I said it first—don’t you dare.”

“Philly was the confirmation, Mags. The buildup was mine. I practically had a vision board.”

“Both of you, shut up!” I snap, but I’m laughing. “You’re not wrong.”

Lo smiles, soft but sharp. “Then maybe stop hiding it.”

I pause then grin. “Okay, fine.” Then it hits. “Wait—how are none of you surprised?”

“You two have flirt-fought since he was recruited, and this season, the heat turned up a bit,” Mags answers.

“Plus, you walked a little funny after that night in New York,” Lexi states, and everyone laughs.

“And hello, your stories.” Ava’s voice comes from … somewhere.

“Where is Ava?” I ask.

Harper holds up her phone, and Ava smiles on the screen. “Adorable, by the way.”